Catalina can't remember the exact moment when she felt that there was a chance her, and her twin were cursed.
Her childhood memories were filled with being in and out of hospitals; while her twin suffered from psychotic episodes, she was always physically injured.
It's like she was a magnet for accidents.
At that point in time their parents have been patient, and gentle with them.
They started looking her differently after her last physical incident.
When she turned eleven, and nature took control of her own body and she bled through her lower part; the voice appeared in her head.
A soft, but guttural low voice that kept whispering to her about things they knew about her, her darkest thoughts, things not even her twin knew.
It kept putting thoughts in her head about how the only way for her sister to get better, and be done with her episodes, was for Catalina to grab a knife and stab it across her left wrist, horizontally.
She will never forget the scream Lottie left when she found her in their bathtub, it almost sounded like a banshee, like she was announcing her death.
In some ways she feels like she died that day.
Read 1. from the story PUNISH 𓆤 YELLOWJACKETS by xnti-christ with 105 reads. 80s, cannibalism, sophiethatcher. I am th...
Description; In which you always lived in the shadow of your older sister, but only one person seemed to see you, for you.
Warnings; Attempted sexual assault. mentions of abuse, kissing, mentions of alcohol, child mistreatment.
___________________________________________
Growning up in Wuthering Heights was bad enough, that was, without even mentioning your family situation. The northern moors the weather was unforgiving, cold and miserable, and so was your home. With no father, a dead brother and a drunk for a father, you had only your older sister Catherine, or Cathy to keep you entertained.
However Cathy was unfortunately the most selfish person you knew, and worse, she was completely oblivious to it. Her cruel comments had left you in tears while she’d calmly walk away.
Your father, known only to you as papa, and the housemaids and servants as Mr Earnshaw was a drunk and a gambler. Every night he would go into town and return during the night. He drove both you and Cathy away, but he had always favoured her. Perhaps it was because she looked like his late wife. Who knows, all you did know, was that he despised you.
However one night, your father had loudly stumbled in. It had woken you from where you slept in your bed. The moon shun through your window, and she swallowed, crawling under your duvet for comfort, for you were nothing but a ten year old girl.
When you heard your father yelling at someone and tables clashing you had assumed your father had brought a woman home. Though at this age you did not understand why it is that he did that, you heard awful sounds when he did.
This time, once your father’s door closed you heard little, and so drifted back to sleep. The next morning you were rudely woken by Cathy barging into your room ordering you to rise and dress at once so the two of you could play.
However when you did, and peaked your small head out of your door, you heard Nelly and Zillah discussing that Mr Earnshaw had brought home a young boy last night, a beggar on the street.
Sneaking up to her father’s room, you saw it to be empty. You opened the door and swallowed, looking around but seeing no one.
“H-Hello? Is anyone there?” You asked quietly.
Hearing a small noise under the bed you swallowed, getting down onto your knees to look under. Before you could see, a hand grabbed your arm and tugged you under. She screamed in surprise, but the boy had covered your mouth with his hand, to muffle the sound.
Eventually, after staring at each other he pulled his hand away. You swallowed, staring at the boy, who seemed around two years older. “It is alright, he is downstairs….he will be off the ale by now” you whispered softly.
Though the boy had never responded, it was clear that your soft words had calmed in down. You looked down to see his hand linking with yours as he trembled. The two of your stayed like that for a few more minutes, while you had told him a few things about the Moors, about yourself, and about who lived with you in Wuthering Heights.
He never did reply to anything you had told him under that bed, but as you told him of how you and Cathy liked to play in the rain by the Rocky Mountains while Joseph or Zillah would chase after you he’d smiled from the idea of freedom.
When your gotten him to come through the house with you, Catherine immediately found the both of you. You saw the glint in her eyes when she saw the boy and it saddened you. You knew like everything else in Wuthering Heights, Cathy would want him as her own little plaything to entertain her.
When she had brought the two of them downstairs, her yellow hair moving as she walked quickly. She dragged them both into the small kitchen where the maids and your father were.
“Ah, Catherine, my darling I see you have found the boy” The hungover man sighed.
“Indeed papa! What a delight indeed, we needed another person to play with, me and (y/n)! What a bore my sister becomes after a few hours” Cathy laughed but it only made you blush in embarrassment.
As your eyes stayed at the ground you felt someone’s hand link with yours and you looked up to see the boy now holding your hand making you smile softly.
“Ah…my other daughter. Do you think him suitable to stay here? He was a beggar a man was discarding. I told him, you cannot throw a child on the street, no sir! I took him, am I not charitable” The man boasted.
However you only looked up at the boy making your father scowl “I said, am I not charitable, daughter?”
She swallowed, quickly whipping your head up to look at your father “Of course father”
“Can I keep him father, dress him up as I like” Catherine said smiling at you smugly, assuming your father would agree to anything she said.
“Let little (Y/N) guide this boy in our house” Mr Earnshaw replied making you and Catherine look up in surprise.
“What?! But!-“ Catherine scoffed.
“Enough, daughter. I pay Nelly to raise you properly yet still you remain rude and disrespectful. Perhaps this will teach you a lesson, you do not speak back to your father”
“He is just a boy!” Catherine scowled before storming out of the room making Nelly hold back a laugh of amusement.
“A boy indeed, what is his name?” Your father asked then.
“He does not like to speak father” You replied softly and shyly.
“Oh no that will not do, you must teach him”Your father nodded.
There was a beat of silence until your father spoke again “What is his name I ask?” He repeated.
“I think…..Heathcliff, after my late brother…or-or not…” You suggested shyly.
As soon as the name left your lips the boy looked up with a smile, seemingly very approving of your suggested name. “Ah, Heathcliff…yes. Yes you may teach him to speak up indeed, and Joseph shall teach him how to work here. In return he may get a hot meal, and he can sleep upstairs in the stable.” With that your father left.
As the maids followed after him to clean up the mess he had made when he’d returned last night you and Heathcliff were left alone.
The boy, he had still been holding your hand spoke to you for the first time “You are the prettiest girl I have seen”
_
As the years passed, you turned fifteen, and Heathcliff was almost eighteen. Your brown hair had grown longer than before, and your body had matured slightly. The two of your still played like children though you were almost considered a woman.
You liked to chase each other in the rain, like you and Cathy used to, this time though it was a friendship, not Cathy dragging you around like her pet and being cruel to you. She had married the new neighbour, Mr Linton.
Your father had become worse, drinking during the day, crueler to you now that Cathy was gone out of the house. You feared him even more than you did when you were a little girl.
It was your father’s birthday, and you and Heathcliff were late to supper. You had spent hours playing outside in the rain. He had warned you that your father would be mad, but you wanted to get away from him.
But now you were late. You were practically trembling behind Heathcliff as you both walked into the kitchen. It was only slightly lit, by a few candles.
Your hands clung to one of Heathcliffs arms as they stood before your father. “Come out from hiding, girl” your father spat.
You swallowed but stepped forward. Your eyes went to your feet in fear. “Look up you fool”
You looked up at him “Are you trembling? Why do you fear me, I care for you, do I not?”
You swallowed back the tears, fearing what was to come “Yes father…forgive me”
“Sit then” Your father slurred, some of his wine spilling onto the floor as he help his cup with a loose grip.
You swallowed, sitting obediently. However when Heathcliff went to do the same your father yelled “Not you! You animal! I should never have brought you home! Useless, only for the work I keep you! Out with you!” He yelled making your flinch.
Heathcliffs jaw clenched in anger. He stared at you until you nodded for him to go, wanting him to stay out of trouble. He reluctantly left, his eyes staying on you until he left, closing the door.
“Thank god that animal is gone. You ought to stay away from him daughter. I thought you could mold him into a gentleman” Your father sighed, gulping down the rest of his wine.
“He-He is a gentleman father” your small voice croaked.
Your father gaze sharpened as he slammed his cup down making you jump in your seat “Is that cheek you give me, daughter?”
As he stood and began to walk over to you, you nodded your head no vigorously “I-No father, forgive me!”
Your father smiled in satisfaction, placing a hand on your chair. “Of course not, my daughter would do no such thing”
As his hand reached your shoulder you bit your lip to trying to hold in your tears. You could smell the alcohol on him.
Your throat tightened as his hand began to move down your chest, until it reached your covered breast making you jump out of your seat “Father! What…what are you doing?! You cried in fear, taking steps backwards.
He only scowled, following your steps to reach you again “you remind me of your mother..quiet..obedient” he said, his hands grabbing your hips harshly and turning you to push you against the table.
You screamed, tears falling down your cheeks. However as soon as you felt his hands on you, you felt someone pull them off. Turning quickly you say Heathcliff yanking your father off you.
He began to punch and kick the old man while you stood there afraid. Your arms hugged yourself as you watched Heathcliff attack the man “Heathcliff stop….i want to go” You cried.
Heathcliff, who had blood on his knuckles, stared down at your father with a dangerous look in his eyes. “Go near her again old man, and I swear I shall see to it you will reside with the worms in the soil” with that he kicked the man’s side one last time began leading your out of the room.
_
After an hour of your crying in his arms, Heathcliff had finally consoled you enough to hold you in his arms without you breaking down. You lay on his bed in the stable. It was a comforting place for you.
It was Heathcliff as a place.
Your head was on his chest, your eyes closed and your breathing slow. Heathcliff that you were asleep. His hand played with the ends of your brown hair that cascaded down your back.
He whispered sweet nothings in your ear. Until he suddenly said “I love you, more than day and night combined, and in death my love shall haunt your very being”
Your eyes opened then and his lips parted slightly, as he had only confessed his love to you believing you to be dreamily happily.
Though you did feel as though you were dreaming.
“Forgive me I…..I..” Heathcliff whispered.
You only stared up at him in shock, before lifting your head off of his chest. “You love me?….”
He met your eyes and nodded “More than u can begin to express. Ever since you found me under that bed my heart has been yours…that you must know”
You smiled fondly “Then you in return must know…I love you entirely too much for my own good. You are my soul and heart personified Heathcliff” you admitted in a passionate whisper.
Heathcliff did not waste another moment, and leaned in to connect your lips. One may believe the kiss would be rough. He was a rough young man, raised in hatred.
But when it came to you he grew soft inside.
He pulled apart only to whisper “I belong to you only”
Synopsis: Felicity confronts Victor about the creature and Charles wishes to see him.
Warnings: Angst, Charles and Victor are mean to the creature, verbal abuse & physical abuse.
MDNI
Series Masterlist
Morning broke gray and thin, the light crawling weakly across the mountains like a wounded animal. The air inside the Frankenstein estate was colder than before, touched by the weight of stone and storm. Felicity dressed in silence, her thoughts too loud for words. All through the night she had dreamt of him, the way his smile broke through the darkness, the way he said her name like a secret.
She found Victor in his study after breakfast, pacing before the window. Papers and diagrams littered his desk, sketches of bones and wires spilling onto the floor. He looked exhausted but alert, the sort of wakefulness that came from obsession rather than rest.
"Barron," she said, stepping carefully into the room.
He turned, smiling faintly. "Lady Langdon. You rise early."
"I could not sleep," she said. Her hands twisted in front of her. "I went walking last night."
Victor's expression sharpened. "Walking?"
"In the lower hall," she said quietly. "I... found him."
The words hung there, and she saw it at once, the flicker of fear in his eyes, the brief tightening of his jaw. He closed the distance between them in two steps. "You went into the laboratory?"
She lifted her chin, refusing to cower. "He was awake, alone, chained like an animal."
Victor exhaled through his nose, frustration cutting through his weariness. "That creature cannot be left unrestrained."
"He's not a creature," she said sharply.
Victor's hand trembled where it rested on the back of a chair. "You don't understand what he is, my dear. You see only what you wish to see. He was built from the refuse of graves, sewn together by my hand, sparked to life by chance. He should not be alive at all."
Felicity's throat tightened, but her voice held firm. "And yet he is. You gave him life, Victor. You breathed into him what nature denied. If you made him to live, then you must let him live."
Victor turned away from her, his shoulders tense. "You speak of things you cannot comprehend. His confinement is as much for his safety as it is for ours. The mind within that frame is unformed. He is capable of affection, yes, but also of destruction. You saw the tenderness. You have not seen the rage."
"That is no life to lead," she said. "To wake into a world only to find yourself in chains. You speak of God's work, yet you treat your miracle as a mistake to be hidden."
Her voice rose despite herself. "He looks to you as a child would to his father, and you turn from him. He is yours, Victor. You are all he has, all he knows. And you know well he should not be treated as a prisoner." The air between them went still. Victor stared at her as though she had struck him. For a long time he said nothing, only breathed slowly through his teeth, as if trying to keep himself composed. Then a voice came from the doorway, cold, cutting.
"Enough."
Felicity turned. Charles stood there, his face like marble, his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes flicked from her to Victor.
"I could hear you from the corridor," he said. "How dare you speak to Dr. Frankenstein in this way?"
Felicity's mouth opened, but he cut her off with a sharp gesture. "You will not speak again until I give you leave."
Victor straightened, clearing his throat. "My Lord, we were merely—"
"Discussing your abomination, I gathered," Charles interrupted. His gaze hardened. "I wish to see it."
Victor hesitated. "That would be unwise."
"I did not ask your counsel, Doctor," Charles said, his tone ice. "You have spoken of your creation since we arrived. If it lives, I will see it. Now."
Victor looked between them, Felicity's pale face, Charles's unyielding stare, and for a fleeting moment, guilt crossed his features. He nodded once.
"As you wish."
Felicity's stomach turned to ice. She wanted to cry out, to beg Victor not to take him down there, not to show him to Charles like some sideshow beast, but Charles's expression silenced her.
As they left the study together, Victor leading the way toward the lower halls, Felicity followed in silence, dread curling tight in her chest. She could still feel the warmth of the creature's hand in hers, hear the sound of his voice saying her name.
The stairwell felt colder than the grave. Each step down into the basement made Felicity's stomach twist tighter, her gloved hands trembling within her cloak. The echoes of boots on stone reverberated like the toll of a bell. Victor descended first, a lantern in hand. Charles followed behind, tall and stiff, his expression carved from disdain.
Felicity trailed them, her pulse fluttering against her throat. She could already feel the creature's presence before she saw him, some faint, impossible awareness in her chest, like the pull of a thread she could not cut. When Victor opened the heavy door, the light spilled into the room and touched him. He stood where she had left him, towering and still, his eyes lifting to the light with a strange, wary gentleness. The chains at his wrists caught faintly against the metal, glinting in the lantern glow.
Charles halted a few steps inside, his lip curling. "Good God..." he muttered.
Victor lifted the lantern higher, pride flickering beneath his exhaustion. "There he is," he said. "My creation. The sum of years of study and sacrifice."
Felicity's stomach turned. The way he spoke was cold, clinical, as though the being before them were not alive but merely assembled.
Charles stepped closer, circling him like a man inspecting livestock. "You call that life?" he said.
"He is life," Victor answered sharply. "That is precisely the wonder of it. He breathes, he moves, he thinks. He was drawn from death itself and returned to the living by my hand."
The creature's gaze flicked between them, confused by their tone, his shoulders tightening as though he could sense the cruelty beneath the words. Felicity wanted to scream.
Victor continued, his voice rising with the same manic conviction she'd seen in his letters. "This form proves that death is not the end. I have conquered it. Though the world may condemn me, history will not."
Felicity stepped forward, trembling. "And what of him?" she said softly. "Does he not suffer, hearing himself spoken of as if he were no more than a broken tool?"
Victor turned, frowning. "You mistake pity for wisdom, my dear. His comprehension is-"
But he stopped, for she was no longer beside him. She had crossed the space between them, the hem of her gown whispering over the floor. The creature's eyes found hers immediately and stared.
"Felicity," he breathed, her name catching on his tongue like something precious, he spoke her name so softy that neither of the men had heard it.
She smiled faintly. "Hello again."
He raised a hand toward her, the chain clinking softly. Without thinking, she reached for him. Their fingers brushed, and that warmth, the same unearthly warmth from the night before, flooded her again. For the first time since she had wed, she felt safe. A harsh sound shattered the moment. Charles's hand shot out and seized her by the arm, yanking her back so suddenly that she gasped in pain.
"What are you doing?" he snapped, his grip bruising. "Don't touch it!"
Felicity yelped, stumbling as he dragged her away. The creature's head snapped up; a low, guttural sound tore from his throat, something primal and protective.
"Charles, stop!" she started, but it was too late.
The creature lunged forward as far as the chains allowed, the heavy restraints clanging against the bolts in the floor. His growl filled the chamber, a sound that shook the air itself.
Victor rushed between them, shouting over the noise. "Enough! Both of you!"
The creature strained, the muscles in his arms trembling as he pulled, the chain taut. His eyes never left Charles.
Victor turned sharply. "Unhand her, Lord Langdon. You are frightening him."
Charles's jaw clenched. "You will not instruct me on how to manage my wife, Doctor."
"In my home," Victor snapped, "you will not disrespect her."
For a moment, no one breathed. Charles's nostrils flared. Then, with a bitter scoff, he released Felicity's arm. She stumbled back toward Victor, her heart hammering. The creature's growl faded to a low, wounded rumble, but his gaze remained fixed on Charles.
Charles straightened his coat. "We are leaving. I've seen quite enough of this charade."
"Leaving?" Victor said sharply. "You cannot. There's a storm brewing, look." He gestured to the narrow window, where the sky outside churned black and heavy, thunder rumbling in the distance.
Charles ignored him and took Felicity's arm again, less violently this time but with the same possessive force. The creature roared again, louder, the sound raw enough to shake dust from the rafters.
Felicity turned quickly, hand raised, her voice breaking. "It's all right!" she cried. "It's all right, I'm fine!"
Her eyes met his, and the fury in him seemed to falter. He stared at her, his breathing rough, until she smiled shakily and nodded. Slowly, reluctantly, he sank back to the ground.
Victor exhaled, running a hand over his face. "Go, then," he muttered. "But you'll not get far before the storm traps you here regardless."
Charles's jaw tightened. He gave no answer, only turned sharply on his heel and led Felicity toward the stairs. As they ascended, she cast one last look over her shoulder. The creature sat hunched where he'd been, watching her with wide, sorrowful eyes. His hand lifted faintly as if to reach for her, and the sight of it nearly undid her. She wanted to call out, to promise she would return. But Charles's grip was unrelenting, and soon the door above closed between them, sealing the sound of chains and thunder below.
-
The storm came as Victor had promised, fierce and unrelenting, its wind clawing at the walls of the estate. Thunder cracked across the mountains like cannon fire, and the rain fell in sheets so heavy it drowned out all other sound.
Felicity sat by the window, watching the lightning crawl across the sky. Each flash illuminated the forest below, the twisted trees bowing beneath the storm. Her heart ached with every gust that rattled the glass. She could not stop thinking of him, alone in the cold chamber below, chained and trembling while thunder roared overhead.
When Charles retired to his study with a bottle of brandy, she rose. Her body moved before her thoughts could protest. She took a small basket from the kitchen with bread, fruit, a bit of cheese, and crept quietly down the back stairwell, the lantern in her hand flickering with every draft. The house was silent save for the storm. Her slippered feet made no sound on the stone steps as she descended into the depths. When she reached the door to the basment, she hesitated only a moment before pushing it open.
He sat near the wall, knees drawn up, chains clinking softly whenever he moved. The lantern light caught his face, tired, still damp from the chill of the storm that seeped through the cracks in the ceiling. When he saw her, his head tilted like a child recognizing a familiar lullaby.
"Felicity," he said quietly, the syllables soft and uncertain.
Her chest tightened. She smiled. "Yes. It's me."
She crossed the floor and set the basket before him. "I brought food," she said. "You must be hungry."
He blinked down at the bread and fruit, unsure.
She tore a piece of bread and handed it to him. "Here, I couldn't stand to sleep knowing you were down here alone, you occupy my thoughts," she said gently, not minding that he most likely didn't understand her. She smiles, taking a small bite herself to show him it was safe. After a moment, he mimicked her, hesitant, awkward, and then made a sound of surprise at the taste.
Felicity laughed softly. "See? It's good."
They ate together in silence, the rhythm of the storm above them. He watched her between bites, his gaze steady but never predatory, only full of wonder. Every movement she made seemed to fascinate him, from the way she brushed her hair back to how she smiled at him. When they finished, she reached into the basket again and pulled out what she'd hidden there a pillow and a folded blanket.
"You must be freezing," she said.
He tilted his head, watching as she shook the blanket out. She stepped closer, and he went still, his breath catching when she draped it around his shoulders. The fabric dwarfed her small hands, yet her touch was steady, certain.
"There," she whispered. "Better."
He stared down at the blanket, at her hands still holding the edges near his chest. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, hesitant, unsure, and rested his head against her torso. Felicity gasped softly, her heart thundering. His weight was enormous, yet his touch was impossibly gentle. For a moment, she froze, then instinct took over. She wrapped her arms around him, the way one might hold a frightened child, pressing her cheek to the crown of his head.
"It's all right," she murmured. "You're safe."
He made a low, quiet sound, half sigh, half relief, and curled into her completely, his arms sliding around her waist, clutching her as though she were something precious he feared would vanish. Felicity's throat burned. No man had ever touched her like this, with reverence, not claim. His hands trembled where they held her, but there was no demand in them, no cruelty. Only warmth.
She hushed him when the thunder cracked again, her fingers combing through his coarse hair. "It's all right," she whispered again. "It's only the storm."
When he looked up at her, the expression in his eyes undid her. There was adoration there—pure, unguarded. To him, she was not a possession, not a burden. She was someone.
He whispered something, the word clumsy but heartfelt. "Beautiful."
Tears filled her eyes. She smiled weakly, brushing his cheek. "You are," she whispered. "You're beautiful."
He smiled faintly, content, and she guided him down until he was lying on the floor. She placed the pillow beneath his head, smoothing the blanket over his shoulders. His eyes fluttered shut, and she sank beside him, holding his hand until his breathing steadied into sleep. For the first time in years, Felicity felt peace. She bent and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, her tears falling softly onto his skin. The door slammed open.
"Felicity!"
She jerked upright, heart leaping into her throat. Charles stood in the doorway, his coat thrown over his nightshirt, his eyes wild.
"Charles please, it's not—"
He stormed forward, his face twisting in fury. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?"
The creature stirred, blinking, confusion giving way to alarm as Charles's voice grew louder.
Charles seized her arm, wrenching her away. "You consort with this thing?" he spat.
"Stop!" she cried, struggling against him.
The creature was on his feet now, towering, his chains snapping taut. His chest heaved as he let out a sound that was not human, a roar of rage and terror all at once. Charles froze, then drew the pistol from his belt and aimed it at him.
"No!" Felicity cried, throwing herself between them. "Please, don't!"
The creature reached for her.
Charles grabbed her by the shoulders, shoving her behind him. "Stay back, woman!"
But she stepped forward again, placing herself between the barrel and the creature. "He won't hurt us, he's frightened!"
"Enough of this madness!" Charles shouted. He swung his arm toward her, meaning to shove her aside, but his hand cracked hard across her cheek.
The blow knocked her to the ground. Her head struck the stone, a sharp cry escaped her lips. The creature's roar shook the chamber. He lunged, straining so violently that the bolts anchoring his chains rattled loose. His eyes burned with fury as he fought against the restraints, calling her name again and again.
Charles's hand twisted in her hair, dragging her upright. "You filthy, ungrateful wretch!" he hissed, hauling her toward the stairs.
She sobbed, clawing at his hands, but he only pulled harder. "You'll learn what obedience means."
Behind them, the creature pulled until his wrists bled, the iron biting deep. The sound that came from him was raw anguish, echoing up the stone passageway like thunder.
"Felicity!"
Her cries mingled with his as Charles dragged her up the steps, the door slamming shut between them. Below, the creature fell to his knees, shaking, his bloodied hands reaching for the locked door. The storm outside howled, and his voice broke through it. Charles dragged her through the dark corridor, his fingers locked like iron around her arm.
The storm outside howled in concert with his fury. She stumbled once on the stone floor and he jerked her upright, his face a mask of cold, controlled rage.
"You will shame me?" he hissed, the words slicing through her like the lash of a whip.
"Please!" she gasped. "He did nothing...."
That only enraged him more. He threw her against the wall; the impact stole her breath. The lantern light caught the fury in his eyes, drunk, righteous, unrelenting.
"You disgrace yourself. You disgrace me!"
He struck her once, hard enough to send her to the ground. Her vision flashed white. The thunder outside cracked like judgment.
"Charles, please!"
Another blow. The taste of iron flooded her mouth. The world shrank to noise, the storm, his voice, her own heartbeat hammering against her ribs. When she tried to crawl away, he caught her by the hair and forced her upright again, shouting words she couldn't understand. The edges of the room blurred. She could no longer tell if the ringing in her ears came from the storm or from him. She thought of the creature, his hand in hers, the gentleness of his touch. The contrast tore at her chest.
Charles's voice broke through one last time, distant and hollow. "You will remember who you belong to."
Then darkness.
Tag list:@wiseyouthinfluencer @roroobsessed @within-thehollowcrown @loftilyviolentthunder
cw: afab reader, slowburn, there will be very minor plot changes, milchick is lowkey unprofessional and ooc as time goes on, eventual sexual content and violence, not proofread
summary: Days in the MDR office are long. The lovely thing about them is him. And your co-workers. Definitely also your co-workers.
The day had been going by slow. Numbers on the screen to be refined sit idle as your mind wanders to yesterday’s encounter with Milchick—how you were just inches away from his touch, how you could feel the warmth radiating off of him.
You shake your head, blinking hard at the screen, trying to root yourself in the present.
Then, suddenly, you hear your name from the doorway. You look up to see Milchick standing there. The shift in the room is immediate. Whatever quiet rhythm existed a moment ago breaks as the others turn toward him, then toward you, waiting to see whatever this means.
“Mind stepping out with me for a moment?” He smiles. Something in your chest eases at the sight of it. You let out a quiet breath, almost a release, then nod once. Your fingers move with practiced but quick precision as you shut down your workstation, each motion an excuse to collect yourself. The low hum of the monitor fades as the screen goes dark, casting a faint reflection of your own face back at you.
Then, you rise and walk toward him. You don’t rush. You never do. But your steps are certain. Somewhat guided by that unnamed feeling you get whenever you speak to him. He doesn’t move, just watches you approach, hands folded neatly behind his back.
The two of you begin walking. It’s silent at first. You’d grown accustomed to the sterility of the Lumon hallways since you’d started walking in them with him. Even if you weren’t, you were just reminded of when you were. And that made you happy.
“Can I ask you something?” you say, your voice careful.
Milchick glances over, smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “Of course,” he says. “You know I’m always happy to help.”
You look at him for a long moment. “What happens in the break room?”
The smile didn’t drop, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. He straightens just slightly, hands folding neatly in front of him.
“That’s… not a conversation we need to have,” he replies. His tone is gentle but firm—like he’s warning you to not overstep without directly saying it. “Let’s keep our focus where it belongs.”
You don’t look away. “So I’m not allowed to know?”
“You’re allowed to succeed,” he says, still smiling. “And you’re doing very well. Let’s not distract from that.”
“Where are we going?” you ask as you follow him down the hall. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, the only sound between your footsteps.
Milchick doesn’t answer right away. His hands rest behind his back. “Just somewhere a little quieter,” he says after a moment, glancing at you briefly. “Some conversations are better without an audience.”
This isn’t standard protocol and you both know it. But he keeps walking, and so do you.
After a few more turns—through a hallway you don’t recall ever going down—he finally slows. The corridor here is dimmer, recessed from the usual traffic. When he pauses beside a closed door, he looks over his shoulder at you.
“There aren’t any cameras past this point,” he says. “You’ll want to keep that in mind.”
You study him. “Is that meant to reassure me?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t carry the usual cheer. “That depends on what you’re hoping to say.”
You hesitate for a beat, then step past the threshold when he opens the door. It’s a supply space, unused. Clean, quiet, and empty. The shelves are practically empty, save for a few sparsely-placed stacks of printer paper. You take a peek around—no cameras, just like he said. None visible at least. There’s a sneaky feeling in the back of your head telling you this is some sort of test and that you’re going to get fired as soon as you make a move or say anything that could be considered anti-Lumon. However, your hopes for what is going to happen overwhelm that feeling, like every time before.
When the door clicks shut behind you, the silence presses in. It’s odd, how the atmosphere changes from somewhat professional and spotlit to open and free with just the closing of a wooden barrier. You turn to face him again.
Milchick doesn’t move closer yet. He stands just across from you, watching. “You’ve had questions,” he says. “Now’s the time to ask them. Or not.”
Your eyes meet his.
“Is this allowed?” you ask.
“Not exactly,” he replies. “But you’re not reporting it. And neither am I.”
He takes one step forward. Just one. And waits.
You fold your arms, more to anchor yourself than to push him. “Do you know what my outie does?”
His eyes flick to yours. “Yes.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He turns back toward you. “Because that version of you made a choice. She doesn’t want you to know her life. She wanted the severance. She wanted this.”
You frown. “How do you know what she wanted?”
Milchick steps closer again, slowly this time, as though making a decision he hadn’t gone over in his head.
“Because I know her,” he says. At your confused expression, he continues, “I know all of your outies. I was with them during the Severance procedure.”
You nod, and the silence grows thick again. You look at him. Really look at him. And he doesn’t look away.
“I think about it all the time,” you say. “How she gets to live and I get to exist in service of her choices. How maybe I’m more real than she is now. Because I’m the one doing the work.”
He’s close now—close enough that if you reach forward, just a little, you’d brush his shirt. His voice drops a note.
“The work you’re doing here… it matters. She lives one part of life. You live the other.” He takes a breath. “It’s not about who’s realer. It’s not a shadow of someone else’s life. It is your life. And it has value. You have value.”
You squint a bit at his words. They aren’t consoling to you by any means. You don’t want to be consoled, you want answers. Maybe you don’t want answers. Maybe you just want to speak freely for once. To say something real without being punished for it. To talk to someone who, for some reason, feels safe. Someone who listens like they might actually keep your secrets. Even if that person is the second-in-command of the Severed floor.
It all makes you wonder—why you? Why, of everyone in this building, did he pick you to do these things with? Why is it you he pulls aside, talks to like this, brings past camera lines? You’re an innie. Something of a laborer, you think. Maybe him and your outie have some sort of relationship. He did say he knew her.
“Why did you bring me here?” you ask.
“Because I thought you needed it,” he says.
The words hang there. His hand is at his side, yours still clenched at your arms. You don’t know who moves first, but your face tilts slightly up, and his gaze drops to your mouth.
Maybe he’s right. You probably do need it. Some sort of privacy. Who knows where they have cameras, what they see? Right now, you’re not sure you care. That’s probably why you let yourself lean in, just a little closer.
“Tell me one thing,” you say. “About her. About me.”
He hesitates. Really hesitates.
“She has a scar on her hip,” he says. “Small. She never says where it’s from.”
You freeze. Not visibly—at least, you hope not—but something in your chest contracts so fast it nearly knocks the air out of you. Your breath stills in your throat. A scar? You didn’t know about a scar. You shouldn’t know about a scar. And yet the way he says it makes it feel like he’s told you something sacred.
Your body doesn’t move, but your eyes do. They find his face, search it for any sign of a joke, a lie, a misstep. But there’s nothing smug in the way he said it. Nothing teasing. Just… knowledge. Familiarity. It lands in your stomach like a stone.
His hand flexes slightly at his side. Not a motion toward you, just a tension, like he’s thinking about it. About touching. About not touching. You want to say something else. Anything. But the words tangle in your head. Instead, your hand moves before your brain can stop it, just lightly brushing against his knuckles. Testing again. Asking something without asking.
He doesn’t pull away. You think you feel his breath catch too.
Then, five chirps spout from the device attached to his waist. He tenses, eyes flicking down to it before looking back at you.
Milchick steps back and clears his throat. “Duty calls,” he murmurs.
You offer a small, sympathetic smile. He takes that as confirmation he can leave, and steps out of the room. It takes a minute before you can gather yourself—before the weight of what just happened catches up to the fact that, for a moment, you’d actually been living it.
When you return to the MDR office, the space is empty. The desks sit abandoned, monitors dimmed. Everyone must be off somewhere—pulled away for other tasks or meetings, you assume. Maybe off to find Irving.
You sit down at your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard after you boot up your monitor. Your mind drifts back to the supply room, but you decide not to let yourself spiral down that thread again.
Both Irving’s voice and footsteps into the office get louder—you don’t look right away. At last, Mark, Dylan, and Irving are back from whatever detour they’ve taken. No Helly. No Helly? You scan the doorway again, just in case you missed her.
“Where’s Helly?” Mark asks. They’ve all paused, awkwardly looking around.
“I thought she was with you,” you frown.
“Yeah, she’s… not,” Mark hesitantly replies. “I’ll go look for her.”
And Mark is off again. Dylan and Irving find their way back to their seats, however, they do not continue working. Instead, they stare at you and it makes it incredibly hard to focus on your work.
You glance up at Dylan.
“Where were you?” he asks, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Where were you?” you shoot back, arching a brow.
“I asked first.” He counters, leaning on the edge of his desk like he’s settling in for a standoff.
You turn away from him and look at Irving instead. “Irv, where were you?”
Irving straightens, adjusting his tie with a small huff. “I was with Burt. And then I found a book. And—”
“Irv, what the fuck?” Dylan snaps, whipping his head toward him.
“What?” Irving says, blinking. “She asked.”
Dylan pulls an exasperated face. “We’re trying to get her to talk,” he says, pointing at you without subtlety. “What you and Milchick were doing. What you’ve been doing.”
You meet Dylan’s eyes, and for a second, no one says anything. Then he squints again, tilting his head just slightly. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk.
“You’ve been fucking Mr. Milchick.” He says.
The word hits the desk like a dropped object. Irving lets out a strangled cough. Dylan just grins wider.
“I mean—makes sense,” he continues, gesturing vaguely in the air. “Secret meetings. Taking you out of the office every day. The whole ‘come with me’ vibe. I should’ve known.”
You blink, once. “That’s not—”
“Don’t lie to us now,” Dylan says, mock-offended. “I can smell secrets.”
Irving interjects, brows furrowed in alarm. “That would be a deeply inappropriate breach of protocol. Not to mention ethically questionable—”
“Yeah, thank you, Irving,” Dylan cuts in. “We’re all aware that boning the boss is bad optics. Still. I gotta say, respect. The man’s got moves.”
You press your fingers to your temples.
“Can we please get back to work?” you say.
Dylan shrugs like he’s doing you a favor by letting it drop. Irving nods, clearly relieved, and returns to his terminal with a bit too much urgency. The clatter of keys slowly resumes. The room feels normal again, or at least, it pretends to be.
You stare at your screen, willing yourself to focus. The numbers flicker up like they always do, neat little rows waiting for your assortment. But you don’t sort. You barely blink.
All you can hear is Milchick’s voice again: “She has a scar on her hip.”
The words settle into your chest like something wet and heavy. You’re not supposed to know that. He’s not supposed to know that. But he does. And worse—he didn’t say it like a weapon or a flirtation. He said it like someone remembering something familiar. Something they’ve seen, maybe even touched. You’re not sure which would be better.
And suddenly you’re not so sure Dylan was wrong.
Not about you—not this you. You haven’t touched anyone. You haven’t had the chance to. But your outie? The one who made this life for you and left you here to carry it out? Maybe she did. Maybe she and Milchick had something. An understanding. A secret. Something physical, or emotional, or both.
You stand up from your desk before you know what you’re doing.
“I need the restroom,” you say. No one stops you. Dylan grunts something, but you don’t hear it.
The walk there is a blur. Nothing significant enough to note. When you reach the door, you slip inside and lock it behind you. It’s colder in here. Quieter. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re being watched again. A stark opposite to the quiet you felt in the supply closet with Milchick.
You’re not even sure why you’re doing this. But your fingers move anyway. You lift the hem of your shirt, then ease the waistband of your bottoms down an inch. Enough to see the skin just above your hipbone.
And there it is.
A faint, pale scar. You touch it lightly, just to make sure it’s real. It is. It’s been there the whole time. Hidden. And somehow, Milchick knows about it.
You stare at it until your vision blurs a little. Then you tug your shirt back down. Fix your waistband. Turn on the faucet and wash your hands, as if you’d dirtied yourself by doing something as unnatural as removing just a sliver of cloth from your body.
For a moment, you wonder what else she has given away. You want to ask him about it. Milchick, you mean. How in the world would he know, if he hadn’t a relationship with your outie? Next time you’re in the supply closet with him, if there is a next time, you’re certain you’ll be asking him about that next.
You exit the bathroom with a quick breath, letting the cold air settle on your skin as you step back into the office. The lights seem harsher now. Every sound feels louder. Sharper. Your mind hasn’t caught up with your body yet.
Back at your desk, you sit without thinking. Dylan gives you a glance but says nothing this time. Irving types politely, pointedly. You keep your eyes on the screen, though the numbers might as well be meaningless symbols. The weight of the scar still lingers like a phantom touch. You wonder what else you’ve been living with, unaware. What abilities, hobbies, talents you possess.
Then, footsteps amplify again.
This time, it isn’t just Milchick. He’s flanked by Mark, Ms. Cobel, and—lastly—Helly. You see her in the doorway, looking strangely calm. Not cheerful, not blank. But resolved.
Milchick steps forward, his voice smooth. “Everyone,” he says. “We’re taking a short pause from duties to accompany Helly to the elevator.”
Irving rises first. He always does when things feel ceremonial. Dylan follows, not hiding the suspicion on his face. You take a second longer, then push up from your chair. Your legs feel heavier than before.
Helly doesn’t look at any of you directly. But she doesn’t avoid your gaze either. Her expression holds no fear. Just distance.
No one says anything as you file into the hallway. Helly leads, her pace calm but unwavering—Ms. Cobel follows just a step behind, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her head keeps turning to Helly as they walk, and you can only imagine what emotion her expression holds. Mark trails behind her. Then Milchick. Finally, Dylan and Irving walk side by side. You walk behind them.
You want to ask where she’s going. But giving her inhospitable behavior recently, you already know. Everyone seems to know.
When you reach the elevator, Helly slides her keycard through the slot, and the doors slide open with a ding. She doesn’t step in right away. Instead, she turns around, gaze locking onto Mark.
“Well, boss,” Helly starts, “I guess this is the part where I tell you to go to hell. Except you’re already here.”
She steps into the elevator. “I was never sorry.”
Then the doors close.
Maybe she won’t return. You wonder what her outie is like. Is she assertive and confident like Helly down here, or could she be the exact opposite? Meek and timid? The kind of woman who underwent the Severance procedure because she couldn’t bear to face her own decisions anymore? Who knows.
Ms. Cobel’s eyes remain forward, jaw clenched tight enough that it could crack. Milchick is beside you, his hands by his side, balled up into fists. Behind you, Irving mutters something you can’t make out, and Dylan lets out a single, humorless laugh under his breath.
“She’ll be back,” Ms. Cobel says, calm. “I hope that you will all use this as an example of what… not to do.”
The group disperses slowly. You don’t walk anywhere near Milchick. You fear that if you do, he’ll be able to sense the pride you felt for Helly as she left the Severed floor.
cw: mentions of human experimentation (ofc), short mention of vomit + sickness, suggestive thoughts, a spark of emotional connection, mickey being cute again :), not beta-read
wc: ~1.6k
note: slow updates btw (lol)
---
Mickey didn’t make it to the new room with you.
Halfway through your journey, he collapsed in the hallway and puked up the small pieces of artificial meat he had at dinner along with the usual slop he had earlier in the day.
At first, he tried to downplay it:
“O-oh…” Mickey looks down at the mess he made, face flushed, “Um, my bad. I must’ve gotten too worked up after eating or something.” His eyes are bleary, his hands are shaking, and his jaw is tense like he’s fighting back pain. You can already tell that this is more than just food poisoning.
“...Mickey, what did they feed you?”
You attempt to approach him, but he quickly stops you.
“No, I’m okay,” He struggles to prop himself up, “y-you don’t have to come any closer.”
“Let me help.”
“I-it’s–”
He starts convulsing.
And as any sane person would – You start freaking the fuck out.
In the end, someone from the lab was alerted about his reaction and came to collect him. Apparently, it was a test to see how safe a new type of imitation meat was.
And you watched defeatedly as he was dragged away like a piece of livestock.
—
The room they assigned to you both is only slightly larger than the single room you had before. Instead of a double bed, a queen-sized mattress is awkwardly wedged into the corner, resting on a metal frame that also serves as storage – you suspect they included it because there's still barely enough room for one person's belongings.
The room sticks to the same monotonous blue-grey palette that you’re used to – accented by metal piping carelessly painted over, jutting from the walls in a way that seems almost hazardous. It really leans into that “landlord special” aesthetic that nobody asked for.
The usual exposed wiring that hangs over every dwelling is visible here too, snaking across the ceiling from all sides. Now that you think about it, you’ve never figured out exactly what the wires are connected to…for all you know, they could just be there for decoration. It’s truly remarkable how far Marshall goes to offer his crew nothing more than the bare minimum.
On the multi-purpose table sat a sheet of instructions, a vase of plastic flowers, and a fake candle boldly emblazoned with the words, “Happy Baby-Making!” – If this was their idea of setting a romantic mood, you have serious doubts about the success of this mission.
You scoff at the vibrant petals of the fake roses, running a finger over the fraying polyester threads that stick out from them. These are going straight into the incinerator after tonight.
You turn your attention to the sheet of paper, curious why they bothered to print out the instructions when a digital memo had already been sent.
The instructions were fairly straightforward:
Get to know your partner: Ask simple questions like “What’s your favorite color?” or “How old are you?” to build a connection.
Practice proper baby-making etiquette: No protection allowed—make sure to fulfill your duty at least once a day.
Stick to your assigned partner: This isn’t a free-for-all; we’re building a sacred community, not a random collection of individuals.
Attend all scheduled appointments: No skipping!
Most importantly, have fun!
At the bottom of the instructions are some suggested sex positions – some of which you’ve never seen before and, frankly, don’t believe are anatomically possible. You can’t help but laugh at the exaggerated stick-figure genitalia that distinguishes the man and the woman as they fuck ‘for the sake of humanity.’
There's one called “Straddle the Laptop” (essentially just cowgirl — but since it takes place on a desk, they’ve thrown in some tech-inspired terminology for flair), that sparks your interest. Not only does it require the man to be at the bottom, helpless to the ministrations of the person on top, but also forces the couple to look into each other's eyes.
You could just imagine the way Mickey would fall apart for you, staring at you in awe with those pretty blue eyes as he whines for more. How his hands would clumsily grope against the contours of your body as he braces against pleasures he’s never known before.
You clutch the page of instructions enough to crumple the edge as the scene plays in your mind.
You mustn’t get ahead of yourself.
It’ll probably be a while before you get to that point in your relationship with Mickey anyway.
You set the piece of paper down and look around at the empty room. So this is your life now.
—
He didn’t come back until the following night.
You assumed the delay was due to the printing process, which takes about a day, so you braced yourself to meet Mickey 18. After all, each new Mickey is an exact copy of the last—yet subtle differences always emerge.
For all you know, the next Mickey could be a freak… but you’re sure that no matter how he turns out, you’ll probably fall for him too.
It’s still Mickey, after all.
But as it turned out, you didn’t have to worry about that. The Mickey returning to you was still 17.
After he was taken away, he was given an experimental medication that successfully counteracted the effects of the lab-made meat. Of course, after barely ten minutes to recover, he was immediately sent to the back storage room of the ship to fix a collapsing corridor—because why not?
Which is why, despite coming back as the same Mickey 17, he still bore bruises, scratch marks, and a slight limp.
Trust the science sector to throw Mickey into a mission the second he recovered from food poisoning!
You expected to return to an empty room – one cluttered with unpacked boxes, your few belongings, and an unmade bed. But instead, Mickey was sitting on the bed, printed-out instructions in one hand and the flimsy bundle of gaudy roses in the other.
There’s a palm-sized bruise on his neck – probably from the indelicate syringe that the scientists like to poke him with – and a few scratches on his forehead and arms.
He looks up from the paper as you enter, wearing the same confused expression he had at dinner the night before.
“So the fake meat didn’t make me hallucinate this…” He mumbles in disbelief, eyes bouncing between the paper, the roses, and you.
“Mickey, you’re…” Still alive? Still 17? Still – “...here.”
“Yeah – I-I’m sorry you had to see that yesterday.” He’s suddenly sheepish as he recalls the last time he saw you. “The experiments are usually more isolated, but I guess they just wanted my authentic reaction to the food or something.”
You walk over and sit next to him on the bed. He subtly scoots over to give you more space, eyes widening at the sudden loss of distance between you. You wish he wouldn’t, but you don’t say anything.
“No, don’t apologize. I’m just… happy to see you.” You offer him a small smile. “The same you.”
“You noticed?” He looks surprised, like no one has ever really paid attention to him before.
“I always notice you, Mickey.” Your voice is soft, yet the words carry so much weight.
Again, those pretty blue eyes widen, silently asking about every layer of meaning in your admission—so close to you. Then, he breaks eye contact, preferring to look at the floor as he turns your words in his mind. You notice subtle blotches of pink coloring the base of his neck and the tops of his cheeks.
Oh no. Maybe he’s uncomfortable…
“I-I mean…I saw that you still have that one healed cut from the other day…” Amid your rambling, you miss the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. “...not that I’m watching you or anything, I just guard the lab most of the time and see you–”
“Thanks.” He interrupts you with a soft voice – quiet enough that you would have missed it if you weren’t so intent on noticing his every move.
“...Thanks?”
“For looking out for me. You’re the only one who treats me like a human being and not some…lab rat.” He looks down at the paper in his hand, “I’m actually…kinda glad we were paired together for this protocol.”
Your heart skips a beat at his words.
He’s glad? To be with you?
“Really?”
“Yeah. We’ve known each other for a while…and you’re a lot nicer than anyone else on this ship…” His eyes flick up to meet yours, “I’m sorry you got roped into this though…”
“It’s okay, it was bound to happen at some point.” You shrug, still riding the high that he likes you enough to endure this twisted experiment by your side, “It’s what we all expected when going on this voyage.”
He rubs against the blotchy bruise on his neck thoughtfully, “But we’re the first ones to…you know…”
“Procreate?”
He blushes when you say it. “Yeah.”
“If it makes you feel any better, we can start slow.”
“But don’t we have a schedule to keep up with?”
"Okay then, we can start slower." You take the paper from his hand and glance over the list. "The daily check-ins don’t start for a few days, so… how about a date?"
“A date?”
“Unless you want to jump right into it.” You tease.
“N-no,” he stammers, “I didn’t mean–”
You rest a hand on his thigh, and he instantly falls silent, eyes fixed on where you're touching him. “Tomorrow let’s do something, just the two of us.”
[your other you] // a seth milchick x reader fanfic, chapter 10
🐐 SYNOPISIS: You lose time. Forty minutes, gone without explanation. When Seth shows up at your door you realize something irreversible happened, and now you’re left with the weight of a shared life breaking apart.
⚠️TAGS: Heavy Themes, Sexual Situations, Dubious Consent (due to severance dynamics), Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Existential Dread, Liminal Horror.
(ps: sorry for the delay, i was super busy, also there’s some authors note at the end, okay, bye)
previous chapter // masterlist
CHAPTER 10 — You Did Something Wrong, And You Said It Was Great
Your cousin’s name flashes in your inbox. The last time she wrote was Christmas. Before that, Easter. A holiday correspondence; strained but maintained, like a loose thread refusing to snap. You open it.
She keeps it short. Her mother has passed. The funeral is on Thursday. She understands if you can’t make it, but she would like to see you there. You stare at the screen longer than necessary, like maybe the rest of the email will load if you just wait. But it doesn’t. Just those few words. A death. A date.
You look at the time on the clock. 7:00 PM. You blink. When your eyes open again, the digital display will read 7:40 PM. You’re no longer at your desk – you’re in the kitchen, standing in front of the sink, holding a half-drunk Diet Coke, your fingers wet with condensation. Your feet are bare. You don’t remember getting up.
Your heart spikes.
The Diet Coke slips from your hand and lands in the sink with a metallic clatter. You back away, panic rushing through you as you scan the room, then push away from the counter. Nothing has changed. The faucet drips. The fridge buzzes. A chair sits slightly pulled out. The same way you left it.
Probably.
You don't remember getting up. You don't remember moving.
What were you doing?
You check the fridge. The living room. Your coat by the door. Everything looks the same, but something feels disturbingly wrong. Forty minutes lost, just gone. What the hell happened in those forty minutes?
You try to breathe. In, out. Count to five. You feel your pulse in your gums. You say your name out loud just to hear it. A few hours later, a knock rattles your front door. Three sharp raps, too fast, like an alarm. You open it to find Seth standing there, forcing a polite smile.
“Hey,” he says, too casually. “Can I come in?”
The tea on your table has gone cold. You sit slowly, trying to root yourself in the cushions, in the texture of the table, the warmth of your thighs against the chair. Seth doesn’t sit. He scans the kitchen, the living room, the hallway. Like he expects to find a body, like someone inspecting a crime scene.
“What do you remember from tonight?” he asks.
“I was reading an email,” you say. “Then I blinked, and it was forty minutes later. I was in my kitchen.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tight. “Okay.”
You just watch him. “What happened?”
His face hardens, then quietly, with shame and protocol in his voice: “There was... an error. A system failure. It’s called Overtime Contingency. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
You blink. Your innie was here? Fuck. Your pulse kicks up. Your hands feel wrong. Your house feels wrong. Wait, you shut your laptop earlier – but did you? Did your innie touch it? Did she send something? Say something? What did she see?
“I need to get out of here.”
The words leave your mouth before you’ve fully processed them. But the second they’re out, you know they’re true. You feel yourself suffocating, it’s all too much. Your mug shakes slightly as you set it down. The clock ticks forward, oblivious. There’s a part of you that wants to start running, but you just stand there, freaking out for so many reasons, in desperate need of a way out of this madness – so you decide this is as far as you’ll go with this.
“My aunt passed away,” you say, eyes blank on your laptop.
Seth watches you, quiet.
"I think I want to go. And not just for her. For me. To remember who I was before all this."
You turn to face him. "I don’t think I should come back."
Seth opens his mouth. Closes it.
"Oh," he says, finally. "I came here to fire you."
No humor. Just the truth. The silence between the two of you after feels like an echo, you almost want to laugh, but the more you think about it, the more the parallels sting.
Your poor innie can only exist inside the Lumon building. Your relationship with Seth can only exist inside this house Lumon provided for you. Outside of it, you're strangers, not even coworkers. His coworker is your innie, who will never see him out here.
You stretched this relationship as far as it could possibly go. Nothing else can be done.
"You could come with me," you say, you beg. Your voice breaks. "Tell me you love me. Tell me you care about this. Come with me. Let’s just run away. Please."
He looks devastated. Like you punched him, and all he can manage is a soft: “I’ll miss you.”
He reaches into his jacket, hands trembling, and pulls out a folded blue post-it, he then passes it to you.
"She wrote you a note. I couldn’t let her give it to you before, but now... I can’t keep it anymore. I know it’s strange, but – I think the two of you would’ve been friends."
You unfold it slowly.
I feel lonely. I wish I could talk to you. Sometimes I love you, and sometimes I hate you.
You don’t cry right away. You just stare. The words tremble slightly in your hands.
"I needed her," you say.
The tears come quietly, then all at once.
“I really needed her. I don’t know what these last couple of years would’ve been like without severance. It helped me. Being with you… It helped me so much. It was therapeutic, in a way, really. But I can’t do this anymore, after tonight… This is scary, Seth. I’m scared, and… I need to walk on my own feet now.”
You wipe your nose, voice cracking. “And the shitty part is – she doesn’t even get that, you know? Catharsis, or whatever is it that I’m feeling right now, I don’t even know... I know you’re never going to see her again, but if you do... tell her I’m sorry. Tell her… Thank you.”
"I will," Seth whispers as a couple of rebel tears slide down his face.
The note stays in your lap long after he leaves. You’re not sure if you’re crying for you, for Seth, or for the version of yourself you never got to meet.
(This was supposed to be a one-shot… and I ended up writing over 12.5k words, and with an epilogue still to come! Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented, liked, and stuck with me through this whole thing. I genuinely didn’t expect anyone to care about this story. Honestly, I was kind of embarrassed to even tag it. I started posting on Tumblr just because I liked the aesthetic, having a nice layout, posting my silly gifs, a moodboard or two. I never imagined people would actually read it, let alone follow this blog. I’m so grateful!
I’m sorry to those who were hoping for a happy ending!
The idea for this story came out of my total obsession with Severance. I kept thinking about how Mark’s innie is essentially him, but without the trauma that shaped his outie and leading a more fulfilled social life, so he’s a little softer. And Helly is just Helena, stripped of the constraints her position imposes. That got me thinking what kind of person would have an innie similar to their outie. Someone with no family, who barely leaves the house. And then I thought about Milchick, what it would be like for him to face that kind of person. To realize the only thing dividing these two versions is that one of them gets to consciously sleep with the man they’re both crushing on, and the other is denied the most basic autonomy. That’s the whole story.
So yeah… I’ll keep posting here, more Severance things, and some original stuff too. I don’t know how many of you will stick around, but thank you for being here. Truly. See you around!)
[your other you] // a seth milchick x reader fanfic, chapter 09
🐐 SYNOPISIS: Milchick is vulnerable for once, and as you tend his wound, you take the chance to be honest – to let him know what’s hurting you.
⚠️TAGS: Heavy Themes, Sexual Situations, Dubious Consent (due to severance dynamics), Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Existential Dread, Liminal Horror.
previous chapter // masterlist
CHAPTER 9 — Locked In A Cage, Thrown To The Lions
You were having an unusually good day, in an unusual good mood when suddenly Dylan’s teeth sank into Milchick’s skin, and the entirety of MDR imploded into chaos.
“He’s biting me!” Milchick yells, struggling to break free.
You try to focus, but everything turns to static. White noise. The shouting, the movement, your breath comes too fast, too shallow, and you don’t know whether to reach for Dylan or Milchick. Your hands twitch uselessly at your sides. Through the fog, you hear it, finally understanding the words:
“Music Dance Experience is officially canceled,” Milchick announces, storming out.
As soon as he leaves, you turn to Dylan, expecting an explanation, and he offers you just that:
“They can wake us up,” Dylan says, voice shaking slightly. “On the outside. It’s called the overtime contingency.”
Mark frowns. “What?”
Dylan explains – his house, his son, the way it all vanished before he could even process it.
“He’s not your son, Dylan,” Irving says hesitantly. “He’s your Outie’s son.”
Dylan snaps his head up. “That’s bullshit. He’s my son too.”
Your chest tightens. The panic claws its way back, you're out of breath, hands trembling. It’s too much. The walls press in, your limbs feel wrong, the world tilts – but before it can swallow you whole, Helly cuts through it:
“This is good,” Helly says.
You force yourself to focus. “How is this good?”
“If they can wake us up on the outside, what’s to stop us from doing it to ourselves?” she presses. “We can all see the outside, find out who we are.”
Irving hesitates. “Helly, forgive me, but that’s perverse. We’re Innies. Plus, the controls are surely somewhere we can’t access.”
“Like the Security Office?” Mark suggests, somehow holding up Graner’s key card.
Helly leans in. “Where did you find that?”
Mark stares at it. “It was in my pocket during the Music Dance Experience. I think I must’ve had it with me when I came in today.”
“Why does your Outie have the key card of our head of security?”
“I don’t know.”
Helly crosses her arms. “I think it’s time for a field trip.”
Dylan snorts. “To the security office where all the security guards work? Amazing. Yeah.”
“Who’s to say there are security guards?” Helly counters. “I’ve only ever seen Graner.”
“What about Milchick?” Dylan points out.
A beat passes before you speak. “He can’t be everywhere at once. And I know how to distract him.”
Dylan eyes you. “Disgusting, but sure.”
“That’s not how I meant it. Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!” Dylan fires back.
“Guys,” Mark and Helly say at the same time.
You and Dylan share a begrudging nod before moving on with the plan.
You find Milchick in Cobel’s old office, well hidden in the low light, shirtless, contorted awkwardly as he tries to clean his wound. Your guess is that he doesn’t want her to find out.
“Do you need help?” you ask, trying very hard not to stare at the broad stretch of his bare shoulders, the sharp lines of his torso. Holy shit.
He jumps, whipping around. “Excuse me? No!”
There’s something almost comically affronted in his voice, like the idea of you helping is more mortifying than the bite itself. He looks around, clearly embarrassed to be caught like this.
“Do you wanna see something funny?” you ask instead, remembering why you came here.
He exhales sharply, already rolling his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I also have a bite mark on my arm. It’s kind of faded, so I almost didn’t feel it. Let me show you.” You roll up your sleeve, revealing the faint imprint. “I wonder how that happened.”
He goes still. Gulps. Practically sweats cold. Then, as if deciding to pretend he didn’t just hear that, he turns back to his injury, still struggling. You watch him for a moment, waiting. Eventually, against his own will, he sighs and nods.
“I’ll accept your help… be careful.” He hands you the supplies.
You step closer, carefully cleaning the bite wound. Your hands move gently, focused. “You’ll get to feel this healing,” you murmur. “Do you ever think about that?”
“And you think that’s a good thing?” he asks, voice matching yours, allowing himself to be softer.
“You’ll get to walk out of this building with your memories,” you say. “Maybe you’ll have dinner with me, and you’ll think about this conversation – but I won’t. Because my brain is fucked up. You’ll lie to me about how you got this wound, and I’ll never find out.”
You finish, finally looking up at him. “I don’t think it’s about good or bad. I think it’s just not fair to me.”
His fingers brush your cheek, slow, patient. A quiet moment stretches between you, his hand warm against your skin. You don’t let yourself get lost in it. Not yet. Before he can speak, you push forward, because you have to, because it’s been sitting in your throat for too long.
“I’ll never get to see the stars,” you whisper. “That’s been making me freak out lately.”
“Amongst other things,” he says.
“Yes.” Your voice wavers. “I’ll never sleep, or drive a car, or buy a house, or adopt a cat. It’s not fair.”
Tears spill down your cheeks, and his thumb catches them, gentle, careful. He still has his hand on your face, holding you there like he’s afraid to let go.
“I’ll never get to kiss you or touch you.” Your voice cracks. You press his hand closer, closing your eyes for a moment before looking at him again, really looking at him, at his face, his bare chest. “And you’re so, so beautiful. It’s not fair.”
He kisses you.
It’s soft, almost weightless, but it knocks the breath from your lungs. Your heart is loud in your ears, and when he pulls back, you’re dizzy.
“I’m so sorry, I…” He looks terrified, already regretting it, but he doesn’t move away.
You don’t let him spiral. “I’m going back to work now. Don’t worry.”
cw: afab reader, slowburn, there will be very minor plot changes, milchick is lowkey unprofessional and ooc as time goes on, eventual sexual content and violence, not proofread
summary: Days in the MDR office are long. The lovely thing about them is him. And your co-workers. Definitely also your co-workers.
The transition from outie to innie in the elevator is definitely… disorienting. In a blink, you exist again. Your shoulders are stiff. Your hands are folded behind your back, yet you weren’t the one who put them there. At some point, you’ll get used to it, you used to think. More than 150 awakenings later, and you still haven’t.
It’s impossible to describe what it feels like, the time when your outie takes over. Because it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s so odd, something you’ll never be able to wrap your head around—how you could be entering the elevator to leave one moment, and enter the severed floor to start a new day the next. But you’re not tired. You’re not hungry. Nothing like that.
You walk through the halls, towards the office, wondering what today will bring. Maybe today you can officially greet Helly R. and get on her good side. If they stick to tradition, she’ll have her welcome party today. Less work, more interaction. You can’t decide if you like that or not.
One thing you’re sure you hate is the ball game they have you play. Actual conversation would be better, certainly much more engaging than one new person finding out how long you’ve worked here. Why do people need to know your favorite thing about the job? How you are one of the quickest refiners in MDR? You are sure nobody cares about such things.
There is less work though, which is a plus. You must be behind on the quota, though, given all the distractions in the last two days. Maybe Milchick will come talk to you again. You have been reconsidering that wellness session.
The trek to the office comes to an end. The grass-green carpet lightens with every step closer to your cubicle. Dylan is already there, while Mark and Helly chat in the storage closet. Irving should be arriving soon.
“Morning,” Dylan greets, already working on a file. You offer a tight-lipped smile in return, pulling out your chair and sitting down.
You boot up your computer, tapping your fingers lightly against the desk while you wait. In the meantime, Mark and Helly emerge from the storage closet. You exhale, roll your shoulders back, and click into your file. On the screen, numbers appear, shifting all around in patterns you’ve come to recognize. A familiar pair of polished shoes enter your periphery before you hear him.
“Good morning,” Irving says.
Dylan nods. “Morning, Irv.”
You offer yet another tight-lipped smile and go back into your work. Soon enough, you focus your attention to the endeavors of your fellow refiners.
Across the cubicle, Mark has already settled himself under Helly’s desk, adjusting the wiring on her monitor. Dylan, meanwhile, has taken on the role of self-appointed guide. He gestures towards his workspace, already launched into his monologue that you have been tuning out as you work.
“My current file’s called ‘Tumwater’, which I started some weeks back. ‘Tumwater.’ All one word.”
Helly tilts her head, flipping through a guidebook. “Should I be taking notes?”
Mark, still under the desk, answers before Dylan can. “No.”
Dylan continues, gesturing at the trinkets lined on his desk and in his drawers. “I’ve got 96 percent sorted, which means I’ve earned four of the five tier incentives, including the erasers and the finger traps that you see displayed here.”
Helly squints at them, unimpressed.
“100 percent is tier five,” Dylan explains. “That gets you a caricature portrait. You’ll note I’ve accrued an embarrassment of wealth in that regard.”
“Wow,” Helly deadpans.
Dylan is satisfied. “Correct.”
You barely register the exchange, already immersed in the patterns on your screen. Woe, frolic, dread, malice. Your fingers twitch toward the keyboard, eliminating each new threat you notice. Then—
“Hello, Refiners.”
Mr. Milchick’s voice cuts through the room, smooth and practiced. Neatly arranged bowls and plates of variously colored melons sit in a cart he has pushed in alongside him.
Dylan perks up. “Ooh, sweet. Melon bar.”
You glance up to see Milchick standing near the entrance, hands clasped in front of him.
Irving stands. “Hi, Mr. Milchick,” he says. You admire his dedication.
Milchick smiles at him, and his gaze flickers to Helly. “Helly, welcome.” His smile widens. “I’m agog at how well I can tell you’re already fitting in. The office feels whole.”
“Now, let’s get this party started.” He continues.
The ball game begins as it always does. Milchick picks up the ball, tossing it lightly between his hands before rolling it towards Irving.
Irving catches it smoothly, sitting up straight with the ball in his lap. “Well, my name is Irving, as you all know. I’ve worked here for three years, and something about me is that… I know all nine core Lumon principals.”
“Awesome.” Milchick grins. “What's your favorite?”
Irving pauses, as if caught off guard by the question. “All nine,” he says, “but today… I think I'd say… cheer.”
He ends his sentence with a smile.
“Great.” Milchick replies with a nod.
Irving rises from his chair and steps to the center of the circle of chairs. He places his hands over his chest, holding the ball, and lets himself fall backwards. Milchick rises swiftly to catch him before he can fall any further.
“Uh-oh, no trust fall today, Irv,” he remarks.
“Oh. Right.” Irving sits back down. He shifts his body towards Helly, who silently begs him not to give it to her. But he does, with a stifled chuckle after it makes its way to her feet.
Helly looks at the ball, then up at the circle of faces around her, her eyes flicking from one person to the next. She exhales slowly, clearly still processing it all. “Hello, I’m… Helly,” she begins, her voice uncertain. “I’ve been at Lumon for... about ten hours total. And, uh... I’m sorry, I don’t really know much about myself.”
Milchick’s smile remains unchanged. He chuckles. “Oh, sure you do, Helly.” He passes the ball back to her.
She hesitates, then looks to Mark, then Dylan. “I really don’t. I guess I went home last night, but I don’t know if home is a house or an apartment, or if I live with a family…”
Dylan shrugs. “I like to think my outie lives on a riverboat. Seems... peaceful.”
Helly has visible confusion written on her face. "I'm sorry," she says slowly. "Outies are...?"
Mark nods. "They're us. On the outside."
Right. She had seen her own outie just yesterday, in the video that confirmed her consent for this job.
"Right," she says, exhaling. "I actually have a few things to say to her. Can I record something back?"
Irving chuckles, shaking his head. Helly just stares.
"What you'll find here is that communication between selves is pretty curtailed." Milchick says. Still smiling. Like always.
Helly sighs, her frustration growing. "So what if I write her a note?"
"Fortunately, the elevators are equipped with something called code detectors. So messages can't be passed through.”
"Yeah," Mark adds. "They're like metal detectors, but for written symbols. A Lumon original, apparently."
Milchick nods at his words. “That’s right, yeah.”
Helly sighed, her frustration growing. "Okay, well what if I—"
"I don't think you're quite getting the game here, Helly," Milchick interrupts gently. "May I?"
She hesitates, then nods, handing him the ball.
Milchick turns to the group. "Guys, this is Helly," he announces. "She's thirty years old, she's allergic to almonds, and has weak enamel. At five foot six, she's the fourth tallest person in your office, and her hair is what we call shoulder-length."
The others nod along, feigning interest. Helly’s jaw tightens.
"And seeing her here with all of you," Milchick continues, his eyes tracking against all of the refiners, voice softening just slightly, "I'd say she most definitely has a family."
Then, he passes the ball to you. You pick it up, resting it on your lap, then look at Milchick, who gives an encouraging nod.
“My name is Y/N. I’ve been working at Lumon for about seven months now… and one thing about me is that I was named fastest refiner last quarter.”
You quickly pass the ball to Mark.
“Never gonna stop gloating about that one, are you?” He teases. You shrug back. Mark clears his throat, shifting in his seat as he grips the ball. “Uh, so I'll just say that I'm Mark,” he begins. “Been with Lumon about two years, and I absolutely love this game.”
Milchick raises a eyebrow, a smirk forming on his face. “Uhh, nice try pal, but you said that last time.”
Mark groans playfully, pointing the ball at Milchick like he didn’t think he’d catch that. “Fair enough.” He exhales. “Well, I, um…” He hesitates, glancing at the floor before looking back up at the group. “I broke protocol this morning.”
You sit up slightly. You did notice something was missing from your desk this morning, but you couldn’t quite place what it was.
Mark shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I was dusting the old group photos, the ones with Petey,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “And it just… made me feel sad.” He pauses. “And, I guess, worried that I won't be able to run MDR like he did.”
Dylan nods. “That tracks. I have similar worries.”
Mark glances at him, exhaling through his nose. “So I… took 'em from the cubicles and put 'em in the storage closet,” he admits. “Which we're not supposed to do.”
Irving straightens in his seat. “I recall this. I objected.” You must have tuned out when he did, because you don't remember him doing so.
Milchick nods once. “Thank you for telling me, Mark.” His tone is nearly understanding. “I actually find your reaction sweet.” He tilts his head slightly. “Though, it is puzzling you have an outburst like this for Petey, and not for, say, Carol D.”
Mark shakes his head. “But we knew Carol D. was leaving beforehand. I mean, her outie filmed a thank-you. Petey was just… gone.” His voice wavers slightly. “And I mean, I... I don’t know if he's at some new job or drunk on a beach, or dead…”
“That’s enough, please,” Milchick interjects firmly. The room falls into a deafening silence. “I think this is a good time to remind ourselves that things like deaths happen outside of here. Not here.” His gaze sweeps across the group, his ever-present smile tempered with something sterner. “A life at Lumon is protected from such things.”
You can’t help but notice how effortlessly he steers the conversation back into Lumon’s carefully crafted narrative.
“And I think a great potential response to that from all of you is gratitude,” Milchick adds, his warm grin returning in full force. “I also think that melon isn't getting any tastier.”
And suddenly you’re up. But you don’t head towards the melon bar like the others. Milchick lingers near his seat as everyone walks away before heading over to the opposite corner of the room, where a camera already sits. Seriously, when did all this stuff start appearing? You need to pay attention more, you think. You take the opportunity to catch up to him, clearing your throat lightly.
"Mr. Milchick," you say, keeping your tone even. He turns, slowing his pace and letting you walk alongside him.
His eyebrows are raised in mild curiosity. "Yes?"
You gesture toward the table. "You’re not getting any melon?"
He chuckles lightly. "I’ve had my fill," he replies. "Besides, I think the team deserves their moment with it."
You smile. "Big of you."
He tilts his head slightly, amused. "I try."
There’s a brief pause, the hum of conversation from the group filling the space. He begins touching around at the camera, probably fixing the settings or something. "Are you feeling better today?"
"Yeah," you nod. "Ready to get back to work."
"Good," he says smoothly, leaning down to look into the camera. “I like a well-run floor."
Before the conversation can stretch any longer, he claps his hands together, turning back to the room.
"Okay, refiners! Let’s get this new group photo before the melon bloat sets in!”
Mark chuckles off in the distance. The five of you haul off a short distance in front of the camera. You settle yourself next to Irving, clasping your hands together and placing them in front of your crotch.
“All right. Great big smiles. Remember, you're gonna be looking at this every day.” Milchick’s voice rings out with practiced enthusiasm. “Say gratitude!”
“Gratitude!” all but Helly respond in unison.
“Say cheer!”
“Cheer!” all but Helly echo back. Suddenly, Helly disconnects herself from Mark's side and walks over to her desk.
Milchick’s expression shifts to one of confusion. “Helly? What are you doing?”
All attention is on her as she writes something on a sticky note. “Oh, I... I just think I’m not gonna work here anymore. Sorry.”
Mark follows her. “What do you mean?”
Helly shoves the sticky note in front of his face. “I quit.” She marches to the door.
“I don’t wanna do the file-sorting thing,” she continues, her voice steadier now. “Or the never-seeing-the-sun thing or the disappearing-friends thing. I just don’t want any of it.”
“We told you there’s code detectors.”
Helly scoffs. “Do you know that? Have you tried? Because frankly, it sounds made up.” She exits the office.
Milchick shoots Mark an expectant look, making him chase after her.
You, Dylan, and Irving all glance at each other.
“I was a little freaked my first week. Didn’t do all this though,” Dylan mutters.
“Maybe it’s different for ladies,” Irving says.
Then they look at you.
“I didn’t do anything like this either.” You respond.
“Alright. I want you all to get back to work. The melon bar will remain until lunch time, so eat up.” Milchick says. You can hear the disappointment in his voice—how things didn’t go how he expected them to.
You quickly get back to work, like he instructed. Your file waits for you. You cannot help but think about Milchick, however. He is such a dedicated worker. There’s a part of you that admires his commitment, just as you do Irving’s. Because, deep down, you resent what you are. What you all are. No matter how many times you try to suppress it, there is a quiet but persistent malice in your heart toward the company. You were made to serve, to work, to exist for the benefit of something greater than yourself, and you hate that.
And yet, alongside that malice, there is something else. Something lighter. Frolic, as the old Lumon handbook describes it. The two seem to coexist in you, entwined, inseparable. You can loathe this place and still find joy within it. There is love in your heart, too. A deep affection for your co-workers, for Milchick. Even if you aren’t exactly sure what his first name is.
There’s something else lurking in your thoughts when you’re with him. You cant quite seem to name it. It’s something between woe and frolic, between dread and malice, tangled up in a way that makes no sense. It is a sensation that creeps in like an error in a file, something misplaced, something that shouldn’t be there. It twists in your stomach, warming and gnawing at the same time, leaving you restless in your chair.
It’s not like the easy fondness you have for Dylan’s jokes or Irving’s lectures. No, this is different. Sharper. There’s an unease to it, like standing too close to something dangerous, something you should fear, but don’t. You think of the way Milchick moves, precise and controlled, his presence a constant, steady force. The way his voice commands the room, firm but never cruel. The way his eyes settle on you sometimes, just a second too long, and the way your pulse stutters when they do.
Whatever the feeling is, it doesn’t belong. Focus on something else. The weight of your breath, the sound of footsteps against the floor, the way the light shifts in the room. Anything but this. Keep typing, keep steady. If you don’t acknowledge it, maybe it’ll disappear.
summary: kenneth marshall says that the ship has a duty to populate the new planet...you get chosen as the first womb for the job!
pairing: mickey barnes (17) x afab!reader
cw: mentions of human experimentation, plot-heavy, mickey being cute, shy, + confused, horrible inhumane people (though are we really surprised?), not very accurate as i've only seen the movie once, not beta-read!
wc: ~1.6k
note: you knew it was coming...
---
After 4 and a half years of travel, the ship has finally landed on a (hopefully) habitable planet.
Of course, no one really knows how human-friendly it is, but the research sector has assured everyone that even if it isn't, they'll find a way to change that. Everyone knows that the only way they can do that is with Mickey.
Mickey Barnes. The sole 'Expendable' on the voyage. The man that makes this whole expedition possible. And the most disrespected and ignored person on the ship.
For 4 and a half years, you've been infatuated with the soft-spoken man. Sure, you've barely held a handful of conversations with him, but you want him nonetheless.
You have a pretty low-key job on the ship. You started in the janitorial crew, but as time has gone by you somehow ended up as a security agent. Apparently, people have been dying for unexplainable reasons a few years into the journey so they needed someone to fill the role.
You aren't necessarily qualified to be an agent, nor should you be handling a gun, but the 'promotion' came with more rations and a better dwelling room, so how could you refuse?
You don't have much of a job since you can't fight for shit, so you spend most of your time outside the laboratory "guarding it" -- though the things inside the lab seem to be more dangerous than the people outside of it.
The first time you caught a sight of Mickey was during orientation. He was introduced and celebrated as the 'Expendable' for the trip, shaking hands with Kenneth Marshall on the stage with a slightly confused look on his face. He was dressed nicely but his posture was timid, making him look smaller than he is.
Marshall, the narcissist he is, barely looked at the man, choosing to face the cameras instead, shifting every so often to get the best angles of himself. Mickey didn't seem to mind, if anything, it looked like he wanted to get down from the stage as soon as possible.
As cameras flashed and hands clapped, he cracked a small crooked smile at the crowd, just happy to please those around him -- even if he had no idea what he was getting himself into.
Already, you thought Mickey was cute. And afterwards, you couldn't get him off your mind.
---
Life on a ship gets old. Fast.
And starting out as a janitor, a position at lowest rung on the ladder, didn't help either. Everyone saw you as the trash you threw away.
Everyone except him.
You were placed in the residential floors, picking up trash from dwellings and transporting them to the incinerator. You'd think with advanced technology like human-printing, they'd at least have a trash chute for each occupant, but no, they want you to get your hands dirty.
Mickey was placed on the bottom floor so he would be one of the first people you'd see during your shift (if he was alive at that time, of course). He'd always have his wastebasket sitting near the door, so it would be easy for you to pick up.
Each bag would be neatly tied together in a cute bow, never overfilled so they don't spontaneously combust like some other bags you've dealt with before. Even when you could do the job yourself, if he was in, he'd always help, placing each bag in your cart with a gentle touch.
He'd greet you with a smile but his eyes would always be shifting around, unable to make eye contact for longer than a few seconds. Sometimes there'd be a cut, bruise, or abrasion on him, but his smile was always the same.
He'd adorably attempt to start a conversation, asking how your day is -- even though it had just started -- and rambling about his own before apologizing for taking up your time as you have a job to do. You'd always lag behind, wanting to continue the interaction, but you never could.
The company tablet would start to beep once you've spent more than 3 minutes at a door, scolding you for being behind, and you'd have to move on.
Your free-hours were during his work-hours and lunch was a chaotic period of goopy-food and crowded tables. You'd look over to see Mickey sitting with his friends, while you sat across the room, shifting your goop from one side of the plate to the other. You never had the guts to approach him...and he never looked back at you.
---
You somehow started to interact with him less as a security agent than you did as a garbage trolley. Well, scratch that, technically you did see him more often, but your interactions were cut short to passing greetings when he'd go in and out of the lab.
There was no time to say anything, he was constantly being transported from one place to another.
The worst part of your job was hearing the horrible sounds from the lab. Not just the screaming, groaning, and whimpering, but the small voice struggling to describe what he was feeling in the moment -- human suffering reduced to data. The things they'd do to him for "the greater good of humanity" is insane.
All you wanted to do was rush in there and protect him, take him away from the pain and remind him of the good things in life. You'd probably both be shot dead immediately if you tried that though.
Well, you'd die and he'd be recycled again.
So you kept your mouth shut and endured it with him, waiting to build up enough courage to finally seek him out, not as a soldier but as a girl.
---
Your mouth gapes as you look up at the projected screen, your name flashing right next to Kenneth Marshall's stupid veneered face.
"Congratulations to our lucky winner!"
Everyone in the crowd claps and hoots enthusiastically as your future is announced to the world.
"Your fabulous genetics mixed with our loyal 'Expendable' will make for a Marshall-approved child. A child of God."
"C-child?" You whisper to yourself, "With Mickey?"
When you heard about this Baby Making Protocol (the actual name Marshall came up with) you thought people were sending in applicants to be part of the Fertility Squad (also coined by Marshall) to populate the planet. You had no idea he was just picking names from a hat!
You're barely able to process what just happened before you're pulled out of your thoughts. Your tablet makes a noise on your bed, alerting you of new unread messages.
You have been summoned to meet Mr. and Mrs. Marshall in their quarters for dinner. You have 5 minutes. Please be punctual.
5 minutes?! Their living quarters are across the ship!
You quickly collect yourself before rushing out the door, hoping to god this was a joke.
---
It's not a joke.
You sit stiffly in a dining chair next to a very confused Mickey and across from the two terrors that run the spaceship. Food sits untouched in front of you as you listen to the complete idiocy that flows from their lips.
"You see, there comes a time when a man and woman must... fraternize for their people." Ylfa, in all her blonde glory, strokes his arm and nods as he speaks, occasionally cutting in with other fluffy and borderline disgusting verbiage to sell the mission to you.
"I don't understand..." You finally speak up, "Why were we chosen out of all the eligible candidates on the ship?"
"Well..." The couple looks at each other before turning back at us, "We first want to see what would happen if a child were to be born on a planet like this one. Just to make sure it's safe. You know how it is." The last part is directed at Mickey, who shifts in his seat uncomfortably.
Another experiment. Of course.
"Why? Is there an issue?" He asks, eyes friendly yet stern, "Mickey?"
The timid man has been silent all dinner, barely lifting his gaze from the fake meat on his plate. His body tenses when he hears his name and he lifts his head to look at everyone nervously.
His voice is soft as he responds to the failed senator, "U-um...well we barely know each other--"
"And that's why from now on, you'll live together!" Ylfa interrupts, "I convinced Kenneth that the baby needs parents, not just a couple of co-workers!"
"This seems like a big change -- how will we be able to keep up with our duties if we have a child?"
"Oh, that's easy, we'll just make another Mickey." Kenneth chuckles, "If you want, we could make two more so you can have a babysitter."
Another Mickey?
"B-but that would imply having multiples on board..." You murmur.
"And?" He looks at you critically, "I made the imperative decision to allow for multiples in a dire situation such as this one. We can't have this protocol slowing down our research sector now, can we?"
Does he not hear how insane he's sounding?
You resign from the conversation, "I suppose not."
"Good, then you understand." He seems satisfied by the answer, "Then you and Mickey...18 was it?"
"S-seventeen, sir."
"Right, 17 will start right away in your new room. Your iPad thing will have all the information."
You look over at Mickey who looks as confused and terrified as you feel.
An impatient voice severs the brief interaction between the two of you, "You are dismissed."
word count: 14.4k
warnings: canon-typical threats, violence - serious bodily harm. graphic injury, blood, light smut, allusions ish to oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, biting, very very brief dubcon (feyd warning tbh i should just call it this), unprotected PiV, fantasies, fair pulling. food sharing & mentions of hunger, discussion of alcohol, religious/cultural trauma, familiar trauma. freaky dreams, foreshadowing. fluff and some angst too - and a fair amount of politics that i made up lol
notes: hiiii guys <3 a long chapter here, there's no good way to cut it up hehe - also i am sorry i didn't edit this after rewriting it so im sorry abt any typos.
feedback very much appreciated!
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Concerns Rise Over the Destabilization of Sabberon
In the wake of the unseating of House Bourbon and the resulting power vacuum on the House’s formerly fiefed planet Sabberon, concerns are mounting over potential destabilization within the planet's region. Situated in a crucial sector of the galactic trade route, Sabberon's turmoil could have far-reaching implications, not only for orbital stability, but for the economic prosperity of the Landsraad's main trade economy.
With no governing body to maintain order, rising insurgent groups throughout the planet threaten to plunge Sabberon into chaos. The potential for conflict and upheaval remains a significant concern for the wider galactic community – yet as of today, there has been no comment by the Emperor.
This all comes to head a month before the Imperium's Annual Referendum, wherein new negotiations on Space Trade routes will be drawn, along with the final Arraignment of the House Bourbon.
- Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan.
Somewhere high upon the northern continent of the planet Sabberon, there is a trail that leads through the forest.
Past the Castle Bourbon, it winds up the slope of a mountaintop – in the short springtime, when the snow thaws and the glaciers spill their icy veins through the woods and ravines, the ground grows spongy with wild grass.
It is soft below your feet now.
The highest range of mountains tower in the distance; they dominate your sight, caps bald with such reflected sharpness that you have to squint against the rays. It is warmer in these elevations, and though the path you walk now is thawed and overgrown with alpine flora, those peaks on the horizon never lose their ice – nor the bursting jeweled-veins they hide deep within.
The sun is shy and springlike; it glows upon the skin revealed beneath your dress and glistens off dripping pine needles swaying to the ground in the breeze. Bare feet; cold, toes stained with earthy soil, and the warmth of a weight tugged within your grasped hand.
Trees rustle and whisper around you as you pass slowly, a breath echoed in the woods – branches smack against your bare arms as you near the secluded clearing ahead. It is small, though venerated; embraced by tall trees, laden with chiffon ribbons of green. Laid within your vision beneath the sinking shade is a pyre lit with candles, in offering and loomed only by the Pine which grows so high that it is swallowed by the breath of clouds high above.
The breath that falls from your lips is one of peace.
The sheet laid before the safety of the Pine is welcoming – you lie upon it, strewn with the breeze and the song of birds through the trees; overhead, the sky streaks pink and orange.
An arm brushes your own – a body lies beside you, and as your eyes flutter shut, you feel the touch trail slowly up the expanse of your side, curling around your arm to soothe the goosebumps which arise.
A pair of lips find your own, and though you see merely darkness and glimpses of glistening sky high above, the heat consumes you: Slowly and kindly.
A sigh against plush lips, hands searching for the heat of your husband, a soft breath of a chuckle against your cheek. He is bare chested; and his skin burns when he presses against your yearning palms, desiring, willing, hungry.
His own fingers trace the trail of goosebumps up your thigh and under the hem of the dress; pleasure follows in his wake as your head tilts back, a long-dormant yearning awakening at the sound of his breaths. And in the small noises you emit, a smile presses to your throat, a small hum of satisfaction from your husband above you. Though the sun is warm and orange upon your eyelids, you do not open them - far too caught in the warmth of your husband’s touch.
A grasp of the plush of your thigh – a soft thing, though intent in their own right; and you turn to receive his waiting body, a line of warmth upon your own as his touch teases over your heat. A long gasp when a warm palm finds your aching desire and teases you, light as the wind in your hair and the birds chirping in the woods.
Your lips find his once more, breath hot as his fingers press, agonizingly slow, into you; a sigh that slips towards a moan in the uptick in singing birds, the rustle of wind through whistling leaves as he hums into your mouth.
Tingling with anticipation, with desire, you clutch him – and muscles lithe and warm strain underneath your nails, his touch sliding to press against you once more, slowly moving into a rhythm that brings a gasp lodged into your throat.
A phantom tickle graces across your forehead – hair, though you’re unsure if it’s yours or his – and though he leans forward and grasps the sheet beside your head, his other hand continues its ministrations, stirring arousal from the deepest pits of your being.
In the throes of passion, you throw your head back once more, inhaling deeply in an attempt to conceal any possible hitch in control; though instead of the fresh forest, instead of your husband – you choke on the suddenly tinny air that seems to leak from the sky, which presses into your lungs even as you rock in pleasure.
A hazy thought meanders through your lapsed consciousness – your husband smells different here, upon the ground of the Sacred Pine; not like the fresh scent of sea-salt soaps and wooded forests; though the the metallic scent washes away as lips trail down your throat, nipping at your heady skin when your head falls back onto the white sheet.
Following the soft moan you let out is a shush from his lips, gentle as the breeze through the needles of the trees; Ecstasy dances through you, lighting a fire of desire that has your legs squirming to close as your husband presses them back open with the palm of his hand.
His presence is warm, eager; and consuming.
Though his hands push, bunching your dress over your hips; your eyes flutter to glance at the Pine, standing tall above you. From upside-down, it sways rather curiously, licks of heat igniting from high in the branches – and the sky is streaked in a bizarre breath, a strike of unease in your gut that is swallowed by the dip of light below ridged peaks in the distance.
Though even in the evening light, it seems as though the branches of the Pine are ablaze; and before you move to sit up, perhaps observe closer, your husband’s wanting lips slot against yours once more.
You melt into the sheet below; a warmth pressed eagerly against your own heat strikes a match within you, your eyes rolling back in pleasure before shutting in bliss. The moan that slips from your lips rings warbled in the clearing, as though fallen through a lake – and your husband nips at your kiss-bitten lips slowly.
The ridges of his spine tense as your hands slide along – and the length presses against your aching core, his lips grazing your cheek.
Wind whistles through the trees, ashy and blown. In the quiet of the forest, you whisper softly and your voice is nearly swallowed by faint screams.
“I love you.”
Barely a breath of words against his lips – and his hands tug your hair gently, exposing your neck to his wanting teeth once more. The Pine above sways again, belying a breath of orange and a scream of heat – but you blink and soon teeth are biting sharply, pain striking you through your spine.
Chuckles into the open air around you, curling in your mind as a hand slides down your side; though your words were no such thing of humour, your gaze flutters shut and lips press on in search of the more sensitive areas of your neck.
The chill breeze flutters over your bare skin, goosebumps cascading over every curve of you; though the more your husband bites down, the stronger the foreign smell grows – and in a grunt of discomfort, you shove his mouth away from your throat.
His warmth leaves you, and in an instant, his voice curls into your mind and seeps dread through you.
“I know, pet.”
A whisper - cold and sinister; you have less than a moment to shift, to scramble away from the huffing chuckle from the shadows of your vision, before it happens.
A sharp pain punctures through you.
Blood curdling – the scream you let out tears through the woods, sending a murder of crows to the sky with screams of their own; and your eyes fly open to find your husband’s eyes–
Though it is not Paul at all.
Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen smiles cruelly, watching with a hunger in his eyes as he presses; The pain between your ribs is unbearable, and your hand flies in a choked gasp to cover his own, feeling the sickeningly familiar hilt protruding from you.
In terror, you look down:
A sickeningly pale hand grips your own nameday knife, the exposed part of its blade glinting in the dim light of the ceremonial candles; a lick of flames which were moments ago above you, around you, within you.
You are struck with paralyzing fear – and Feyd-Rautha’s breath is hot against you as he slowly leans down, lips cold; you feel the hilt twist just as his lips press to your forehead.
Blood seeps a slow march; over your body, it soaks into the sheet below you, tainting the ritual in crimson – and you remain in your expiring breaths, a small glowing ember carried to the hearth of forgotten gods; lied and lying, taking and taken.
“You're mine.” And his hand turns the blade deeper, glinting as you scream. “My little wife.”
Rays of sunlight pierce your vision when you jolt to life.
A haunt of touch still upon your ribs; and a face hovering before you, staring deep into your racing heartbeat. And so in your delirious panic, you lash out – a fight to get the body off of your own, your fist swings wildly in your blind haze.
Though a palm of defense catches the brunt of your offense, and you are effectively jerked aside as a gasp floats into the still dust of the room. For a moment as your heart pounds, you consider how many moves it'd take to disarm your attacker – but when you blink yourself into focus, your stomach drops.
Hestia, cheeks red as she breathes, her round eyes wide; her grip is firm, gentle around your closed fist, but her brows are knit with worry.
"My lady," Her voice is airy, eyes searching your panicked gaze, “You were only dreaming.”
It is ragged, the gasps you take – and you blink in rapid attempt to dispel the lingering tendrils of nightmare that still cling to your consciousness. Dread finds you; regret clasping your ribs in a deadly embrace.
“Void above,” You whisper, eyes pricking in regret, “I-I'm sorry,” you stammer, the weight of your actions crashing down upon you as you realize what you've done. "Are you okay? Hestia, I didn't mean to–”
Your hand is squeezed gently within her own. “It's alright,” she says, “You were frightened. I woke you while you slept. Anyone would react the same way.”
It is a lie wrapped in a gauzy layer of kindness; and guilt gnaws within you, a lump in your throat.
“I wouldn't hurt you.”
Though your tone is less than a whisper into the morning beams of light, Hestia's visage remains unwavering and calm. “I know you wouldn’t,” She promises, “And you didn't. I'm just glad you're alright.”
You are struck with relief at her words and you allow yourself a moment of breath as she takes a step away from your heaving chest to draw further the curtains across the way. The bruises and marks from your old life took several days to fade after your arrival on Caladan; though she, nor the other maids, ever said a thing, let alone stared too long when you’d slipped a tunic over the jagged scar across your ribs each morning– nor when they offered the makeup in the tone of your skin to cover the odd-shaped marks upon your neck of fading teeth – nor when they helped you pull the mourning veil over your face.
You’ve grown quite fond of them all. Particularly Hestia, in her tenderness and willful amiability; it occurs to you slowly as you watch her gather your clothing that you never found this kind of humanity on Giedi Prime.
And even after you and Hestia finish your breakfast, she doesn't ask about the dream; And you don't tell her.
It is certainly not the first of these dreams you've had – such a place has haunted you nearly every night since you begun dreaming again in the wake of the poisonous sun; Those mountains, the hills, the pathway to the open clearing: Each night, it calls to you, singing a song you cannot hear.
But never, not until now, has there been a man with you.
Never has Paul, nor Feyd-Rautha, found you in those dreams.
A sharp pain still clings to your breaths – and still lingers that phantom blade, stuck through your ribs; haunted in the shadows by the cold stare of the man you were once promised to forever.
A haunting thing, to near such a pleasant dream – only to be ripped from it by the ghost of shadows; and you reel anyways in shame from the beginning of the dream – fading at the tips of your fingers, such a warm and hungry thing it’d started out as…
Paul, your mind reminds you as you swallow the unease in your stomach, it was Paul who was with you in the beginning.
An odd ritual it’d been – one that felt faint yet familiar, as though some ghost long dead had whispered such things to you in your sleep; and you shake off the dusty robes of the past in search of the present, a more tangible and decidedly less salacious thing.
Dressing is a solemn affair this morning.
It is slow that you drape yourself in the fineries of a life far left behind; cloth made from the veins of plants alpine and far away – they smell of the ocean now, and you watch the pines in the distant western forest bristle in the breeze. It is not until Hestia brings forth the gifted necklace that you hesitate.
It glints in the morning rays – precious stone carving the hawk and sigil, a soft thing, but cut sharp with the cerulean green valleys and ridges of the jewel; and though Hestia is slow as a hunter to a startled doe, you still stiffen when he moves to lace it around your neck.
She's not unused to this; it's been half a week since it was given to you, and each day you have bared your teeth as she clasps it around your neck – though still, beneath the veil, holding the skin above your heart captive, you wear it.
She is beside you, now, and it is not hard for her to tell where your mind’s gone.
“You said he apologized?” She asks it tentatively, as though you might slit her throat at the mere mention of Paul; though instead you merely huff a humourless laugh. “He did,” You affirm, “Though only after I told his parents.”
Your agony is received; you sigh once more, “I acted like a child. Perhaps I was in the right, but nevertheless–” You glance out towards the glinting forest and moors beyond, clenching your jaw at the memory of Paul’s sharp eyes and accusatory tongue. “He must hate me more now.”
The necklace is clasped over your clavicle, and you can feel the incredulous look Hestia sends you; though you merely press your lips, admiring the pendant against your skin in the morning light of the mirror. It does well suit you, much to your chagrin; a fine piece as ever to hold above your head.
Power always seems so beautiful in the morning light.
She says your name gently, whispering into the empty bedroom, “He gifted you a family heirloom – look at it! It must be older than the two of us combined.”
And her irreproachability is as charming as it is unnatural – it is still an adjustment, to take in her joyous nature, the curve of a smile so genuine and spirited. It is still an adjustment, then, to see people so human and to try to return some semblance of that humanity in gratitude; and though she is lighthearted, it does not quell your distress.
Your teeth worry into your bottom lip as you hum gently, shrugging, though you wish to simply melt into the girlish giddiness that leaks from her and infects the corner of your smile.
“It's not so simple”
Your eyes cast down, where your bare feet stand against the floor – and for a blink, beneath them lies wild grass, a white sheet; a seep of crimson leaks through the pristine fabric and you snap away, taking a step back and staring skittishly at Hestia. “I think he’d prefer for me to remember who now holds my reins.”
And if anything, it is a relief to be able to speak so candidly with someone; a trust, knowing it will not leak from your lips through her own and into the ear of the Duke – or his son.
“Or, it's his way of trying to welcome you into House Atreides?” She suggests with a lifted brow, and the indignant part of you bristles as she continues, “He does not mean ill will, I promise. He's... slow to trust.”
You turn, figure shrouded in the morning light’s beams through your large windows. Your brow lifts, your tone teasing; A foreign thing – one that, out of rusty exercise, delivers more accusatory than intended. “You seem to know Lord Paul quite well, Hestia.”
And, as expected, she flushes red; you hide your smirk in the palm of your hand as she shakes her head, eager to dispel any perceived accusations.
“N-nothing like that, my lady –" And it is rather frantically she rushes to assure you, "My mother is Lady Jessica’s in-waiting,” She explains quickly, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of your blouse, “And Paul is only a few years older than I - and though I am just a worker, he and I were reared very close.”
You’d figured as such; though she speaks highly of him, there indeed has been no inkling of affection held more than anything platonic in her musings. Though, if there had been, perhaps a part of you could not blame her; for visions of a youthful teen, curly hair and a sharp laugh, green eyes that swim with light and pool with the gentle fountain of dutiful intelligence. Perhaps he is someone you do not know; that odd feeling, that light when you know only a stranger’s shadow – just as you might be to him; his green ghost that haunts these halls.
You nod gently with a smile that grows in Hestia’s melting embarrassment – and she notices not a few moments after you crack.
A smile blossoms and it brings warmth into your sullen heart. “You tease me,” She observes with a small grin of her own.
You laugh only quietly, shaking your head, “I apologize, I couldn’t help it.” You admit, pacing away from the window to gather the garment from her arms.
“So you’ve known Paul for your whole life?” You wonder, unable to bite back the intrigue which laps at the shores of your mind.
And then comes a sweet kind of existence, one which lives in the early hours between the sun’s rising and the castle’s; Hestia nods, setting to work on your sheets, straightening them as you begin to dress yourself. “I've got no siblings of my own,” She muses lightly, “Though I imagine he is exactly what a brother should be.”
A memory is sharp in the bruise of your heart, and you blink back the vision of the boy falling to the sand, fingers grasping a blade too large for his palm. The numb ache crawls in an eclipse of your pleasant mood and you fight it with a blink.
There is a chip in the boudoir beside you; it glistens against the waxy shine of the sun. Hestia’s warmth, that song of unburdened amity, lulls the dull ache of your heart into a placant thrum.
“– Kind, thoughtful. He entertains the most foolish subjects and also the most serious –” A pause and a rustle, as if she’s turned to glance at you – you do not return the stare, mind too lost in the Paul that Hestia knows; the Paul you have yet to meet.
“And, if you’d believe it…” She says it almost conspiratorially, arriving to button the back of your tunic, as you turn from her, listening quietly, “he can be quite funny sometimes."
Funny. You send her a look; this time there is no fooling – she laughs gently at your doubt and nods, “Believe it or don’t,” she muses, “He is good. He will warm up to you.”
And though she says it in good nature, there is a dejection which leaks into your heart, which pools around the memories of sharp tongue and mistrusting eyes – of a short apology and a pendant wrapped around your throat, binding your wrists.
Instead you force a smile, hoping it appears more brilliant than you feel.
She is a sweet girl – a girl not familiar with the burden of family, of how it falls at your feet in a slump of black and pale and gray and death – and so you imagine her as a young girl, hand-in-hand with a young Paul, skipping down hallways and whispering conspiratorial through the doors of the worker’s quarters.
A melancholia visits you quite suddenly, and your eyes drift to the cobwebs of silk which spin small patterns across the high beams of your ceiling.
“I always seemed to fight with my siblings.” Your voice is a whisper in a breath; what a distant dream it is now, those nights curled together by the grand hearth, the days running through ornate halls, learning to hunt in the woods. Bows pulled from hair and tied into your own – a hand smaller than yours tugging you into an icy lake – screaming, crying, the thud of young limbs hitting another. Anger, that ferocious thing that is only so well known by that of your own kin; A hard thing it is to remember, when their faces have begun to slip away.
“I had four of them,” You offer to her – and though she knows just as well as each person within the Imperium knows now of your family and their end, you feel the comfort of choice; the warmth of choosing to reveal such information about your family to a lended ear. Your brows knit – there is a nest of brown twigs and dried mud just below your window. “And we would scream, and hit, and fight, – all the time, when we were young.” A gaggle of young chickadees vie for the worm in their mother’s mouth within the small nest, and you watch on with burning eyelids. Your breath is solemn, and your fingers trace over the healing scars upon your palm. “But they were my favorite people in this entire universe.”
It is still in the somber moment, though you break your shell with a cleared throat, tearing your eyes from the soft burgeoning feathers of the chicklets in the nest. And after a deep inhale, you smile wistfully, clearing your throat as you slide on the hand jewelry she offers to you; Hestia doesn't say anything, and you're grateful for it.
She lingers beside you as you slide rings over healed knuckles. Your voice comes once more, and it is stronger. “Family, blood or bond, is a precious thing,” you decide, turning to slip on your shoes and tie your trousers. “I am quite glad you and your mother have found it.”
And though there lingers some despondent hesitation, Hestia nods in agreement, her own wistful smile playing on her lips. “Indeed, my lady.”
Your hair catches the rays of sun in the mirror before you – tainted with the leaking green of your veil, you place the ferronnière above it; and you are beautiful in this light, yes – beautiful, but miserable. A dog with a collar for the Atreides leash.
Your gaze leaves yourself to find Hestia watching with a small smile.
An offer of her arm and a small nod brings forth a balm to the stinging hesitance of leaving your room.
“Now, let's get you to this War Council.”
Paul’s sigh is sharp in the empty room.
An aseptic scent pierces his nostrils, contaminating his brain – distracting him. The castle becomes very sterile, deep in the more secluded chambers; here, where he breathes and feels the world breathe too, the air has a chill to it – sharp with some kind of disinfectant.
“Concentrate, Paul.”
His mother’s voice is low, though soothing. “Project your will.”
But he can’t bring himself to look up – his mother stands just a few paces away, her eyes boring into him; Focus. He needs to focus.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he hums gently, a twitch of focus in the crook of his neck; but then, flames flicker up the sides of his vision – a large tree, smoke leaking from somewhere above where it pierces through the clouds. His name, sighed gentle as the breeze through the trees, trickling into his mind; hands, threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. His nostrils flare as he shakes his head, letting out a small groan of irritation. Focus.
Within him, an energy builds; something comes, and he knows he must not lose it – but as he begins to speak, a strange sense of trepidation washes over his mind; a nagging suspicion of unease, some dripping chill down the bumps of his spine. He falters in his words for a moment, confidence waning as doubts creep through the cracks in the shadows.
It's silent for a moment, before she sighs from across the room.
“You’re distracted this morning, Paul.”
He bites back a sharp I know – and instead sighs, a sagging weight in his shoulders as he pushes his hair back with the heel of a palm. “I didn’t sleep well.” He excuses, pacing towards the water pitcher; his mother follows, reaching for the glass he offers. She hums, sipping on the water as he stares into the reflection of his own.
“Dreams?”
She reads him so well.
Paul wills his spine not to tense at her words. With a half a breath, Paul takes another sip of his water – a purchase of time, perhaps. There is a giving degree to which he understands the Bene Gesserit’s plans, and how perhaps he might fall into them; this alone is cause for hesitation. Those years ago – almost two, now – the searing, bone-gnawing pain of that box; the whispers around closed doors, the breath that plumed when the Reverend Mother told his own lady mother that there were two candidates.
Two candidates – for what, he still doesn't know – and yet Paul may one day be one of them. It is an instinct, perhaps some method of survival written into his very DNA; he accepts the churning sick in his stomach at the thought of what his onslaught of dreams mean.
“Yes,” he acquiesces – any possible lie he could have thought to fabricate would have been sheared by the blades of her mind, anyway – and he turns to her, guarded but concerned. She is his mother, after all.
“I've been having dreams,” his voice is slow to regain traction – there is a small scuff on the floor and he traces it with his toe. “Vivid dreams…” He murmurs, chewing upon the skin of his lip, “of Sabberon.”
And perhaps to an untrained eye, there would be no change; But Paul's eyes are indeed quite trained.
A flicker of concern passes through her and it serves nothing but to feed the pit of anxiety that grows in Paul’s stomach.
“Sabberon?” She echoes with a wary tilt of the head, “And what do you see in these dreams?”
The hesitation comes once more, although the memory is still fresh in his mind: For in the beginning, it is that spongy earth, toes imbued with dirt. Soft whispers of his name from voices he cannot see, a caress of the wind in his hair, the glistening mountain peaks that glitter like jewels in the distance, the ribbons tied to trunks and candles lit unyielding even when the sky falls.
And then there is you; a soft thing, an inevitable one – with the soft skin of your thighs trembling in the wake of his wanting lips. There’s the sigh, hitched and breathy, as his hands hold your hips to the pristine sheet below you; the bunching of a dress, the glint of a blade's silvered and black hilt almost golden in the reddening sun.
Your gown, thin and blowing in the breeze, the same color as the veil which still hides your face from his wanting gaze; even in the dying light, the streaks of orange and pink in the sky, snow falling weightless from dark clouds above. That fabric, woven from the skin of alpine hemp which grows in clusters around your planet – bunching by your hips, your chest tremoring in the flickering light of ceremonial candles; breath, warm and willing upon his neck – palms teasing and eager alike, crawling in descent towards his own waistband. A soft moan, the smell of ash –
Paul is drawn back from the glimpses of skin and the flashes of metal, the smell of smoke; he swallows thickly, staring at his mother with the glance of a lamb before the jaws of a wolf – though he shifts, clearing his throat, and the veil lifts.
“I always…” He chooses carefully the truths he can forgive, “I always see a white blanket on the ground. Above, there’s a… the Great Pine of Sabberon. Visions of…” His brows furrow, swallowing the thick of concern, “of knives, and streaks through the sky; I think they’re… missiles. And we’re there together…she and I.”
Barely a blink from his mother as she murmurs, “Lady Bourbon?”
He barely nods, blinking away visions of shining hands and whispers threading through pine needles in the wind.
“I don’t know why it’s always the same dream,” He pleads to his mother – tell me it’s fine – and though his voice is barely audible, he cannot shake the calling for him, that odd feeling that something importing awaits him on Sabberon. “Maybe I've been reading about Sabberon too much,” He half-shrugs.
And it is a relief to admit it finally to someone – since your arrival, perhaps even in the days leading up to it, he’s unsure; but his dreams have ebbed and flowed in the brook of consciousness, always floating back to that place. Always there, and now, with you – and after the lessons the other day, he is sure: it's Sabberon.
He dreams of it burning; he sees it up in flames, and sometimes, you with it.
His mother does little to quell the concern that brims in his gaze – though she sets down her glass and kisses his brow. “Be cautious with your dreams, Paul,” She chides, “Listen to them, learn from them.”
Her gaze brings no such comfort to him as he watches her gaze flick from the cliffs through the casement and back to him.
“Dreams are messages from the deep.”
Though it is only late morning, the Strategy Council finds you quite weary.
You sit, toying with your fingers as you drown in a sea of House Atreides; and once again, the only solace in the room is your blade, laid in front of you on the table for all to see.
Certainly a warning, this time.
Nearly everybody you've met of importance during your sojourn is in attendance – the table is large and long, so much so that you know you will have to project your voice to be heard by the dredges of your periphery; and around you sit war masters, strategists, women and men with intense stares and the symbol of house Atreides upon their clothing.
It is a fight, after Duke Leto sets a brief introduction, to not sound too sharp nor calculating; your gaze skitters over the listeners as you speak, their eyes interested, respectful – it is a shock to your body as you trail off, aware of the respect that brims in the quiet of the room.
But worse still is the fight to stifle your yawn as the Duke reviews intelligence reports; Gritting your teeth, you sit up straighter – through no hitch of boredom but instead the dreadful absence of rest, now is perhaps the worst time for your body to punish your mind for your lack of sleep.
And beside the Duke this time rests a chilling gaze, one you’ve yet to meet in such a scenario – Paul rests with a straight spine and a stare hooked upon the pendant hanging from your neck, and you fight not to stir with the heat of the green boring through your veil.
Until now, there's lived a cold silence between the two of you that has not been broken since it befell; that night when you were gifted the necklace – and besides the stiff apology he issued you the morning after, assuring you he was out of line for treating you with disrespect in his father’s study that morning – all that’s grown between you and your betrothed are cordial nods or a tight-lipped smile from him in passing, whenever a house member is around. Nothing more would dare be said between you, lest you pull a blade to his throat.
If you'd been less indulged in your studies and training – or perhaps he, less prideful – maybe it would not have gone on this long; a stalemate as stubborn as its proprietors.
But seeing as you've barely been in the same room once since that dreadful dinner several days ago, it's no different. You aren’t to be wed until the end of this year, but you know sometime soon, you will have to learn to live with him.
Paul does not notice your attention on him for some time as the strategy council rolls on; He is seemingly in his own world, gazing intently at the necklace in a way that gives you a rush of unease – and you, drawn into the world of dreamlike memory: Of hands smooth against skin, of soft breath upon your cheek, of curls tickling your forehead.
But it’s as if a shock hits him – and suddenly, a green stare finds your own; and though it is near impossible to discern your face unless mere inches away, Paul never fails to find your eyes behind the veil.
In his stare, your mind convulses; brought forth unbidden and unsolicited, you see them: Curls that kiss your forehead, lips plush and pressed to your neck – a hand snaking up the bareness of your thigh.
You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat; you’ve grown quite used to the demons which sleep in your mind – of Feyd-Rautha’s shadows curling to grasp your mind when your eyes shut – yet this strange thing, this new thing?
Now, you're flushing each time you catch your husband-to-be's eyes – like some innocent girl, lovestruck and awake to be put in a corner; catching those very same eyes which regard you as a pawn on the chessboard of his House, no less.
And yes – there is not a part of you so vain as to lie and say Paul is not extremely attractive. A creature made of dark curls, sharp angles, plush lips, that cooled, smooth voice; anybody worth their wits could see his allure – but even just this innocent observation rings forth a violent urge of resistance. An urge, to rip off the necklace; to scream at him, at the Imperium – I am not yours to keep.
Though, before you can do much of anything, his gaze is gone from you; Paul breaks the turmoil in your mind with a simple turn of his head.
Begrudgingly, you try to do the same.
Though it yields nothing but more trouble: Your eyelids droop as you fight to stare at the Duke, who speaks in what you can only perceive as background noise as your mind soldiers on against your own will.
“Lady Bourbon?”
And with that, your eyes snap up, heart suddenly beating hard under the alarmingly paternal gaze of Duke Leto; In fact, through the silence, you observe that every eye is on you expectantly, including Paul’s.
It is with ignorance of the concerned look etched upon his countenance that you snap out of your reverie, embarrassment flooding you; Paul's green eyes bore into you even when you turn to address the Duke.
“Apologies, Duke Leto,” you clear your throat, willing your cheeks to stop flushing from the attention, “I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I've been having some…” You reluctantly admit the burdens of your mind, “…odd dreams. They've been keeping me awake at night.”
After a beat, you stir, “Could you please repeat yourself?” You wonder with a flushed face and twisting fingers – but there is a quick glance sent from Lady Jessica to her son and your attention is stolen.
Paul’s own gaze meets his mothers and then casts suddenly downwards, as if deep within his own mind; and it is clear – whatever she delivers within her gaze, he is clearly avoiding – though there is little pause from the rest of the council, and you soon forget the look shared between mother and son.
From down the table, Thufir Hawat denotes a remedy in the form of an elixir you can take before sleep that should help you; the Duke orders a worker to have it brought to your quarters this evening, and in the expiring embarrassment of your slip-up, your mind rocks from its pulling descent to slumber.
You’re painfully alert after this, and when you are finally called upon to share your thoughts, it is by Gurney Halleck: “My lady, you’ve before mentioned certain endeavors during your time on Giedi Prime.”
You nod and he takes the affirmation with a nod of his own, “What do you know of their Spice exploits?”
And eyes once again fall to you from across the room; in a ticking of your jaw, you wish once more to rid yourself of the cursed veil that constricts your vision. Your spine straightens at the question and you choose your words quite carefully. “I do not know much of their spice harvesting,” you begin, “and it must be said that what I know is mostly second-hand; I learned most of what I know through the na-baron Feyd-Rautha.”
A murmur from the end of the table, one you are quick to squash with a withering look behind the veil: “He is vicious,” You affirm, folding your hands, “but he has his own weaknesses, ones which the other Harkonnens lack.” And though the implications of your words settle in unease around the room – the Lady Jessica’s head turns to you just slightly – you do not drop the Duke’s stare. “I might remind you all that Spice is not their only source of power.”
And in the wash of a renewed power – eyes are hooked upon your cloaked figure, on how the words drip from a mouth so concealed. “They have large petroleum reserves – from refineries around the planet, stored in the bowels of Barony; I've seen them, they're never-ending."
This makes the duke shift in his seat; likewise, Paul's brows furrow in thought.
Your voice is a beam through a forested canopy of pine and spruce, bursting forth into the sterile room; A perk of interest that bristles through the icy surface of a sleeping scape. “It is true, I was not an agent for my family; though from what I’ve been able to piece together, my family was recording Harkonnen reserves, and monitoring their activity with the Spacing Guild.” Your voice hangs, words heavy with implication. You swallow down the worry that gnaws in you before you continue. “Not just for spice, but petroleum. I was none the wiser until after they were caught.” You spare a glance to Paul, meeting his stare with your own. “–But of course, who is to believe me?”
Paul’s gaze is promptly cast away, written with some flash of guilt; and you continue once more.
“I assumed it is is why the Great Houses likely allowed for me to be brought to Caladan – in hopes that I know something of my family’s findings.”
Your eyes fall to Duke Leto. “Am I right, my Lord?” You wonder; the room is quiet as your words are absorbed, a rainbow of faces all varying degrees of surprise.
Duke Leto is an honest man. “Yes,” he affirms, “It is one of the reasons I believe the Landraad passed the ordinance for your betrothal to be transitioned.”
The knowledge does not do much to ease your worry – indeed, just some figure of strategy in a game above your head.
His words are not unkind, though: “We've been concerned with any acts of retaliation to our house after this ruling, and though it hasn't come yet, we need to be prepared. We must know what you know, my lady.”
You press your fingers along the blade before you as you nod. “When the betrothal was annulled, they were distraught,” you admit with an open air, catching the guarded surprise of several glances. It is mirthful, the small smirk that sneaks onto your lips as you take in their expressions. “Not for some attachment to me, mind you,” You ease them, “Feyd-Rautha was the worst of them when it came to the dissolution of our engagement – but the truth is…” you offer a half-shrug, shaking your head in some bitter mirth. “Harkonnens don’t like when their toys are taken away from them.”
It is just as uncomfortable as ever; Paul’s stare is focused down, upon the grain of wood below your fingers, and you do not flinch at the set in his jaw. In the silence, you push forward, “Thufir has been tutoring me on local economics,” You nod to the man down the table, “I understand that the majority of the trading exports from Caladan are agriculture – fine wine and rice?”
Paul’s voice comes from the depths. “Yes,” he confirms; and you nod, the chain of your headdress chiming slightly as you hold his stare. You wet your lips, “The Baron could easily flood the galactic market with cheap petroleum, garnering almost no externalities for himself.” You tilt your head, “An influx of cheap fuel like that could disrupt the transportation networks – the market for space transport and exportation would be saturated by the Harkonnens within days.”
Sparse glances of thought and furrowed brows across the table – and after a moment, you hear the thought that has lingered in your mind since the moment you saw the refineries’ stock at Barony.
“An action like this would highly disrupt our direct trade access from this system to most others without use of the Spacing Guild.” Thufir adds – the Duke still looks at you, urging you to continue. You do.
“What I fear,” You crack your knuckles gently, knee bouncing just slightly under the table, “Is the vacuum that’s been left on Sabberon. There is no governing body now that my family has been eliminated.” It is a blunt, unemotional statement, and you move past it before the ghosts which linger in the corners of your heart come out of the shadows. “If Harkonnen boots hit the ground there, they could rather easily take control of the planet's resources and exports. Their battalions could easily squash the insurgent groups in the North and South.”
A nod, a sparse murmur – and then, a woman a few seats down from you leans forward to catch your gaze. “Sabberon's industries are commercial fishing, fir, logging.”
Hardly much to worry about, you know – and you turn, nodding. “Yes, they are – but I more mean the glacial deposits within our mountain ranges.” You purse your lips, a secret kept in the confines of Castle Bourbon tilting from your lips. “The highest ranges contain precious minerals and ores whose compounds are quite valuable for industrial applications. It’s how we industrialized so quick in the Turning Age.” You wish to avoid any history lessons – but it is important; and you clear your throat as you set down the pneumatic tubes you'd prepared before the council.
“I've documented, to the best of my ability, everything that I remember here. Feyd-Rautha knows about the deposits on Sabberon; I believe it is fair to assume the Baron does, too.”
It is in the lull of the moment, heavy and steeping with thought, that his face comes to you – and a sickly hand around your neck, a black smile: You're mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve.
In a blink, you’re back to the grain of the table, tracing along it with your nail. Paul leans forward, brows furrowed. “If the region of Sabberon is destabilized – controlled by Harkonnens or in civil conflict – we could lose almost all of our exports. It’s a crucial line of trade in the system for us.” He echoes your concern, “Giving them access to the resources is dangerous enough, but a near-monopoly on petroleum, Spice, and the Space Trade Route?”
There is a spark of intrigue at the sharp point of his intelligence – but nonetheless, you merely nod in agreement, pushing away any such girlish thoughts in sacrifice of the matter at hand.
Gurney Halleck’s voice cuts through your observation of Paul’s hair against the light: “We need to consider this carefully. If the Harkonnens make a move to Sabberon, we must be ready to respond. But acting first could have larger consequences.”
Duke Leto nods; with a glance to the War Master and back to the others. “Halleck's right. The Referendum is soon – the Landsraad will be redrawing the Trade negotiations then,” His gaze flickers to you, “–and your arraignment is set for the same congress. It seems the best option is to wait.”
Dread fills you; stuck between a rock and a hard place, you’re left with nothing to do but wait – wait for the impending trade drawings, for the impending arraignment. You’re no fool – the arraignment might leave you with no inheritance, no claim to Sabberon. Your gut coils in anxiety, and it is not soothed by the urgent sense that curbs the meeting: plans are drawn out to set more strategy meetings before the Referendum; you are requested to attend them.
Fear clubs up the ridges of your spine with each nod you give to passersby – and a panic pulls your eyelids to droop, your brain aching for rest.
By the time you return to your chambers, you are much too exhausted to seek lunch.
Instead, you are asleep within minutes.
Your name calls to you.
A hum in response as you thread your fingers through locks of curls; in the distance, birds sing. The sun drags streaks flying across the sky in its descent, and flakes flutter gently around you – though it smells not of snowfall. A bonfire crackles somewhere, you can smell the heady cedar embers, see the flames in your blinks.
Your hair is tugged; in a huff of laughter, you tug the tresses laced between your own fingers – but in another surprising jolt, you’re tugged again and you gasp, catching the flicker in green eyes. “That hurt,” Your floating voice chides, though there is no malice – your words are faint and dancing around the falling flakes – a warm palm grasps your jaw to tilt your head up.
“I'm very sorry,” he does not even trying to cover the lie, smiling against the dying sun. “Let me ease the pain,” He whispers, gentle and teasing against your jaw. A faint chuckle when he nips down your exposed neck and you breathe out; His hands are quite daring, slipping your dress over your head until you're bare against the sheet, blinking up warmly at the forest. The breeze of springtime is chill and disarming against your flesh; birds sing. His fingers trace you slowly.
And there is nothing but arousal snaking through you as he sinks lower, lips painting a path back up your thighs, nipping gently at your soft skin; A swat to the top of his head, and a short noise of protest from him in response as you bite back a smile.
“Paul,” you whisper, and it disappears through the trees as if off to find some other world. He hums in a teasing lilt, vibrations rippling from his lips to your warm skin, sending a cascade of goosebumps through you.
“Come back to me,” you whisper – and he listens, though he usually doesn't; His lips are replaced by his hips and soon, after a small roll, a gentle moan leaks from your lips. It is still slightly cold in the death of spring, but his skin is warm; His lips are warm.
“I'm here, aren't I?" His eyes are upon yours, and your stomach flutters, “I'm always here.”
And when he slides into you slowly, his lashes tangle in a kiss of deep brown – and your head tilts back against the sheet, his hand hitting the trunk of the Pine above your head, grasping with a thud; a long whimper is swallowed by his lips, consumed by his warmth, by the deep sensation that sends your back to arch.
And any semblance of chivalry dissipates as Paul begins to move; A palm gliding up from your hip, sliding over your breasts, pinching a pert nipple before rising – and you with a clutch upon his shoulders, grasping the warm skin and revelling in the sweet relief of pleasure. Fingers glide over your heaving chest as hips slide into your own – you’re pushed down against the earthy floor in ecstasy, and his grasp finds it suddenly–
A finger traces over the emblem clasped around your throat: A hawk, cerulean and shining, over your sweat-sheened, thundering chest.
And before any such disdain can leak from lips so wanting of affection, he’s pulling with a startling force – the necklace breaks under Paul’s grasp and falls apart, stones and pearls rolling over your bare chest and pooling onto the sheet below you.
And it’s a thing of pleasure, the way your hand snakes to press his grasp to your thundering heart; the pendant is thrown far behind you as Paul’s desperation leaks through.
A groan from his lips as his hand squeezes over your neck just lightly, your own grasping it in a shocking pleasure – it is unlike any sensation you’ve yet experienced, and soon pours his breaths and groans like a river of desire broken for you. A whispered phrase, over and over, spilling from your lips and his alike – lulling you into a state of euphoria as his body rocks with yours, breathing to the earth and feeling it breathe back.
Hands grasp skin tight and desperate – your nails find the line of his smooth back, clutching to the lithe muscles that move with his hips; and he, tracing each curve of your face and neck with his lips, gasping as the flakes that fall around you begin to burn as embers. Smoke lingers somewhere far off; though you are with your husband and you cling to him, whispering that same phrase over, and over – a jolted gasp of pleasure – and once more; over, and over, and over –
“I'm yours.”
Something rouses you from sleep, much quicker this time, and you wake with a start.
Broad daylight streams through your chamber windows when your eyes open, your heart thundering as you shift on the sheets; A blurry form comes into view, fluffing the untouched pillow beside you on the bed. You do not strike this time, instead swarmed with shame and embarrassment in the wake of such tangible dreams.
“Bad dream again?” Hestia she sets down a fresh set of clothing; you swallow and wince at your dry throat, heart thudding. Bad dream... You can feel your face flood with embarrassment – you'd rather be caught dead than admit what you'd just dreamt, so instead you push your hair from your face, fanning your cheeks.
“Yes.” You croak, accepting the glass of water she offers you, “I did not mean to fall asleep.”
The sheets are warm and your spine is lined with sweat; you slide out of your bed with the elegance of a newborn mare, eyes flicking around.
The sky is sunny, not a single rain cloud; and your chambers are heavy, tight.
“I need some fresh air.”
Paul’s shadow dances across the wild grass as the midday sun follows his steps.
The breeze is much more permanent down by the shore; he brushes stray curls from his eyes, tracing the shoreline below with a lingering absence; It's only a few hours until he should be back in the strategy chambers with his father, helping draw plans for the upcoming Referendum – but the castle has grown stuffy and sterile at the same time, and his stomach growls in hunger. He needs some fresh air.
Though the sea mists his cheeks, his mind is stuck high above him, spinning in the memory of the Strategy Council meeting. Paul would be struck dead a liar if he were to say you were not one of the most intelligent women he’s met; and after this morning, there is truly nothing much else he has been able to think of – and despite himself, the growing bud of admiration sprouts within his mind, even despite your predisposition to violence and solitude.
Paul almost feels foolish for how blinded he was – if war is really on the horizon, he supposes it’s very lucky that House Atreides took you in; If not for your capabilities and sharp intellect, then for your claim to Sabberon, for your connections with the Ginaz and their Swordsmen; for your intimate knowledge of Harkonnen power.
It’s now as important as ever that Paul ensures you remain on the Atreides’ side, should this war come – a burden to hold you should you somehow wish to return to the black embrace of Giedi Prime, but one he will have to keep. Because you are too valuable to his House to let you go over trivial things; Politics is all two way streets; you will help them with your insights and they will protect you. And with this, perhaps, comes the truth – that Paul has begun to learn of you, of the you that shines through any small cracks in the armor.
And over the meadow he walks, he sees that lush green forest again; a woodpecker against bark, your hands sliding into his own as you lean him back against the trunk of a tree – the smell of smoke, an explosion on the horizon; laughter swallowed by the wind, lips pressed to parted lips.
Paul sighs harshly.
He's not sure if it was the correct decision to tell his mother about these dreams, instead of his father; skepticism is a biting friend as his feet trudge over the cliff and down, closer to the beach.
Paul loves his mother, but he is indeed not naive to the manipulative nature of the Bene Gesserit; in some dreadful way, he wonders once more which silent partners in the Imperium influenced the decision for the Houses to order his betrothal to you.
A small whisper in the back of his mind, that sickly voice of the Reverend Mother those years ago: Two candidates... Paul may one day be one of them–
The skittering of a rabbit through the grass calls his attention to the path, his jaw clenched tight.
The wind is swallowed by the structure under which he ducks; It is a small alcove – one of many below the cliffs which hold a cluster of tidepools, small and large. And this particular one catches his eye, just on the left – a soft smile grows upon weary lips.
When he was younger, he often played in these very alcoves with the few other children his age in the castle; swimming, playing hide-and-seek, sparring with wooden daggers.
His feet take him into the alcove without any hesitation – the rock grows slick with seawater and the scent of the brackish pools; it isn't until he's into the shade that he sees the figure seated among the pools.
You wear the same clothing you'd donned at the Strategy Council, your feet bare and dipped into the shallow waters.
For a moment, he considers turning back to his path towards the beach; but your back grows rigid as you turn to him, and he’s struck with a breath of beauty blowing in the breeze of your veil.
A thick silence; a silence lived between you, lodged like an unwanted burden – it has been some time since you were last alone. A memory of his shaking hands, the bite in your words as you’d clasped that pendant to your chest - of that sheer veil, of your glistening gaze across the table.
It is time to leave such hesitancy behind; and so with a tentative swallow, Paul takes a few steps closer.
“I hadn't expected to find you here,” An honest and neutral observation.
Somewhere beyond that gauzy veil, you stare back at him; and your fingers twitch towards the blade upon your hip before curling once more into a soft fist, cradled in a palm. “Nor I you,” you reply coolly – and in the uneasy silence, Paul sacrifices his pride and endures the agony of discontent.
He does not ask if you mind if he joins you – he knows that you would; so instead he sits gently, leaving a wide berth of space between you.
And while you bristle at his arrival, stiffening as he sits across from you and drops the bag from his back beside him, he cannot bring himself to blame you.
It is a peculiar posture you give; a cradling of your hand as you watch the ripples in the tide pool that he slowly dips his feet into – it is soon that he recognizes the gives of pain from your figure. And that very agony it is almost palpable in your silence as he looks down at where you rub the skin of your hand, swollen and red.
“I assume you met the crabs.”
And the headdress of metal jewelry that adorns the crown of your forehead chimes when you turn to watch him, surprise laced into your posture.
“I did.”
Your affirmation is punctuated by an unfurling of your palm, revealing blistered, irritated skin; He winces more for your own sake than in true surprise before letting his eyes roam gently over the near landscape – moss grows in clumps throughout the rocky pools, though he searches for that short, stalky root which grows just outside the reach of the water.
And after spotting one beside you, he reaches; you flinch, though he pays no mind to the hitch in your breath as he gives the stalk a quick tug – and the plant is ripped out, roots and all.
He hands you the root of the stalk, gesturing for you to take it: “You can use this plant.”
And in your evergreen poise, you grasp the root hesitantly, as if sensing a trap. It dangles limp from your grasp, earthy as the gems upon your jewelry – and you return to your statued posture, watching him, faceless and green as the moss around you.
He nods after a moment of awkward breath, gesturing to the stalk. “Chew it.”
You do nothing but breathe at him for a moment – and perhaps if he could see your eyes, he’s sure he would find disbelief; Skepticism. And perhaps if it were any other time, any other person, he’d laugh at the silent incredulity that leaks between you.
He shifts, feet circling in the pool of water. “It soothes the itch and the pain. You chew it, and spit it onto your palm.” Patience is lost when you do not respond – and perhaps out of the growing blush on his cheeks in your refusal to act, he sighs sharply, “It's not poisonous.”
I'm not trying to kill you, he almost says; but something in him stops the words before they leave his mouth and he instead tilts his head in a short mock of your own.
And he swears in the breeze carries a huff from beneath that gauzy fabric – and then the root disappears rather awkwardly under your veil.
In the glinting light of the cave, he can just nearly make the shape of your lips, hear the small snap of the stalk between your teeth. And in the quiet lap of waves against the shore in the distance, Paul watches expectantly – from years of habit, he is used to the milky taste; but he remembers how unpleasant it can be the first time.
And those eyes catch his own, some phantom force from behind shades of green – slowly, you spit it out onto your palm, as if questioning if you were doing it right. Paul’s face feels suddenly warm – a trail of saliva falls from lips glistening in the spare ray of sun, alight with a forested green and the milky blood of the root. It is a harsh reminder of the dream he'd woken up from this very morning; and with a sudden sense of panic – as if you might somehow reach into his mind and see such salacious thoughts – he forces the visions away.
The waves lap idly against his feet; you rub the mixture into your palm quietly.
“How did you know to do that?”
Your voice is curious, and the fingers not matted with the root-paste press against the spongy moss beside your pants. You’re a vision of that first day, when you’d whispered words of interest at the very plant nor beneath your touch; a vision of green and poise, of stoic quiet and twitching fingers. Despite himself, Paul’s lips curl up in a small grin.
Squinting against the sunshine, the beach in the distance is a warbly thing, foamed and bubbled by the current – and his left shoulder shrugs. “I played here when I was young. I got pinched a lot.”
You don't necessarily laugh, but there’s an exhalation from your nose that curves his own lips; and when, after a few more minutes, you reach to rinse your hand in the pool before you, the angry skin has returned to its glowing health.
Waves crash quietly within the cove and Paul warily watches one of the bluecrabs meander across a rock beside you – just when he parts his lips to warn you, your fingers move away, head tracking its path across and towards the smaller pool behind you.
And in the moment of silence, he hears the unmistakable rumble of your stomach.
“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, clearing his throat; Your hand has taken to drawing idle circles in the tidepool, and you hardly cease the hypnotizing movements as you shrug with a small nod. “I slept through lunch today.”
A moment of hesitation before he looks over his shoulder at you – unassuming, running your nails across the patch of bare skin awarded by the cuffing of your trouser legs; and slowly, from the bag beside him, he pulls out the food that he'd taken from the kitchen.
Apples, crackers, some imported cheese; sparkling juice from the vineyards south of Cala City, and a foil filled with bits of chocolate.
But through his focus on unwrapping the pack, your voice cracks into the cove, incredulous – almost amused. “This was all for you?”
Paul bristles defensively, giving you a wide glance, cheeks warm. “I was hungry,” He defends; and with a hard blink, he’s brought back to the week previous, when all that he saw when you were around was red – anger, trepidation, mistrust.
And though thoughts whirl in his mind quicker than he can catch – of you, your family, your time on Giedi Prime – he finds himself mildly pleased with the stalemate that has come about; a hand reached across an abyss, and a hesitant grasp in return.
Your voice is light when you speak again. “If I can confess,” your head trails down sheepishly – Paul’s attention follows you. “The veils have never made it easy to enjoy a long supper. They tangle in my hair no matter how it's styled, anyways.”
And despite himself, he huffs a short laugh; was that a hint of a joke, from you?
It is not so abnormal, veils – he has known many women in his life to wear them – but never in a custom such as yours; to not remove it in front of anybody for months and months of mourning – He cannot fathom how bizarre a change it must be, even if it is how you were raised.
So when your hands raise, he does not expect them to go towards the hem of the fabric.
And he does not expect you to slide it from the crown of your head.
It is sharply that he whips his head away; in a skipped heartbeat, the glimpse of your hair unfettered by the green gauze haunts his mind – what in the hell are you doing?
Paul’s heart thunders against his chest, though he cannot find any words to string into a meaningful sentence – he watches a bluecrab crawl into the pool across the way.
“I don't mean to shock you,” your voice is so very close, now; he swallows down the flutter in his throat at its lilt, “Truth be told, I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to wear these still.”
Confusion laces through his mind – the rock you sit upon is wetted and dark, clumped with bright emerald moss; and you, as if unknowingly, throw kindle into the fire of nerves in his chest.
A mirthful tone you bring with your words: “You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.”
And he does look, after that.
Paul cannot help himself: he stares at you – really you – no fabric to cover the slope of your nose, the curve of your chin, the round of your cheeks; the way your brows gather, a canopy above the most expressive eyes he’s ever seen in his life.
And your hair is loose – let wild and uncovered, swayed gently by the sea breeze; glossy in the glint of sun off the sea in the distance. Paul wonders absently, in some foul derivative of jealousy or hatred, if Feyd-Rautha enjoyed your hair; unique as it surely was on a planet full of hairless beings.
Paul quickly schools himself – perhaps in another life, he’d be rather ecstatic to see that he has such a beautiful bride-to-be; yet it just serves to wash over another pang in his stomach. Your words of moments ago haunt over his mind as he once more meets your eyes, waiting for him. I'm still the same beast as before.
There is some inevitability to your gaze – disfavored to him, yes – but perceptive, knowing.
The pull of the tide must be answered by the shore, Dr. Yueh once told him; Perhaps that is true, and perhaps that is why Paul stares at you, the sense of mistrust breaking way to a new sense of dread, of regret.
You are no beast to me, he should say. But he doesn't; not when he’s unsure if it would be a lie coming from his lips.
Instead, he can only voice the astonishment in his mind at the sight of your veil held between your hands. “Why did you take it off?”
You blink; heavens, your lashes are long – they kiss your cheeks against the soft light from the grotto. He swallows thickly, busying himself with the apple and a knife.
Your voice comes as matter-of-fact as you’d been in the meeting that very morning. “Well, I'm quite hungry.”
You lean over – your tunic rustles in the movement, and Paul averts his gaze from the glinting necklace upon your chest, the slide of your hair upon the fabric of your back. Slowly, you take to slicing the cheese for you both with your very own blade – and Paul’s confusion has not quelled, but instead grown in the breeze of your nearly casual movements.
It’s as if the veil took with it the cold, calculating dissidence; you sit in front of him a young woman, plain. Pretty, sharp, cunning; but, simpler than that: Hungry.
A simple thing indeed – one that, as his own stomach rumbles, he knows he relates to. And so he offers you a slice of apple warily, watching you with some lingering shame, as if he's stumbled upon on a shrine long since sacred and wanting.
“I thought you wore them for nine months,” He states, tilting his head, "The anthropologists in the video said–”
But you’ve reared to stare at him, blinking in some odd vision of shock: “–Nine months?" You interrupt, voice more animated than he's ever heard; it nearly startles him, the youth in your voice, the life. You nearly bemoan, furrowing your brows as if hoping to recall a long lost memory. “It’s hardly been three weeks and I’ve already begun to fantasize burning them.”
Confusion must paint his expression, for your face changes sheepishly, falling into a solemn line. “Forgive me,” You clear your throat, “It's grown apparent to me as of late that am not well-versed in my own customs.”
And it is a stony, quick change from your previous cadence; Paul’s brows furrow, though you seem to offer him further elaboration as you take in his countenance.
“My family did not often uphold many of the old religion's traditions once I got old,” You sigh as you chew on an apple, tilting your head, “I was educated by the Bene Gesserit as my mother wished when I was young - and in many ways, our family adopted their customs in replacement of our heritage culture.”
It is a stone dropped into his stomach at your words, though he lets no emotion betray him – your voice licks with the lilt of trepidation in the mention of the Bene Gesserit; and your eyes, wide and expressive, only pull him in despite the foreboding churn of his stomach.
This is certainly not what Paul expected – why, then, have you been wearing the veil so devotedly?
“I have a book,” He says dumbly – and with a cleared throat, he ignores the sudden flush that crawls from the collar of his tunic. “If you– if you want to read more about it.”
You fix him with a look, and he’s struck by the rawness of your features. “A book?” you echo, and he shifts upon his seat awkwardly.
“About your family's customs. I j–” he stops himself, combing a stray curl back, “We thought it would be pertinent to know what your courting traditions are, what your customs are. To make you… comfortable,” he reasons gently, guilty that it was not so apparent from the beginning, “If… if we are to marry, it should be honorable. For both of us.”
It's as if his words have seeped into the spongy spin of your mind; your eyes have grown distant as they course over the shoreline across the way, brows settling in a line across the smooth skin of your forehead. Moments pass and the words he left hanging in the air stay; Waves kiss the sand of the cove and Paul toys with the knife in his hands quietly. He’s unsure how he might pull you from those cold depths of your thoughts, and so he sits, watching your lips purse and catch between your pearled teeth gently.
And after a moment, you come back to him. “Thank you,” You say – and your voice is once again that blank, cold tone – as if a wall had been snapped up suddenly, “I only remember wearing the veils when I was–” You break off for a moment, ripping the skin from a slice of apple. “When my sister died. I wasn’t quite old enough to remember much from it, and… I was eighteen when I left Sabberon. As I got older, our castle was so often full of visitors that we would regularly forgo most customs of my father’s family.”
It is a melancholy thing when you look back up at him. “If I can be honest, I… suppose I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Involuntary as it is, Paul cannot help his gaze from darting to the necklace you wear around your neck; and just as quickly he moves to search your visage – looking perhaps for any emotion. He finds none.
I shall wear it like a dog.
The breeze catches your hair. Paul’s brows furrow, “The veil wasn’t your choice,” he realizes. Guilt, that drooping, wilting guest, slumps upon the stoop of his heart.
And you shrug, glancing at your lap, “True, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to make choices for myself,” you admit – and it’s an admission far too heavy for the air in the cove, as you swirl your toes in the pool, as his own press to the rock beneath the water, his heart heavy. A hand flickers to the veil that lies with its adorning metal headpiece to your left. “I guess taking it off is one of them.” You clear your throat, nails digging into the earth exposed from where Paul had ripped the root – and your other hand rises, almost as if you endure a sharp pain in your ribs – and you cradle the spot, fingers lingering in a haunting line before falling to the rock below. “Feyd-Rautha would not have let me wear the veil even if I had wanted to. But at least I am making the choice for myself now.”
And it is a jolting reminder, one of horror – when you had arrived on Caladan, Duncan's arm still bleeding with the result of your fight, Paul had seen a Harkonnen. A dagger wrapped in layers of silk and velvet.
And perhaps the Caladan air has changed you; but more likely, you have begun to heal yourself – and although you do not look well-rested, there are indeed healing wounds upon your arms; wounds that churn Paul’s stomach, that strike his heart in acrimony, in wrath. A nightmare, you’ve come from – and he knows now that whatever you’ve endured is something that would break many.
Still, you’ve changed in a gradual shift: You are not so fervent or distrusting as you were those first few days – though you remain that ghost haunting the halls, you walk with less wrath, more credence; He knows you speak with your chambermaids freely – you take sparring lessons with Duncan after Paul each day, and tutor in the mornings before he does. Your voice in council this morning: Grown and defrosting, confident; born to take on such a role.
You sit perched upon the dark rock – the light hits your hair and the slope of your nose, bathing your eyelashes in an ethereal glow. You’re a sharp woman, keen and astute; He watches your straight spine, the slow breaths which grow from a proud chest.
You will make a good duchess.
And in a moment, Paul notices – a wide gaze, searching his face; it occurs to him that perhaps this is also the first time you have seen him unobstructed. And so, with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, he lets you stare; a secret relish in the silence and its change in demeanor.
A once excruciating thing, leaking with the sentiment of shared disdain, of mutual mistrust – though now grows a respect, or maybe the roots to it; a slow thing, plotten in frozen soil and hoped to grow despite harsh weathers.
You finish your half of the apple, and he watches the glint of your necklace as you lean back upon your palms. “Can I…” His voice breaks through as an ocean does a cliff; “Can I ask you something?”
It is a beautiful collar. I shall wear it like a dog.
And Paul is so very suddenly tired – fatigued from his lessons, the council, the marriage, the prospect of war with the Harkonnens, of his dreams; his head feels as though it swims, light above the clouds and yet tethered to the ground below.
Your brows dip slightly, as if your hackles rise. “Yes,” you murmur warily, eyes roving over his figure.
He swallows thickly, willing himself to spit it out. “Do you choose to wear that?”
He need not gesture to the necklace that hangs around your neck; and you, stilling in the cold wind of truth. When it comes, it is not through words: Your eyes are wide and, if Paul did not know better, they reveal the sting of fear.
You say nothing, but in time, you shake your head slightly.
And this does not ease his conscience.
It is an echo of words bitten through clenched teeth and the onslaught of rain; it is in the weeping willows of that ceremonial dress, in the sliding of shade over your veil that first time he ever met you.
He’s not sure why he says it, but it comes as a whisper, as wind snuffs out a flame, as fog creeps across the shoreline in the early hours:
“Threats demand evolution.”
His murmur is swallowed by the breeze in the cove, by the rustle of the veil beside you.
His words bristle your spine, though you say nothing; and for a long minute, he avoids the burning stare of your gaze against his profile.
It is only after the food is prepared and spread over the moss between you that you speak; and in the time it takes for Paul to lay out the food, it occurs to Paul that this is the most you and him have spoken without being plagued by tense silences or passive-aggression – or at least without enduring the childish embarrassment of being mediated by his parents as they ask you both questions at the supper table.
A nail, trimmed and coated in a deep paint, traces the glass bottle that lies half in the bag – the soft clink of your tap brings his gaze from the pools below. “Did you intend on drinking yourself drunk this afternoon?” You wonder – a warmer tone, that inkling of amiability returning so suddenly.
He hands you a piece of bread and his knife, shaking his head wryly – though the lingering hesitance of unfamiliarity restricts him from jesting in return.
Having intended to be alone, Paul had not grabbed a glass, let alone two; and so he grasps the bottle by its neck, twisting on the cage atop it to begin to open it. An irritating curl lies across his forehead – and so he flicks his head to jolt it out of the way; your gaze tracks the motion.
“It's sparkling tea.”
At his words you hum slowly, glancing at the bottle in his hands.
“That’s a shame.” You muse, hand brushing one of your own strands away, “I've never tried wine.”
Paul's eyes flicker to you in surprise; Had you not been offered wine at supper here? Had you never had it in your youth, as a highborn?
“Not even when you were young?”
And you shake your head, a wistful smile gracing your lips; your hair is silken, even in the shade – Paul hadn't expected it to be such a shade, but suits you.
“Never,” you confirm, “Where I come from, our preferred drinks are mead or ale, usually served warm. And…” You trail off, shrugging, “On Giedi Prime they favor liquor that is made from anise – you know, the spice?” You inquire, and continue when he nods, “It's much too bitter for my taste,” you continue, your voice tinged with a similar bitterness that you describe, “And even if I did enjoy it, I… tried not to drink there, when I could.”
Paul looks out to the sea – clouds crawl in an ominous roll towards the shore, the air thick – it’ll rain this evening.
There is nothing to say; and so, he begins to ease his thumb over the cork, pressure pushing against him.
“In the South, all that grows are fields and fields of vines,” he explains after the moment passesa dn clouds swallow the sunlight. Dripping sun, wide-reaching hands of vines, drooping with heavy clusters of sweetgrapes in the South. “They make all kinds of fine wine there. Sweet, sparkling, aged.”
You hum at this, your gaze tracking his own to the sea, tracing the crash of waves against the stark cliffs in the distance.
Your small lunch passes by in intermediate silence after this: Both you and Paul are insatiably hungry, and in minutes the food is nearly gone – you’re not particularly warm, and neither is he; and it matters not. He is well consumed with his own thoughts to give himself the company you do not provide.
Though as the sun continues its peak in the sky and you continue to eat quietly – clearly attempting to remain amiable with him – a sense of regret bubbles in his chest.
“I owe you an apology.”
And it startles you – his throat is dry, and your jump goes unaddressed, your nails digging into the moss beneath as he refuses to meet your gaze. “I've…” He pushes away the pride that burns at his throat, “I’ve treated you poorly. Acted like a child,” he admits.
In his peripheral, you turn to him.
His sigh is weary. “I didn't expect for it to happen like this,” and the corner of his mouth lifts mirthlessly – emotionless, as he gazes to the coast. An understatement on his part, and surely yours, too – but it is indeed the truth.
And perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathe the idea of marrying them, but he knows the feeling is more than mutual. And he does not blame you for it.
Paul is admittedly not usually one for so many words with a stranger – but they come forth very easily in the quiet of the cove. “I was… displeased with how this worked out. Shocked. But–” He shakes his head, unwilling to lose his thought, “But that doesn't excuse how I've treated you.”
You don't say anything, but he can feel how tense you've grown – a statue once more in the dying afternoon sunshine. You have every reason to hate the Harkonnens just as much as his family – if not much more; and with a clammy palm, Paul runs his hand over his forehead.
The thunderclouds loom in the horizon; the salt carries thick in the growing wind.
And with the absence of your words – perhaps in a moment of resignation, he says your first name; Never having said it out loud, it comes out as a murmur on his lips, a small hymn that coaxes your gaze to his own.
“This path was set for us.” He admits, swallowing thickly, “Though we can–” He turns to watch your eyes, how they swirl with unbridled emotion. “Maybe we can navigate it together.”
And in the afterbreath of his words, your breathing is heavy with emotion. Paul is not naive enough to believe it is tears, though he averts his gaze all the same.
“Yeah,” you finally whisper – and though it is dispassionate, withdrawn, it is laced with some small drip of desperation. “Yes.” You mend – though your eyes are far away, tracing the violence in the crashing waves, watching the foamy white caps break in their wake.
“I won't disrespect you again,” he insists, “I swear.”
You lift your feet from the water, curling them under you as you stir, nodding slowly. “Thank you,” Your eyes are sullen. “But don't make promises you can't keep, Paul.” And though he expected as much, the emptiness of your tone churns his heart and spins his head. “I've had my fill of broken vows.”
You aren't hostile in your words; instead they are melancholy, a dreary wind whistling through an empty ravine – beneath Paul, another small bluecrab treks across the terrain, rocking in the gentle water tides.
You’re right – and he's soon filled with the same sense of dread that he's felt after each dream that has haunted him since they began; that same melancholy which envelopes you as you rise, gathering your belongings, preparing to walk back to the castle.
And Paul walks beside you, little more than a few words escaping either of you as you go; a brush of your shoulder against the crook of his elbow, the hitch of a breath concealed with a glance to the shoreline.
By the time you enter the main gates, fat raindrops have begun to fall on Paul’s face, sticking heavy to his lashes.
You, likewise, shield slightly from the rain, your hair kissed with teardrops from the skies, sliding over your cheeks like the tears you’ll never give.
The halls are slick with intracked rainfall – workers offer towels, scold him, tease him; and yet they stare, though they try not to – eyes warm his neck, and pierce through the girl who walks at his side.
But still you walk with your head high, spine straight. Your eyes are guarded, almost insecure at the prying faces who watch your visage as you pass – but even as Paul walks you to your chambers, you don't give in.
[your other you] // a seth milchick x reader fanfic, chapter 05
🐐 SYNOPISIS: Caught attempting to smuggle a note, you come face to face with Milchick’s anger for the first time, testing the boundaries of his authority – and his patience.
⚠️TAGS: Heavy Themes, Sexual Situations, Dubious Consent (due to severance dynamics), Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Existential Dread, Liminal Horror.
previous chapter // masterlist
CHAPTER 05 — Feel So Cold, And I Long For Your Embrace
You don’t know why you know how to make an origami star.
It’s muscle memory, comes from somewhere deep, but there’s no context attached to it. No clear image of your fingers folding crisp paper before, no memory of watching a tutorial or being taught. Just knowledge without origin.
You sit at your desk, a blue post-it in your hands, folding the edges in neat, precise movements. The paper softens with each crease, warming under your touch. Your hands move like they’ve done this a thousand times, but your mind draws a blank.
It shouldn’t matter. It’s not like you’re ever going to take an origami class, or see a real star, or –
You press your thumb against the final fold, shaping the paper until it puffs up into a tiny, five-pointed star. It looks almost smug sitting in your palm, its existence defying explanation. You let it rest on your desk and reach for another post-it, fingers hovering over the stack, when you hear them.
“Milchick totally has a crush on her.”
You freeze, fingertips brushing the paper. Dylan’s voice carries low but clear from the next table. You keep your eyes down, staring at your hands.
“Wait, what?”
“Complete nonsense, that’s what.” Irving’s voice, dry and unimpressed.
“Think about it,” Dylan insists. “Why do you think she’s never been to the Break Room?”
Your breath catches. You glance up without meaning to, but no one’s looking at you yet. Mark sighs like he’s already tired of this conversation.
“Nothing bad ever happens to her,” Dylan continues, ignoring the general vibe in the room.
“That’s… not true,” you say, still confused about what's going on. You feel their attention shift toward you. “And also, I behave. I never do anything wrong. Why would I get punished?”
You hear the weakness in your own argument as the words start to leave your mouth. You behave, you follow the rules – so does Mark and Irving, and yet you’ve all seen them return from the Break Room with glassy eyes and trembling hands. Dylan is smirking at you like you just proved his point for him.
“You’re red,” he says, grinning. “Look at that.”
You press your hands against your cheeks, trying to will the heat away. You haven’t told them what you’re going through. You haven’t told anyone. The idea of their reactions, their possible judgment, makes your skin prickle. You lower your gaze back to your desk, to the tiny star.
“Don’t listen to them, kid,” Petey cuts in, sounding reassuring as always. “You’re our best worker, and they’re just jealous. Isn’t that right?”
Dylan and Mark nod in unison, both deadpan.
“So jealous,” Mark says flatly.
“Even the way he talks to her is different…” Dylan mutters under his breath, but you catch it anyway.
You wish you hadn’t.
Your stomach twists. You don’t know what to do with the conversation anymore, so you keep your head down and let them move on without you, their voices turning into background noise as you pick up the blue post-it again.
You should stop. You should crumple it up and throw it away. But your hands are already folding, moving on their own. Another crease, another careful press of your fingers. Another star.
You spend the rest of the day thinking about the conversation, about what Dylan said. You don’t want to. But it clings to you, curling around your thoughts like a vine, impossible to shake.
And when the day is nearly over, you take the second star and press your nail into the paper, watching the indent fade. Then you grab a pen and flip it over, writing what’s on your mind, what you’re feeling.
You stare at the words, heartbeat picking up. Then you carefully fold the note and tuck it into your palm, fingers curling around it.
You take the note to the bathroom, the empty space is so quiet that it makes your pulse sound too loud in your ears. Your fingers tighten around the post-it as you move toward a stall, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.
You take a breath. Another. Then, carefully, you tuck the note into your bra, pressing it flat against your skin. You can feel the slight crinkle of the paper with every inhale. It feels dangerous and reckless, feelings that were unknown to you a month ago.
Flushing the toilet for good measure, you step out, heading straight for the sink. Just wash your hands. Keep your head down. Don’t act suspicious.
You look in the mirror and Mr. Milchick stands behind you.
Your stomach plummets, a cold shock running through your veins. He wasn’t there a second ago. He hadn’t made a sound. And yet, there he is, watching you with an expression that makes your skin crawl with heat and dread.
“Give me the note,” he says.
Your breath catches. You turn slowly, pulse hammering. You should be scared. This is the first time you’ve seen him angry at you. You’ve seen him disappointed, stern, but never like this. Never cold, never furious.
And yet, some part of you wanted this. Some part of you wanted to be caught, to see what he would do. To know if Dylan was right, if Milchick really does have favorites.
You should give it to him. That’s the smart thing. The safe thing. But something stubborn inside you doesn’t want to. Instead, you meet his eyes and force the words out, even though your voice shakes.
“I hid it in my bra,” you say. “Come get it.”
His expression barely shifts, but something in his eyes sharpens. He shakes his head, slowly, disappointed. “This is beyond inappropriate,” he says, restrained, but there’s a warning underneath it, a controlled anger you’ve never been on the receiving end of before. “Give me the note. Now.”
Your knees feel weak. It’s taking everything in you to hold your ground. You should back down. You should –
But you don’t.
“I said come get it.” This time your voice sounds even quieter, no more than a whisper. It feels physically difficult to say the words out loud.
Milchick exhales sharply, but steps closer. He doesn’t hesitate, just reaches inside your bra, fingers brushing against your skin as he pulls out the note. The contact is brief, impersonal. But your body reacts anyway, heat prickling along your spine. You force yourself to stay still.
He unfolds the post-it, eyes scanning the words.
‘I feel lonely. I wish I could talk to you. Sometimes I love you, and sometimes I hate you.’
For a moment, he doesn’t move. His jaw tightens, his grip on the note firm. When he looks back at you, you can’t read his expression.
“Believe me,” his voice, somehow, even lower now. “You don’t want this to happen again.”
CATALINA has been swimming against the tide her whole life, being shunned by her own family members as 'la oveja negra'. She had big ambitions, dreaming of getting away from this small town. Her reputation may had been influenced also by the fact that she was a bisexual promiscuous teenager in the 80s.
NATALIE had always swim across the tide, you could say she was always the odd one out, a bad reputation proceeded her— one she felt almost proud of, good: at soccer, drugs and sex. Yet she always had this feeling deep in her heart, that she was destined to be more, to mean more, to someone, at least she yearned for it.
Read ✶ PUNISH ✶ from the story PUNISH ✶ YELLOWJACKETS by xnti-christ with 127 reads. 80s, ethelcain, wlw.
So sweet- part 2 || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Warnings: SMUT (mention of p in v sex, oral sex), mention of an eating disorder, family drama, death in the family, cheating. It's a mess.
Word Count: 7.9k
(Part 1)
So sweet- part 2:
Art leaned against the doorframe as he looked at you.
Since your back was to him, you hadn't seen him yet, and he felt like he had the upper hand. As if he didn’t need to be defensive. As if he was still part of your life.
Your hair looked shorter than the last time he saw you. But then again, the last time he saw you, you told him you never wanted to see him again, so maybe he didn’t remember all the details as well as he’d like to.
Maybe he felt that "never" was subjective. That everyone could choose what to take from the word "never." That a year and a half without speaking to you was enough "never" for him, and you'd be a hypocrite if you said it wasn’t for you too.
"Are you going to stand there much longer, Donaldson?" Your voice sounded the same. He'd recently discovered he hated a lot of things, but at the top of his list were all the times you called him by his last name instead of his first.
"You really do have eyes in the back of your head," he tried to joke, but he didn’t hear you laugh, not even a chuckle. He hadn’t seen your face yet, but he could guess you weren’t even smiling.
"Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta?" you asked. If he didn’t know you, he might have thought you were fine. That this was just polite conversation between two acquaintances who hadn’t seen each other in a while and ran into each other by chance.
"My first match isn’t for another two days. I couldn’t miss the funeral," he said quietly. "I’m really sorry for your loss, you know that, right?" He took a few large steps and sat on the bed next to you, hoping you’d give him this moment. Hoping you wouldn’t be angry. Not when he was trying so hard.
"She was a mean drunk," you muttered. "Not a huge loss," you added, glancing at him for a second, allowing yourself to surrender to the moment. He recognized the piercing gaze. Maybe a wrinkle that wasn’t there before, but your eyes were the same eyes. You were the same girl he used to love.
Used to.
Used to.
Used to.
Before he went on his path in life and you on yours. Before he made a decision, and then you made a decision, and then both of you made decisions. Before words were said. Before he left and you stayed. Before he opened up and you shut down.
Used to.
"You’re a grown man, you should know how to tie a tie by now, don’t you think?" you asked, probably trying to lighten the sadness that filled your childhood room, located right across from his childhood room. He wanted to thank you for that. But he never knew how to talk to you honestly. Why would he start now?
"Tashi usually does it," he said quietly, and you stood in front of him, starting to adjust the damn tie. You had no idea what you were doing to his heartbeat.
"I’m sorry about your grandmother. I was at your parents’ house afterward. I don’t know if they told you," you mumbled.
He was so angry at you for not coming to the funeral.
Because by what right did you take his tragedy and make him consumed with thoughts of you? About your absence. About your hand that could’ve held his tightly, just like you did when he was eight, and Jameson died.
Instead, he held Tashi’s hand.
She didn’t squeeze.
She let go after a few minutes.
He was so angry that at his grandmother’s funeral, more than anything, he missed you.
So now, a few minutes before heading to your mother’s funeral, he squeezed your hand for a moment while you adjusted his tie, looking at him with big eyes filling with tears you refused to let fall.
"Better," you said.
He didn’t think it was better. He didn’t want to argue.
He just nodded.
.
.
.
Patrick couldn’t focus.
Every time he hit that stupid ball, he thought about the fight he had with his dad a week ago and the dumb argument he had with you before leaving for Atlanta. He hadn’t told you yet that his parents decided to cut him off from the trust fund. He hadn’t told you that he was basically broke.
Sometimes Patrick thinks you’re the only person in the world who looks at him like he understands something about life. Like he’s capable of pulling off magic at any given moment. Sparkling eyes and a smile. He wonders when was the last time you looked at him like that. It’s been a few good months. He can’t deliver. Not the damn ball and not in real life.
He hesitates.
Everything he does comes with a certain delay. He knows that at 24, he’s expected to understand who he is and what he wants from life. But what he wants from life doesn’t want him back, and that’s something he’s not willing to accept.
He blames his parents for the fact that he’s too spoiled. That he doesn’t know when to stop. That he can’t let go of dreams. That he has to be the best, even though he’s drowning in his own mediocrity.
He moves too fast between knowing how good he is at what he does and the harsh slap of reality that comes with each of his failures. Every tournament he loses in the second round, every person who was once in his life and doesn’t want him anymore. They found something better. Something more put-together.
He saw Tashi from a distance for the second time in the last two days.
Always alone, Art wasn’t with her. He wondered why Art wasn’t here. He knew Art was competing. Everyone knew Art was competing. The rising star of American tennis. Motherfucker. His dad screamed it at him when he lost it a week ago— “I wish Art Donaldson were my son, maybe then I wouldn’t be so ashamed.”
Patrick won’t tell anyone that it hurt. Not because he cares what his shitty dad thinks of him. Not because he cares that Art is succeeding on an international level, breaking into the world’s top ten. Fulfilling all the dreams they once dreamed together.
Patrick cares because he knows that at any given moment, he could beat Art. He’s better than Art. So how is it that Art is ranked eighth and Patrick is a nobody? No one takes him into account.
“You planning to embarrass yourself in another tournament?” Tashi’s voice crept up behind him.
“You know that if he competes against me, I’ll win, right?” he asked. Overconfident. Always overconfident.
“I know you’re ranked 243rd, and he’s ranked 8th. It doesn’t matter who wins this, you’ll still be a loser, and he’ll still get a Nike campaign. They asked us about a winter collection.” She was trying to hurt him. He couldn’t understand why it was so important to her—to hurt him. But he thinks only two people can: you and Art. Tashi isn’t on that list. He doesn’t think Tashi comes close to being on that list.
He thinks Tashi is beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman he knows. Maybe you’re the most beautiful woman he knows. He doesn’t really know- it’s blurry and messy. But hearing you moan or say his name softly, sweetly, is the most beautiful thing he knows. So maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe he measures beauty differently than he did four years ago.
“Sounds good. I promise to buy a jacket with his name on it. Do you need anything, Tashi?” he tried to end the conversation. He didn’t want her to see the pathetic training session he was having with himself against a wall.
“I don’t know, maybe to ask why you’re here?” She shrugged like it was obvious. Like she cared about the useless existence of Patrick Zweig. Like he mattered.
“I’m competing, just like Art-” he started, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, but Art’s not here. How is it that you are?” she cut off the monologue he was about to throw at her.
“I don’t know why Art isn’t here, Tashi.” If it were possible, his eyes would roll so far back into his skull they’d get stuck there.
“Because he’s at a funeral, obviously. She’s your girlfriend last time I checked- how are you not there?” The furrow of her brows showed she was genuinely confused. But now he stood in front of her, terrified too. Whose funeral? Who the fuck died?
“What are you talking about?” he muttered, feeling his heart pound. Every muscle in his body tensed.
“(Y/N)’s mom passed away, Patrick. How am I the first one telling you this?” She doesn’t understand. But he does. And right now he hates Tashi. And Art, who’s with you. And himself- mostly himself- because after four years, he’s still a selfish bastard who only cares about himself.
.
.
.
You’re not crying, and you suspect it bothers your father. He looks at you strangely. As if you’re making things difficult. Because this is an event. A funeral is an event, and you need to behave the way you're expected to behave. You just can’t seem to do it. Because you don’t think you have a warm spot in your heart for the woman you called Mom for the pathetic 24 years of your existence.
To anyone else, it would sound sad. Pathetic. You don’t say it out loud very often. You don’t want to make things harder for anyone. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. You considered cutting an onion before you left, just to save yourself from the weird looks from the extended family you haven’t seen in years, but Art fucking Donaldson hasn’t left you alone since the second he heard she kicked the bucket.
His hand held yours like his life depended on it. Maybe yours. Someone’s life depended on it. Definitely not your mother’s. She’s dead. You wonder if the need for sacrifice died with her. You wonder if your constant need to make everyone feel comfortable all the time died with her too. It’s exhausting. You wish you could be less like that.
Your hand is sweating into his. He probably thinks it’s disgusting. He probably doesn’t like it. You miss the time when your whole world was making sure Art Donaldson was comfortable. His parents hugged you, and you’re pretty sure his mom left lipstick on you. He’s been staring at you for an hour straight. Maybe two. Maybe your whole life. You can’t know; it’s an emotional day.
You try to move your hand away from his; there’s no way this is comfortable for him. He grips harder. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t leave you alone. Your father says the Kaddish, everyone responds "Amen" and cries.
You don’t. Maybe you really are crazy, like she hinted at a few times when she got drunk and called you at an inappropriate hour. Maybe you really are the reason for every problem she ever had.
Maybe you didn’t sacrifice enough. Maybe you didn’t love enough.
Maybe you just don’t know how to love, and then it makes sense that you don’t deserve to be loved. Not really. Not unconditionally. Not like your father loved your mother. Not like Art loves Tashi. Not like Patrick loved Tashi. Not like Patrick hated you. Maybe he still does- sometimes you’re not sure.
Patrick isn’t here. Art’s hand keeps holding you both steady.
You finally cry.
When you walk into the house, your extended family is already there. Uncles, cousins- you think you saw the grandfather of someone your father goes to synagogue with. All you wanted was to sit quietly in your room for a second. Take off the heels and the damn dress. You felt the thong digging into your ass. That’s what happens when you let a dead woman dictate what you'll wear to her funeral. A woman who had conditions for her own funeral. Who told you what dress to wear. What underwear to put on. Sometimes you wonder how many years ahead you’ll keep dragging her advice, her judgmental looks. The tongue clicks. The general dissatisfaction with the world, wrapped in fake smiles.
Maybe that’s where you learned to fake so well. To fake who you are down to your core. To fake and fake until you don’t know what you want or from whom.
“You disappeared. I figured you’d be here.” Art walks into your childhood room like it’s his. Like he always did.
“You’re still here?” you mutter, and he hands you a plate of food he picked up from downstairs.
“Where else would I be?” he sighs. As if that’s the only answer that makes sense to him. As if you two were in touch. As if you know anything about his fancy life or he knows anything about your painfully mediocre one.
“In Atlanta,” you answer and place the plate on the nightstand beside you. “When’s your flight?” you ask, not looking at him as he sits next to you on the bed like he did before the funeral.
“I can stay-” he starts quietly. You know he’s looking at you, almost begging you to see that he means it.
"Ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself, but you know he hears. “When’s your flight, Art?” you ask, your voice steadier, looking at him with an almost hollow expression. One that doesn’t show any emotion or maybe shows all emotions at once. A look that scared him. A look that worried you. A look you’ll think about a month from now. You’ll sit at home, writing the structure for one of your classes, and you’ll think about Art Donaldson and the empty look you gave him when your mother died.
Embarrassing. Everything is so fucking embarrassing.
“Tonight,” he sums up. You glance at your phone’s clock. Sixteen missed calls from Patrick. Instinct says to call him. But it’s 6 p.m., and his first match is at 8 in the morning.
“Don’t you need to pack?” He rolls his eyes, ignoring your attempt to dismiss him.
“What are you doing?” he asks quietly.
“Excuse me?” you snap back, not understanding the direction of the conversation.
“Now. In general. What are you doing?” His gaze surrounds you from every direction. You can’t look anywhere that isn’t Art Donaldson. He reflects off the damn mirrors in this room.
“Trying to sit quietly in my room, clearly,” you reply stiffly.
You remember how all your conversations used to be warm. Soft. You’d talk about dreams. About books you’d write. About tournaments he’d win. You’d kiss. He’d touch you. You’d touch him. There was curiosity. There was love. Or at least that thing you’ve spent years believing was love. The thing where you become exactly what he wants and needs and disappear when he needs something else, something better. That was the unwritten contract between you.
Lately, you’ve been thinking that’s the unwritten contract between you and everyone you know. A depressing thought. You try not to dwell on it too much. On the way you please people in your suffering. Please in deprivation. Please to the point of tears, and more tears, and more tears.
You try not to think about all the dreams you had when Art Donaldson -maybe- loved you. You try not to think about the joy of life. About how much you loved seeing him happy, how much you loved making him happy. How much you loved being responsible for his happiness.
"Why isn’t Patrick here?" He quietly asked what he really wanted to know. He wanted to understand if you’d broken up. If you were alone. If he could laugh and say he told you so. That he told you; you had no business being with Patrick Zweig.
"Because he has a match tomorrow at 8 a.m., and he trained too hard to miss it," you said it coolly, without breaking eye contact. As if it made perfect sense that you hadn’t told your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to be your confidant, that your mother had died.
"He didn’t want to come?" Art continued, confused. Ice. That look again. The immediate shift in his mood confuses you, but it doesn’t throw you off balance. You know him. For the past four years, every time he’s seen you, all he’s tried to do is confuse you, to knock you off balance. It never works, at least not in his eyes.
"Hedoesn’tknow," you mumbled the words as if they were one. Quietly, knowing that what you’d done didn’t make sense. Wasn’t reasonable. Wasn’t acceptable. Didn’t fit into the unspoken rules of a relationship.
"You’re an idiot." He stood up and started pacing back and forth. "A fucking moron, really." He was angry, as if he was the one who hadn’t been told your mother had died. If it were up to you, he wouldn’t have known either, but his mother told him. Whatever.
"I’ll tell him when he gets back from the tournament, it’s not a big deal," you said and shrugged. Art stopped and looked at you like you’d just fallen from the moon. Like you were some natural phenomena.
"If you did that to me, I’d kill you. If you thought some shitty tennis tournament in shitty Atlanta was more important to me than you, I’d murder you and then die myself. I don’t like what you have with Zweig, God knows I hate it, but how could you not tell him? Do you even understand the concept of a relationship?" He let out this Shakespearean monologue while looking at you with a half-pitying, half-angry expression. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he thought you were Tashi.
"Art, I’m not your problem. Do you remember that?" You didn’t know what else to say, so you said the only thing you knew for sure in a defeated voice. Art Donaldson was not a part of your life.
"You’ll always be my problem. You should know that by now," he said, half despairing at himself. As if wondering how you both got here. As if wondering if there was anywhere else you could be.
.
.
.
Patrick was beyond frustrated. He won his first match after two and a half hours, barely. It didn’t come easy. All he could think about was how nothing came easy for him anymore, and how everything used to be so easy.
The thought that you didn’t tell him your mother had died, and then didn’t answer his calls either, hovered over his head like a rain cloud focused solely on him. He didn’t know how to approach it. He knew why you didn’t tell him- because unlike what Art thought, unlike what your dead mother thought, he knew you. He knew how you thought. He understood the mechanics behind your strange decisions. He hated that he had become someone you had to overthink things for.
That afternoon, he went to one of the courts and caught Tashi and Art’s practice.
They both saw him sit down. He thinks it made Art play better. He wondered if Art imagined his face when he hit the ball. He thinks he does. Because when Tashi checkmated his relationship with Art, Patrick wrapped his life around yours as if that was how it was always meant to be, while everyone involved knew it wasn’t. While everyone involved knew that you had embroidered Art’s name on bags from the moment you learned how to stitch. While everyone knew that Art Donaldson didn’t know how to exist in the world without you.
So, Patrick took you for himself.
Most of the time, he didn’t think of it as something technical, as a game he was playing against Art. Most of the time, he looked at you, really looked at you. Most of the time, he tried to make you laugh and understand the world through your own eyes. Most of the time, he tried to protect you from complex emotions you couldn’t express, from hunger. He tried to protect you from yourself, the way you protect some helpless creature. In some way, you were. In his eyes, you were helpless.
When you first started sleeping together, Patrick treated you with kid gloves, in a way he had never treated anyone before. Like you were porcelain. Like you could shatter and crumble in his hands at any moment. You had gestures and habits, ones you thought no one noticed. But he always saw. You tried to please everyone all the time. You switched from a smile to a sad look in a second, for the sake of the feelings of whoever was in front of you, for the sake of what you thought they wanted from you.
But Patrick didn’t want anything from you. He wanted to give you all the orgasms that you missed and for you to eat at least three meals a day. Some days, he didn’t know how to make you do it. Some days, he raised his voice. When he was desperate, he cried. When he was really desperate, he asked you to eat for him, so that he would be happy. That was the easy way, it always worked. He exploited a destructive mechanism someone had embedded in you (he suspects your dead mother) and used it to get you to do something he thought would be good for you. He wanted to throw up.
Art was playing well. He was playing against Tashi in front of him, and he was playing well. Too well.
Patrick no longer thinks he can beat him. Not something he would ever say out loud. He wanted to ask him how you were. He didn’t want to admit that you hadn’t answered his million calls. He didn’t want to admit that he was a loser who didn’t know where his life was going. Not when Art had been with you at the fucking funeral of your awful mother. He hated that woman with everything he had. More than he hated his own father, and that had to be some kind of record.
Art looked at him for a moment.
The moment passed.
Patrick thinks Art won. He’s not sure.
.
.
.
Patrick finds Tashi alone in the evening.
Completely alone in the middle of the lobby restaurant. She suddenly looks small and fragile to him, holding a drink he can guess is whiskey or cognac or whatever it is that Tashi Duncan drinks these days. He doesn’t know anything about her anymore. Only that a few years ago, he thought he loved her, and in return, she took his best friend away from him.
When he stands in front of her, he is like a streetlight- impossible to ignore.
It dawns on him, belatedly, that he is wearing her shirt. She must think he’s pathetic. He feels pathetic. He doesn’t think he cares about being pathetic in front of her. Because he sees her for what she is right now, and she is miserable. She doesn’t have much in life. She clings to what Art has. Which is fucked up on so many levels, but that’s reality. They both cling to things they shouldn’t be clinging to, and his eyes wander to her ring. Massive. Flashy. A bit like her, like the woman she tries to be when she’s not half-drunk and pathetic in front of him.
He places his hand over hers just as she’s about to take a sip of her drink, stopping her. He doesn’t know what he wants. Not from her, not from himself, but his lips find hers within seconds, and she doesn’t resist. He knew she wouldn’t resist- he saw it on her face. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Maybe more. And what a thought that is- that Tashi Duncan wants Patrick Zweig more.
They exit through the back door of the restaurant, go up to his room. Naturally. As if more than four years haven’t passed since the last time he was with Tashi.
He wishes he knew what he was doing; it would make this easier. But it’s not particularly difficult, either- otherwise, he wouldn’t be pressing Tashi against the wall. Otherwise, his lips wouldn’t be kissing every inch of her body he can reach.
Hunger. Patrick feels hunger. It’s the only emotion coursing through him as he looks at her. He thinks he wants to hurt Art. He thinks about how Art was there for you at your mother’s funeral, and that was supposed to be his role, but you didn’t call him.
So he strips Tashi of her shirt. Only to discover she isn’t wearing a bra.
He compares her to you every few seconds. You never go without a bra. He can barely convince you to just be at home, without clothes, without defenses. Just be. He doesn’t think you’re capable of that. He doesn’t think you know how to feel at ease.
That worries him more than he’s willing to admit.
“You’re thinking about her?” Tashi’s voice is almost angry as she kisses his neck.
“No.” A lie. A complete lie. He can only think about you. He realized that a few years ago and stopped fighting it. You and tennis, as if that’s all there is in the world. What else even exists? What else even matters?
“You’re a terrible liar,” she mutters against him, and somehow, the ugly shirt he’s pretty sure was Tashi’s -he doesn’t even know why he wore it- ends up on the floor.
‘You’re not thinking about Art?’ he should have asked, but he’s not here to ask questions. He’s here because he’s angry. At Art, at you, at Tashi for telling him, at the world. So he’s here. And they’re both shedding more pieces of their clothing and maybe their souls, because what they’re doing now has no way back. No forgiveness. They are bad people. Patrick knows it. Tashi knows it.
And after he wrings a heavy moan from her, one that follows an orgasm, she quietly tells him she thinks Art loves you.
Patrick stares at the gaudy ring stuck on her finger, the ring that, in another universe, Art would have placed on yours.
“Why do you think that?” Patrick asks softly, because what else is left to do?
“I didn’t want him to go to the funeral. I wanted him to stay and train, but he went anyway,” she mumbles.
Patrick says nothing, just nods.
He would have done the exact same thing, and that’s why you didn’t call him.
He would have come. Despite the dreams. Despite the tennis. Despite everything.
And Patrick remembers all the times Art called you sweet.
All the times Art never wanted to tell him anything about what happened between you two. All the times Art didn’t want to talk about you. And it wasn’t because it wasn’t good. It wasn’t because other girls were better.
It was because there was depth Patrick can only put his finger on now.
So much happened beneath the surface- so much that Art had no words to describe it.
So much that Art drowned in his own emotions. Repressed them and kept them bottled up until he found something shiny to bury his feelings in.
Until he found Tashi.
And Tashi is safe. With Tashi, you can’t get lost. With Tashi, there’s a plan.
With you, he just has to be himself.
He doesn’t know how to be anything else.
And that’s terrifying.
For the first time, Patrick understands Art in absolute terms.
He lies in a hotel room, stroking the hair of a woman who isn’t you, and understands everything there is to understand about life.
Mainly, he understands again- that you are so fucking sweet.
And that there’s no way he can win.
.
.
.
You're going over tomorrow’s lesson when you hear the door open. Without turning around, you already know it’s Patrick. Who else could it be?
His scrutinizing gaze doesn’t waver from you, even when he says nothing.
“How was it?” You find yourself breaking the silence, lifting your head toward him with a smile. He doesn’t smile back. He looks exhausted.
The message Art sent you lingers in the back of your mind;
He’s cheating on you.
-Art Donaldson-
Art has his reasons to make something like this up, but you doubt he’d be cruel enough to lie about it. Not while you’re mourning your horrible mother. No matter how angry he is at you. No matter how angry he is at Patrick. You don’t think Art is capable of that. You want to believe he isn’t capable of that.
Then again, you also want so badly to believe Patrick wouldn’t do it. That Patrick wouldn’t cheat on you. That he wouldn’t find someone prettier, better, more cheerful and do all the things with her that he probably can’t do with you. You don’t want to think about the possibility that you haven’t sacrificed enough. That you didn’t try as hard as you were taught to.
Your fault, your fault, your fault.
You don’t want to believe it’s your fault. That another love will slip through your fingers, as if you’re trying to hold water.
So, you choose to say nothing, because even if it’s true, even if he was with someone else, he came home. And home isn’t big, to say the least, not grand, not dazzling. But he came back. He’s right in front of you. You’re not alone. He knows you. He knows such ugly parts of you that sometimes you’re scared to acknowledge they even exist. He knows what you refuse to recognize in yourself, and sometimes he reminds you that you deserve more than you think. Which is a bizarre thought in itself. But you let him think it, you let him believe it enough for him to believe it for the both of you.
“I lost in the third round. To Peter Michelson,” he says shortly, and you nod.
“No choice but to make a voodoo doll with Peter Michelson’s face,” you try to joke. He usually laughs. At least smiles. He does neither. He just stands there like a block of wood, with the same expression. “I’m sorry you lost. I wish I’d been there,” you mumble, not knowing what else to say.
“What about you? Anything special happen this week?” he asks, his gaze never leaving you.
Now you could tell him your mother died, but there’s no way to say it without it turning into a fight about the fact that you didn’t tell him the moment you found out.
“No, nothing special, you know. My routine is boring.” You shrug and shift your focus back to the lesson you’re supposed to teach tomorrow. The Great Gatsby. A shitty book.
“Nothing special at all?” he presses.
“If you count the fact that Mr. Grace forgot to put in his dentures on Monday -again- and I had to sub for his class, then no.” It’s a half-lie because the thing with Mr. Grace and his dentures did happen, just not this week. Most of this week, you were at your parents’ house, helping your father deal with shiva and all the people who came by. He was completely heartbroken.
You see Patrick shake his head slightly and close his eyes. You know this is something he does when he’s trying to restrain himself. When he doesn’t want to lash out. When something is bothering him, and he doesn’t want it to turn into the biggest fight in the world. He has a bad history with fights that spiral out of control.
“No one was born? No relatives died? I don’t know, maybe the woman who gave birth to you?” he says, his piercing gaze back on you.
“Shit,” you mumble. Because what else is there to say in this situation?
“Yeah, shit,” he stays exactly where he is, making you feel like a child being scolded. Like you dropped a lollipop and won’t be getting a new one.
“I’m sorry-” you start.
“My mom isn’t dead; your mom is dead. I think I’m the one who’s sorry.” Patrick hated when you apologized. He said it was irrational with you. That you apologized more than was normal and more than people around you deserved.
“Patrick,” you sigh, scrunching your nose as you try to think of a good way to explain it.
“I really need to understand this, (Y/N). When were you planning on telling me your living mother was no longer alive? Another month? Two months? Two years? What was the timeline in that head of yours?” His words drip with sarcasm, like the way he used to talk to you before you became you and Patrick. Before you learned to love who he was and before he started treating you like you weren’t the worst person in the world.
“I didn’t want you to withdraw from Atlanta. You trained for it so hard.” You sigh again, quietly. This time, you’re the one closing your eyes, not wanting to look at him- and in doing so, you miss the fact that he moves toward you in giant strides.
“I wish you’d told me, Little Dove. I wish I’d been with you instead of being there.”
His hands cup your face as he crouches in front of you, looking up to catch your eyes.
“I’m sor-” You stop yourself mid-sentence when you see his displeased expression.
“How do you feel?” he asks, and you shrug in response. Because what you feel isn’t something you can say out loud, not even to Patrick. It’s not okay to feel relieved.
A lot of sadness, of course. But also, relief.
“Tell me,” he insists. He has a habit of knowing the things you don’t want to say. He can look at your face and catch the slight twitch of your left eyebrow to understand what you’re feeling. To see what you try so hard to hide. You can’t beat him at this. You can’t lie to him, not too much. Not about your feelings. Not when he spent years of his life learning what to hate about you, and then a few more years learning to love it.
“She wasn’t the nicest woman in the world,” you murmur quietly, like you’re confessing the most forbidden secret. Like it’s a secret that could start a world war. Like Patrick would tell someone.
“She didn’t like me.” Patrick lets out a dry chuckle, his eyes glassy as if he’s remembering something. “She used to call me Art all the time and then correct herself, like it was an accident, but she did it on purpose. So I’d know she wanted me to be Art.” His jaw tightens slightly. You can see the anger and frustration behind the fake lightness in his tone.
“I’m sorry,” you say because you don’t know what else to say, and he sighs.
His large hands wrap around you in an almost crushing hug. Almost making it hard to breathe.
But that’s how Patrick is. Everything he feels is out in the open. Everything he thinks, he says. Everything he wants, he does. And most of the time, he wants to be present in your life, which is ridiculous because there is no one more present in your life than him. He still acts like he needs to prove something to you.
“I wish you’d let me take care of you, Little Dove. It would be easier.” He whispers into your hair, not letting go for a second. You can almost feel him thinking, almost see him guessing what might help you.
“I know you care about me,” you say, shifting slightly to look at him, to show him that he doesn’t need to prove anything. That you’re okay.
“Did you eat?” he suddenly asks, stepping back slightly, scanning you, then moving toward the half-empty fridge. “What did you eat?” he follows up.
“I don’t know, Patrick. I don’t keep a journal,” you roll your eyes.
“Don’t give me that bullshit. What did you eat, (Y/N)?” He doesn’t let up.
“A sandwich,” you mutter the first thing that comes to mind.
“Since this morning?” His eyes stay locked on you.
“Patrick, my mother just died. Can we not focus on what I eat for one second? It’s exhausting,” you roll your eyes and cross your arms, turning your face to the side as he steps toward you and nods.
.
.
.
"What do you want to focus on?" he asked.
Patrick felt guilty. He looked at you and saw nothing but the fact that just a few days ago, he had been with Tashi. While you were mourning your unbearable mother, he was busy fucking Tashi in a fancy hotel room, at a tournament he lost and that Art Donaldson would probably win.
"You," your voice was small as you looked at him, almost pleading for a break from the interrogation and the anger. He hated when you made him the center of your focus, when you tried to do what you thought he wanted you to do. So he nodded and placed a small kiss on the crown of your head, knowing exactly what he needed to do.
Patrick felt like a man on a mission as he dropped to his knees in front of you.
"Pat-" you tried to protest, to tell him he didn’t have to. You always tried. As if going down on you was a burden to him, as if all it would take for him to spend a lifetime just like this was for you to fucking ask.
"Baby, can you take these off for me?" It was a question, but there was no question mark at the end. Not in that tone. Not when he was looking up at you like that, completely in control of the situation.
So you slid your pants down slowly, trying to hold on to the last bit of control slipping away with every second he stared at you like that. He took care of your underwear himself. Leaving you bare in front of him.
"Fuck, Pat," you mumbled, closing your eyes for a moment, leaning back against the wall, making him look up at you one last time with a smirk stretched across his face. And then he got to work.
His lips explored you like you were his source of oxygen. Like his natural place was buried under you, his mouth inside you.
"Baby, I’d eat you for the rest of my life. Every day. Every fucking day." His grip on your thigh was ruthless. Patrick felt like he was holding on for dear life, like this was all there was left to do. Like it was all he knew. "Sweet fucking pussy," he kept mumbling into you, until his face was coated with his own spit and your slick. He was ready to take it all, everything you gave him. In these moments, everything that was yours became his, and the little that was his became yours.
So he was milking it. He licked your clit in slow, agonizing strokes- for both of you. He took his time. The euphoria would come, but he was going to enjoy it until it did. Your small whimpers made him growl directly into you.
"Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," like a prayer. He felt it. He felt divinity in all of it. He sped up and slowed down and sped up and slowed down. Merciless to the near-sobs escaping from you.
"You're so sweet, baby. Do you want to come?" And he wasn’t asking if you wanted to come for him, because he wanted you to come for yourself. Because he wanted you to always, always come for yourself. He wanted to be a vessel. He wanted to erase all the stupid patterns in your head and make sure every orgasm you had was yours and for you.
"Patrick." He thought that was the only thing you were capable of saying coherently, and he was fine with that. He was selfish enough to be satisfied if his name was the only word you could say forever.
And when you came with a moan he had learned to recognize and nearly worship, he told you how good you were. How rare you were. That he was yours and that he would always take care of you. He looked up at you from below, saw the tears slipping down your face, and pressed another kiss to your thigh. One that emphasized the word always. Because he didn’t think he could ever let this go.
He was too selfish to ever let this go.
.
.
.
Art peeked through the door of the room every few seconds, searching for you among the guests. At this point, he didn’t even bother lying to himself about it. Because he didn’t know what else was left for him besides admitting the truth to himself- things he was never able to admit before. Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about the nights he used to lay beside you. When you didn’t even fuck. When you just lay in that rickety twin bed in his dorm room. He was willing to take that. He was willing not to fuck you if it meant you’d hold him again.
More than that, he was willing not to fuck anyone ever again. But you were too sweet, you wouldn’t let him go through life without sex. The thought made him chuckle for a second. But he was nervous. So fucking nervous.
He was about to marry Tashi, and she didn’t cross his mind even once. He accidentally saw her dress, even though he told her that he hadn’t really noticed it was there. He knew she would be a stunning bride. That months from now, people would still be talking about Tashi Duncan in a wedding dress. He knew people would envy him, he knew everything. His mind knew everything.
But all he could think about was what kind of wedding dress you would have chosen. He was almost sure it would be something less extravagant; you’d try to draw as little attention as possible. But the Art he was today wouldn’t have let you. He would’ve told you that you deserved all the attention the universe had to offer. That you deserved to be seen. He hated himself for how long it had taken him to realize that. Only when you truly weren’t there. Only when you belonged to someone else. Only when you chose Patrick Zweig of all people.
Patrick Zweig, who hated you with every fiber of his being. Patrick Zweig, who Art was almost certain had cheated on you with Tashi. It should have hurt him much more than it did. But all he cared about was figuring out if this would be the thing that made you get up and leave. You had to know you deserved better. That if not him- if not Art, the guy you both knew you loved with all your heart- then at least someone who didn’t want anyone else. That was the bare minimum you deserved.
For years, he’d wondered if he had something to do with how little you thought you deserved, with how low your standards were.
He convinced his mother- who probably loved you even more than he did- to take upon herself convincing you to come to his wedding. Which was almost sadistic of him. Maybe masochistic. Maybe both. But he had to see you. He hadn’t seen you since your mother’s funeral. Sometimes he dreamed about that day and how his hand held yours, he wanted it again and again and again. He wanted everyone to die if it meant he could hold you like that again. If it gave him an excuse.
He noticed that everything about you required an excuse. It hadn’t been like that when you were his. Except you were never really his.
He didn’t even understand why it had been so complicated- why you hadn’t told him that’s what you wanted (though he could have guessed). And more than anything, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t known what he wanted. Why it hadn’t been clear to him that you were his person. That you knew the deepest parts of him.
He saw you walk in and texted you, almost begging you to come to the room where he was. You could tell him to go to hell, but that wasn’t your style. No, you were sweet. So sweet that all you did was knock on the door and push it open. Looking at him while he already had his eyes on your little black dress. While he was already studying the red nail polish. While he was already focusing on the lipstick he so badly wanted to wipe off of you.
“Your mother asked me to prepare a speech. Was that your idea?” you asked. There was no coldness in your voice, which made him happy. You stepped closer and started fixing his tie. He wanted to close his eyes, but at the same time, he wanted to see you. To remember you like this;
in a little black dress, in heels, standing in front of him, helping him with his tie.
“What can I say? You’re my best friend,” he said. And it wasn’t a lie, just as much as it wasn’t the truth.
“That’s really sad, Art,” you said, probably referring to the last four years you spent apart.
“Are you saying you have a better friend than me?” he asked, hoping you’d deny it because a yes might make him break down crying.
“It’s a mediocre speech. I didn’t know what to say at your wedding,” you sighed, confessing a secret.
“Saying you don’t want me to get married would’ve been a good start,” he said, taking a risk. Because he calculated the timing, and you were late, so he had a very short window for this risk.
“Don’t be ridicul—” you started, quietly.
“If you tell me not to do this, I won’t get married. Tell me not to do it. Tell me it’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay,” he whispered. Not looking away from you.
The silence in the room was deafening, and the chuckle that escaped him was bitter. Fake. He felt pathetic and small and miserable, and maybe he was all those things because he never knew what he wanted in time.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured. Not knowing what else to add, because what was left to add? He could see the wetness in your eyes. He knew how unfair he was being.
“I’m sorry,” he echoed. He didn’t think he had ever told you that before, but he really, truly was. “Did you write something good about me?” he added.
“That you’re my best friend. And that my soul will always love yours,” you said, letting a single tear fall as his rough hand wiped it away with whatever gentleness was still left in him.
It was a nice speech.
Everyone applauded.
Art cried.
.
.
.
Here we are- the second part of So Sweet! Hope it turned out good enough. Thanks for stopping by and reading what I write, it means a lot. Let me know what you think. Love you guys, stay sweet! 💕
A/n: Hello, hi. I saw Nosferatu on new years and yeah #needthat here’s some Thomas Hutter fan-fiction. Comms are closed, I’m sorry. Please don’t hit me.
Summary: Thomas is visited by the Count’s servant in the middle of the night.
Contains: Use of fem pronouns, reader is wearing a dress, Thomas lowkey cheating on Ellen like emotionally (sorry not sorry), nightmares, reader bites Thomas, blood, Thomas is scared out of his mind of the count, reader is depressed as shit about being a vampire and alludes to killing herself for like half a second, reader blames herself for her misfortunes, sub behavior from Thomas because I’m a self indulgent FREAK. Let me know if I missed anything
Thomas woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air as his hands balled into fists in the sheets. He could hear his own heart pounding in his ears and he clenched at his heart, fingers brushing over the puncture wounds in his chest.
What was happening to him?
He felt like he was living in a constant nightmare, constantly on edge, constantly terrified.
He shouldn’t have ever agreed to come here. But, it was all for her. For Ellen.
His fingers shakily brushed over the locket she’d given him before he left and he let out a soft sigh.
“You’re unwell.” A voice spoke up from the darkness and he jolted up with a gasp. Standing a few feet away from his bed was the Count’s servant whom he’d met the day he arrived at this god forsaken place. The woman was far less intimidating than her master, her presence bringing a sort of comfort to Thomas.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She said, stepping closer to him, into the moonlight that streamed into the room through a large window.
“How long have you been here?” Thomas asked breathlessly.
“I’ve just come in.” Y/n replied. Thomas questioned to himself for a moment if that was true. He hadn’t heard her enter the room. “I heard you from my bedroom and you sounded distressed. I thought I’d come check on you.” She looked him over and Thomas found himself shifting uncomfortably under her gaze. “You’re having nightmares.” She stated.
“I—“ Thomas nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am…. How did you….?”
“All of our guests tend to have similar troubles.” She says. “Nightmares, restlessness, paranoia. A general unease.”
Thomas didn’t reply for a moment. His thoughts were jumbled and frantic, and he had to collect himself before he could speak again.
“I need to leave this place.” He finally said. “As soon as possible.” He realized how rude he must’ve sounded and quickly added on. “My wife, I haven’t been able to write to her. She must be worried for me.”
Y/n seemed to take in his words, eyes drifting to the floor before going back to him. “Leave when the sun rises.” She said. “That would be best.”
Thomas’ thoughts were still in a frenzy. But, he knew he had to tell this woman about his suspicions regarding her master. “Y/n,” He began. “You must forgive me for…. How manic I must seem. But,” He slowly got out of bed and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “From the moment I arrived here, your employer has…. Deeply unsettled me. He’s appeared in every one of my dreams, terrorizing me, and…. I know it sounds quite fantastical. But, I think he may be….” Thomas couldn’t even bring himself to say it. “He may be a-“
“Vampire.” Y/n finished, voice coming out almost in a whisper.
Thomas’ eyes widened. “I…. Yes.” He furrowed his brows. “You knew?”
“I’ve known for a long time.” She confirmed, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. Thomas’ brows creased and he opened his mouth to ask another question before Y/n began to explain. “I was young and foolish when I agreed to work for him. He’d promised me so much. Power, protection, acceptance. I signed my life away to him. I did all of his bidding, waited on him hand and foot, anything, everything he asked. I wish to god I’d never agreed to it all, it became unbearable. One day, I tried to leave, to run away and….” She shook her head, chest rising and falling slowly.
“And….?” Thomas urged her on, taking a step closer to her.
“It upset him. Infuriated him. He cursed me for it.” She continued.
“Cursed you?”
“To be the same monster that he is. To never step into the sun again, to starve for a hunger that I cannot bring myself to satiate.” Her voice shook with each word that she uttered.
Thomas was admittedly a bit frightened at that. The same monster that he is. A vampire. But, there was something else that stirred in him. Part of it was sympathy, a voice inside of his mind telling him to comfort her. But, another part of it was a strange intrigue, an allure despite it all. Before he could think not to, he was sitting next to her in the bed.
“I’m sorry.” He said.
“No, it’s my own fault.” Y/n sighed. “If I only hadn’t been so foolish, things might’ve gone differently.”
“It’s still a fate that you don’t deserve”. Thomas assured her, reaching for her hand before he thought better of it and pulled back.
“It’s a fate that I don’t think I can endure for much longer.” She said softly. “Whenever I sleep, I have nightmares of becoming like him. My flesh rots away. My body dies, but my mind ceases to, and I rip into the flesh of innocent people like an animal.”
Thomas frowned. He couldn’t picture her like that, like him. “They’re only dreams.”
“They’re my future.” Her voice was unstable now, her eyes watery.
Thomas’ fingers twitched at his sides, itching to soothe her. But, he only offered a few soft reassuring words as the woman collected herself.
She took a deep breath and wiped at the corners of her eyes. “Forgive me. I’ve never told another soul about all of this…. Misfortune. I didn’t know I’d become so hysterical speaking about it.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
Y/n sighed softly. “Your kindness is admirable. Most men would drive a stake through my heart if they were given the chance.”
“I’d never do that to you.” Thomas said softly. “Er— I’d never do that to anyone, I mean.” He tried quickly to change the subject. “I…. I think the Count has been…. Biting me.” When Y/n didn’t immediately reply, he began to unbutton his shirt, showing her the punctures in his chest. She stared for a moment before she silently reached out and brushed her fingers over the wounds. Thomas hoped to god that she didn’t notice the shiver that ran down his spine in response to her touch.
“Yes. He used to do the same to me.” She spoke softly and her gaze never left his chest, almost as if she were in a daze.
“….Y/n?”
She blinked a few times before exhaling softly. She took her hand away from his chest. “I’m so sorry, I…. Lost myself for a moment.” Y/n said as she brought her gaze back up to meet his.
“It’s alright. It’s in your nature.” Thomas said, buttoning his shirt back up. “Um, your appetite for blood, I mean.”
“I wish it weren’t.” She sighed. “It makes me feel awful…. Disgusting-“
“You aren’t.” He interrupts. “Not a monster, not disgusting. You’re….” He trailed off. Y/n waited for him to continue and when he didn’t, she spoke again.
“I just can’t…. I have to force myself to do it, and even then the guilt of it all makes me sick.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment. The words he wanted to say seemed to get stuck in his throat, slowly edging to the tip of his tongue until he mustered up the courage to speak. “Is there anyway that I can help?”
That seemed to stun Y/n for a moment. Thomas knew what he was implying with his words and she seemed to know too. And, though it was a foolish thing to hope for, he wanted her to accept his offer.
“Help?” She repeated.
“Yes,” Thomas replied a bit too quickly. “Anything that I can do, anything.”
Y/n was silent for another moment, eyes dropping to his throat before snapping back to meet his unwavering gaze. “No.” She said softly.
A pang of disappointment hit Thomas. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” He said sincerely, deciding to leave out the fact that he wouldn’t mind her hurting him if it meant he could help her. “And I know you need this.” He added.
He heard her breath quiver as she sighed. “I can’t.”
Thomas thought carefully about his next words. Every logical part of him was telling him to hold his tongue. But, in the end, the irrational side of him let the words spill from his lips. “Would you reconsider if I told you I wanted you to?”
Y/n didn’t say anything. She was silent for what felt like an eternity, her gaze had shifted to her hands that nervously fidgeted in her lap. The silence lingered long enough for Thomas to begin regretting his words. He thought himself a fool for being so bold. He was about to apologize when Y/n finally spoke up.
“On your neck?” She asked in almost a whisper as if she were afraid someone would hear.
Thomas faltered for a moment before replying. “Anywhere you’d like.”
She took a deep breath before turning to him, her gaze searching for any signs of insincerity. Thomas held her gaze, anticipating her next move.
“I’ll hurt you.” She told him.
“I’ll heal.” He replied. “You need this.”
She stared for another moment, gaze slowly shifting to something more vulnerable. And finally, she moved closer. She was slow and cautious with her movements; whether the reason was for fear of hurting him or fear that he’d hurt her, Thomas wasn’t sure. One of her hands came up to the back of his neck, fingers gently brushing against Thomas’ nape. His eyes fluttered shut briefly and his head tilted back. Y/n leaned in and Thomas felt her cold breath hit his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. The moment lingered before Y/n spoke.
“Make me stop if I hurt you.” She said softly.
“Yes.” Thomas replied, voice barely above a whisper.
She finally leaned in and placed her mouth on his neck, teeth grazing against his throat before sinking into the side of his neck. The first thing he noticed was how cold the feeling was, like ice piercing into his skin and flowing through his entire body. His breath hitched, another shiver ran down his spine. His hands almost instinctively moved to pull her closer, body aching for her warmth (or maybe just for her).
Next, the pain hit him, stinging pain in his neck that made him whimper and gasp, hands now balling into her dress to anchor himself.
And finally, he felt wonderfully numb. Thomas sighed softly, the sound coming out more like a moan when it fell from his lips. His grip on her dress loosened and moved to gently hold her waist, head leaning back as his eyes became half lidded. His jaw was slack, soft pants spilling out of his mouth along with occasional mutterings.
“Y-you need this—“ He’d say, words slurring together as if he were drunk off of the sensation of being bitten. “Need this….” He repeated and it was unclear to the both of you if he was referring to you again or to himself. “Take it…. From me- god….” He seemed to be completely blissed out, all sense and shame no longer concerning him.
He almost didn’t even realize when Y/n had pulled away. He blinked a few times, breath coming in and out quickly. He gazed at her and her blood stained lips and only then seemed to realize how undignified he’d been. His cheeks flushed and he brought a hand up to his neck, feeling the punctures her teeth had left. He wondered if they’d turn into scars. Parts of this night that would stay with him forever.
“I….” Y/n broke the silence. “Hope I didn’t take this too far.” She stood from her spot on the bed, brushing her thumb over her lips to wipe away the blood that remained there.
“Er, no. No, of course not.” Thomas stammered.
She nodded. “Good.” Another silence fell over them. The tension between the two was palpable and hard to ignore. Perhaps Y/n realized this and decided to end things right then. “…. Well, if our…. Transaction is complete, then I should be going. It’ll be daylight soon.”
He wanted to ask her to stay. He felt safer with her in this place. But, another part of him, perhaps the more sensible part, told him that it wasn’t a good idea. He’d just allowed her bite and drink from him without needing any persuasion. He was the one to suggest it, actually. He was becoming irrational around her, indulging in the thoughts in his mind that he’d normally never even dare to speak aloud. Asking her to stay with him was another one of those thoughts.
So, he swallowed down his words and nodded his head. “Yes. I’ll….” He almost told her he’d see her in the morning. But, then he remembered her suggestion to leave the castle when the sun was risen. A hopeful part of him thought that maybe she’d leave with him. He’d bring her back to Wisborg where she could live a normal life, one that she deserved. But, the rational part of him knew that if she was able to leave, she would’ve done so long ago.
So, he uttered what would most likely be his last words to her. “Goodbye.”
Y/n paused before repeating. “Goodbye.” She walked toward the door and turned back to him to say one last thing before leaving him on his own.
Author's Note: AHHHHH I can't believe this is the last chapter of A Languor Spell!!!!!!! Truly insane!!! Thank you to everyone who have stuck with the series to the very end, who have been so patient throughout my inconsistent schedule, all of the mental gymnastic I made you go through, and all the angst. I'm grateful for those who have liked, reblogged, commented and given me your thoughts on the series! You are amazing and you keep me going. You're the reason why I work through my sickness.
With all of that said, I'm feeling bittersweet as this series comes to an end. This is probably one of my favourite works, and a completed series at that. I've learned a lot from working on this, and I feel like it has given me a better sense of my voice as a fanfic writer. Still, I'm excited to move on with ALS completed, and I'm happy to say that I have another idea for Art at work atm!! (more details on that later)
I hope you will enjoy the last instalment of A Languor Spell 🫶
GIF Source
2021. San Francisco.
In a room full of people, amongst the comfortable quiet and the rain's patterned knocks on the window panes, your voice gave sound to the words you wrote. The rain was fitting for a reading of your newest novel, considering how it was inspired by what had transpired after that fateful day fifteen years ago. You still remembered how it felt, walking away from Art in the aftermath of the storm, feeling intrigued by the possibility of your future, none the wiser about the way things would turn out.
The indie bookstore was small, but it made it easier for you to look at your supporters when you took occasional breaks from the pages. Everyone's eyes were on you, but instead of discomfort, you felt at ease. Reading these words to the readers who had supported your works still felt unreal after four releases and all these years since you first became a published author. Your heart swelled in your chest as your eyes swept over all the people who gathered here for you. They looked up to you, they found solace and comfort in your books. That made you realize you weren't alone in your feelings, despite the perpetual solitude that you chose for yourself after Isaac.
Your reading ended, followed by answering questions, and signing. You got to meet wonderful people who expressed their love for your books and talked about your newest release. No one knew the idea was drawn loosely from your own experience. It was the truth that you held close to your heart. The idea of being capable of loving more than one person in literature wasn’t new. And like most, it usually tailspinned out of one's control. You knew it well, and you put it into your own words. In the end, your protagonist walked away from everything, freeing herself of the entanglement. It stemmed from your understanding of your own role in the circumstances. Loving Art and tolerating everything that was attached to him was an inescapable loop once your connections had intertwined so deeply that neither of you could unravel. You accepted that you and Art were nothing more than a missed opportunity, and maybe, in another lifetime, you would find each other again. But in this one, you chose to move on.
Avery helped you wrap up the signing, and when you were about to walk away from the table, a familiar voice caressed your ears.
“Do you have time for another autograph?”
You could recognize him from the first consonant he uttered. You turned your head and were greeted by his warm and familiar gaze. There wasn't a need to run, to hide like you did two years ago. You felt nothing but a quick skip in your heart before returning to its normal pace. From this distance, you could see the subtle fall and rise of his chest that made him look slightly out of breath. The white tee he was wearing was speckled with raindrops, making it cling to the definition of his torso better. He had let his hair grow out since you last met, the damp curls held tension at the nape of his neck. His eyes held yours, and you were taken aback by its intensity and familiarity. The colour was a muted blue under the artificial light of the bookstore, and the speckle of light brown remained.
Avery spoke up before you could.
“Sorry, but signing hour is over.“
You touched her shoulder.
“It’s okay. I can do it. I’ll be done in a minute.”
Avery gauged your face, looking for a sign of uncertainty or discomfort. You nodded and assured her you'd be alright, only then, she left you alone with Art. You lowered your voice, not wanting other people to hear.
“Sure, I can sign your book.”
Art blinked as if he didn't expect you to actually indulge him. He retrieved the books from the bag on his side and placed them on the table.
“I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to get signed, so I brought a few that I have.”
Four copies of your books, from the debut to your newest, spread out before you. You took your time flipping over each of them, your eyes tracing over the faint underlines on the sentences you wrote. You imagined Art's own hand turning the pages, carefully underlining what he liked, what resonated with him. The books looked like they were read over and over with frayed edges, worn pages, and slight curls on the corners. You quieted the voices in your head, questions echoing in the chamber of your mind and picked up a pen. You opened your new release and looked at him expectantly.
“What do you want me to write?”
“Anything you want.”
“When you say that, do you mean the literal sentence ‘anything you want’ or …”
You trailed off, watching a smile slowly make its way to his lips, mirroring yours.
“Anything your heart desires.”
“Alright. ‘Anything your heart desires’ it is then.”
You placed your pen on the page and made a move to write it, but he stopped you by touching his fingers on the splayed book.
“How about ‘yes, I would like to go out for dinner with you’?”
You considered him. The playful smile was still on his lips, but from where you were standing, he seemed pretty serious.
“Is that a real invitation?”
He nodded.
“I mean it.”
You straightened up and looked at him fully for the first time since he made his presence known.
“I came to San Francisco just to see you.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t seem to get over you.”
His unexpected honesty was so brutal that it almost took your breath away. You parted your lips in bated breath, not daring to say another word that could ruin the trance he seemed to cast over you.
“You're always on my mind. I haven’t stopped thinking about you ever since you left.”
“Art …”
You swallowed the lump of emotions that had gathered in your throat, unsure of how to respond to his admission. Art looked at you with an understanding, telling you that he didn't expect you to say anything back. The boy you fell in love with years ago, now standing in front of you, had stripped his soul bare and laid it out in front of you. The downpour of your emotions swirled together, seizing your heart in a tight grip. It made your skin bloom in heat. You saw Art's mouth move before you could process the words themselves.
“I will be here for another week. Please, I would like to see you before I leave.”
He extended a piece of paper towards you, and a sense of deja vu hit you. History had the tendency to repeat itself, and here you were, with the man who once was your everything. He looked at you like his sole purpose was to please you, to do whatever you wanted him to.
“Are you here because I’m the second best thing you can get?”
You asked in a self-deprecating tone.
“No, I’m here because I want to. And you’ve always been the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
You blinked at the sheer honesty in the way he said it. No hesitation in his voice, and no humour in his eyes. But words could only mean so much. Actions eclipsed everything else.
“What about Tashi?”
“We’re not together anymore.”
You nodded, feeling that there was more to it, but it was neither the time nor the place. You took the folded piece of paper from him, and before he let you have it, Art said.
“Anytime. Anywhere. We can meet up and just talk.”
You stayed silent. Art continued.
“And if you don’t want me, I will leave in a week and never come back or contact you again.”
You nodded, showing your understanding. You crouched slightly to sign his book, and when you gave it back to him, your hands touched, and it sent a touch of thrill down your spine. You left the table and not once looked back at Art. He didn’t know it then, but you still had his number saved on your phone. After your encounter two years ago, you couldn’t bring yourself to delete it.
/
The next two days were spent with you thinking about Art’s offer and pondering the outcome of your choices. What would your decision say about you as a person? Going back to the man who had hurt you wasn’t something you wanted for your character, that was why you ended your book the way you did. But you also knew the matter of the heart was more complicated than that. Not everything could be sorted as black or white. The definitive decision to choose one over another, because it was viewed as the right thing to do, was a conformity of normality and a complete rejection of nuances and consideration for perspectives that didn’t align with what was deemed morally right. What you ultimately decided would be the culmination of your experience alone, of the connection you had with Art, Tashi, and Patrick, and not a reflection of your morality. What applied to others might not apply to you, and vice versa. Each person in a collective could have wildly different experiences, none were the same. And you didn’t have to justify yourself to anyone.
You opened your contact and scrolled until you reached Art’s number. After a deep breath and another moment of waiting for the rational part of you to scream profanities at your decision, you clicked on his contact and pressed call. You waited patiently, listening to the calming beat of your heart. Anxiety perched at the corner of your mind, ready to jump in at the idea of Art not picking up his phone, and him showing up at your book signing event was his way to toy with you. But Art shut out all of the background noises when he picked up at the fourth ring.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
He sounded out of breath, and in your head, you imagined how he must have run to his phone and hoped it was you who called. You bit the inside of your cheek at the image and realized that he was waiting for an answer from the other side of the line.
“Where are you staying?”
“The Ritz.”
"Between Pine and California?"
Art confirmed with a quiet 'yes'. You wanted to tell yourself no, that this was a bad idea, but these thoughts wavered the more you wanted to look upon them further, to dissect them into bits and pieces. The absence of the self-loathing that you were so used to was noticeable. After a moment of contemplation, you breathed out and said.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
"I can pick you up."
You shook your head before realizing he couldn't see you.
"There's no need."
“I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
You went through the motions, getting dressed, and getting into the car and backed out of your apartment's complex's parking lot. Your fingers drummed on the wheel restlessly as you imagined what might happen, what you would say to him, what you would ask. Should you feel shame? Guilt? In the empty vastness of space between you and Art, you tried and tried to fill it up with excuses. Anything that would make you turn around. Yet, the car still moved forward, and it didn't stop until you reached the Ritz-Carlton hotel.
/
You found Art waiting in the lobby, just like he said. You went to the bar of the hotel together and ordered yourselves drinks. You sat in the plush chair across from each other, the distance between you comfortable and not at all suffocating. You took your time, taking notes of something new about him that you hadn't noticed before. And Art seemed to have the same idea. Finally, you broke the silence first.
“Did you actually read all of my books?”
“Of course. It was the only way I could be close to you.”
You remembered what Tashi told you, and tried to tame the bashful smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. At that, an amused expression touched Ar's face.
"What?"
"About two years ago, the night before your match against Patrick, Tashi told me that you read my books, even annotating them. I didn't believe her at first. Then, I realized that she must have told the truth because even though she didn't gain anything from telling me, she did it anyway."
Art nodded, his eyes looked away as if to contemplate the thought.
"Did it make a difference for you?"
"A little bit. But it didn't matter. You were still with Tashi."
You admitted in a casual tone and took a sip of your drink. Art looked down at his, turning it in his hand.
“How did you know I was at the bookstore?”
Art looked at you through his long lashes.
“Your website. It said you'd be there for a reading and signing event.”
You inclined your head. Art, in his own way, was guileful and at times manipulative, but this time, you couldn't blame him. Your participation at those events was public information, and Art used that to his advantage.
"Why now?"
"I had things that I needed to sort out first before I could be good enough to reach out to you."
You thought about what Art said at the bookstore.
“When you said you and Tashi were no longer together …”
“We're divorced. Been that way for almost two years.”
“Was it mutually agreed upon?”
“Not at first. I … initiated it.”
You took a moment to absorb that information. Finally, you said.
“I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“You loved her a lot. And yet, you were the one to ask for a divorce. You stood up to her.”
Art shifted in his seat and leaned on the table, touching the outside of your hand on the stem of your drink.
“You made me realize that I was always second to her. Tennis has always been her first love.”
You allowed him to take your hand fully in his. The warmth of his palm spread to yours, and it made your heart pound. Art picked up where he left off.
“I believe that at one point, she truly loved me. But it turned into something else, with all of the buildup of resentment and time she couldn't take back and mistakes she couldn't undo. And you were right. Her shortcomings weren't mine to bear."
Art told you about what happened during the match in 2019. Patrick's signal, serving like Art, was a way for Patrick to rub it in Art's face that he slept with Tashi the night before. Your heart broke for him, having to find out about it that way. You reached out with the other hand, rubbing back and forth along the length of the arm that was holding you slowly. You stayed like that for a while, until the weight of the moment had dissipated into the air, only lingering on the outside like a distant memory. Art's voice was rough when he spoke up.
“In the end, your protagonist …”
“What about her?”
“She walked away from everything. And … here you are, with me.”
“I am.”
“What does that say about us?”
You took a deep breath and mulled over his question. The answer surprised you, even though you were the one who made it real.
“That our story doesn’t end there, two years ago, when it should.”
The two of you had shifted closer to each other, and from this distance, you could see the beautiful swirl of colours in his eyes. He closed them when he pressed a kiss into the palm of your hand as if to savour the sensation. You caressed the smooth skin on his cheekbone as he whispered.
“I meant what I said at the bookstore. I have never stopped thinking about you ever since the day I met you. You're constantly on my mind.”
You felt your body go weak at his words. You murmured, afraid of the quiver in your own voice.
“It's been a very long time.”
"I know. Even though I was with Tashi, if you called, I would've dropped everything to come to you. I will always be at your disposal."
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
/
The ride up to his suite was quiet, and it stayed like that until you were tangled in a passionate embrace like there was an invisible force that drew your bodies together. Art took his time in exploring you, reacquainting himself with your body, and you with his. You needed each other's touches and heat as if everything could end right then and there. His lips trailed all over your body, paying extra care to your sensitive spots and laving up your scent, leaving faint love marks on your skin. You glowed in the attention he bestowed upon you. Your nails scratched up his back, complimenting the loving bites you left on his pale skin. You gave into the throes of euphoria, neither of you holding back. When he slid home inside you, you felt a relief like never before.
Your blissful moans and unabashed grunts of pleasure last for hours into the night. Later on, you lay in Art's arms with your head on his chest, listening to the gentle beat of his heart and the muted sound of the world from the other side of the window. A sense of tranquillity washed over you, and in your mind, there was no doubt or regret. But you had to make sure that he felt the same.
"Are you regretting this, yet?"
You asked with a small touch of humour, trying to mask your worries. Art tilted your face up to look at him, and you could only find earnestness in his eyes.
"Never. I've never felt happier. Do you … regret this?"
You placed a kiss on his chest, your hand squeezed at his side.
"No, I don't. I can't think of a time when I felt like this with someone else."
And you didn't hate yourself for admitting that out loud. The look he gave you was pure adoration. After everything with Isaac, being here with Art felt like everything had finally clicked into place. Art sighed, trailing his hand along the side of your arm.
"Me neither. I mistook competition for love and worthiness, and accepted the constant stress and worries that I'm not enough as something that just came with it. It should've been like this."
You cradled his face in your hand, your eyes locked and intertwined in the pool of emotions.
"You've always been enough for me."
Art moved his head to kiss you deeply, and you relaxed into it. After everything, you had become different people who found their way back to each other. When you were together, there was no expectation. You didn't have to be someone else for him, and he didn't have to fulfill the role others had expected of him.
You lost yourself again and again in Art's arms. Just like your protagonist, you were free in the end, albeit in a different way. But that was the beauty of it. Your happy ending didn't have to be like hers. It was yours to mould and shape. And you chose to have it with Art, the only man you had truly loved, who had always known you in the way nobody else had.
Your future with Art was an unknown territory, but you thrust yourself into it. You knew you would be okay, with him being truly yours at last.
Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!
Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader, Art Donaldson x Tashi Donaldson.
Warnings: Angst, discussion of miscarriage and women's reproductive health problems.
Author's Note: I'm so so so sorry for being late for one week and three hours ohmygod. I barely have time to write as is because of my work schedule, which has taken over my life in a way that exhausts me every day. This is far from my best chapter, and I'm so so sorry for that.
GIF Source
2019. New Rochelle.
Your eyes locked from the distance, and you realized it didn't hurt as much anymore when you looked at him. At the time of the unexpected run-in with Art in the elevator, old memories and long-buried pains came rushing back like tidal waves, reminding you that there used to be a time when the mere mention of his name would pull a reaction from you, the kind that was nestled deep in your guts and painful as its exterior would lacerate your insides as you tried to expel it. Now, being in this proximity with Art, there was only a dull ache. His gaze followed your every movement, burning hot on your skin as you approached him. When he settled down from across the table, you allowed your eyes to fully drink him in, to note the small changes that the brief exchange two days ago didn’t allow you to.
An abstract shadow cast on his face, shading in the sharp angles of his features, turning his boyish charm into the contemplative man sitting before you. He looked great, still, but he didn't look happier when he had every reason to be. The familiar yearning for the man you loved so much that you were willing to look the other way when the warning signs flared their signals tugged at your heartstrings, but you knew better now than you did thirteen years ago. Art was the baggage that took a long time to shed, the heartbreak that took a long time to recover from.
As much as you wanted to blame Art for ruining other men for you, but you knew you weren't innocent in this game of two. You couldn't bring yourself to commit to the few men you dated over the years before giving up dating entirely after a painful engagement. Your failure in relationships that came after Art was not a reflection of how you were still caught up in him. It was the way you loved like there was an expiry date to the love you gave.
You weren’t hungry and didn’t feel like eating, but you ordered an appetizer anyway. Art did the same, casually said to you after the waitress dropped off your drinks and went away with your food order.
“We can share.”
He had said it so casually. You didn’t correct him. The two of you took the time to observe each other in a comfortable silence before Art disrupted it.
“How have you been?”
“I’m doing good. My career took off.”
Just like you said. But you didn’t say that part out loud.
“So I’ve heard. I see your name everywhere.”
“It can be annoying, can’t it?”
You said, tongue in cheek.
“Never.”
A simple word, accompanied by a bright smile, yet you couldn't help but feel bashful at the undeniable pride that he radiated. It felt genuine, more than the time your parents demanded to see you in San Francisco. All of a sudden, as your book's sales kept climbing up and up, no distance was too much to drive for your parents. At a high-scale restaurant of their choosing, they swooned over your brilliance and told you how proud they were, that they knew you would succeed. You owed them your success, they said, since they brought you up and you wouldn't be here without them. They admitted none of the abuse, and they congratulated themselves on their talented daughter. Your dad eagerly asked about the money, and unashamedly rewarded himself and your mother a bonus from your royalties. To fix up the house, he said, and they needed a new car so they didn't have to drive the old thing that could croak any day. You only nodded, feeling numbness spread all over your senses and body like a self-defence mechanism. You ended up paying for the meal, telling them that they needed to contact your accountant for what they wanted. Knowing June, the accountant of your trusted team, she would die before giving your parents a penny.
On your part, after that day, you decided not to entertain them any longer. You chose to protect yourself, and that meant going radio silent on their calls and texts. Every once in a while, you would receive demanding messages, asking for compensation. None of them received an answer.
Art interrupted your train of thought.
“But how are you really doing? Are you still with–”
You shook your head quickly and cut him off.
“Same old. How about you?”
Your fingers ran over your naked ring finger almost in defence. Art could see your attempt at a distraction and he allowed it to slip past.
"I'm just … alright."
"Come on. You’re doing more than just alright for yourself."
He huffed, and its bitterness wasn't lost on you.
“Not as well as Tashi would like me to.”
You hummed, taking a sip of your soda.
“I could tell as much judging by what you told me at the hotel.”
Art offered a self-deprecating smile and said nothing. He said thanks to the waitress as she settled the trays of entries down. Neither of you was in a hurry to take a bite. You leaned back on the leather seat, barely concealing a weary sigh.
“What am I doing here, Art? If it’s to listen to your marriage problems, then I don’t think I’m equipped for that kind of task.”
“I don't expect you to do that."
He tapped on the glass of water distractedly, seeming to consider his words.
"I just want to tell you that you were right.”
“About what?”
“About Tashi.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was the truth, it always has been. Especially now. What you said about her.”
Your eyes widened as you realized what he was talking about. The fight between you before you broke up for good. You still remembered how you said Tashi was only using him. You dipped your head, feeling shame crawl to your cheeks.
“Look, it wasn’t my best moment, and I was harsh. I don’t know Tashi enough to talk about her like that.”
“But you were right. I just … didn’t think about it in the way you framed it. Her living through me because she couldn’t play. I ignored it because she made me a better player. For the longest time, I was okay with it."
You stayed quiet, watching as Art worked through the inner monologue in his head. Art didn't look at you, staring at the untouched plates of food instead, while his hand played with the straw wrapper. You had a feeling that he wasn't quite done.
"And then, I started to see … it. I can't remember a day that she didn't talk about tennis. The way she’s only happy when I win. She would reprimand me if I didn’t apply her guidance at times. I thought I could make her happy if I could be the person she wanted me to be. Still, I could feel it. Her resentment."
He swallowed before kept going.
“It was worse after my injury. I recovered from it, and she didn't. I think Tashi resents me for that as well. I’m still playing for the both of us, years later.”
You let the weight of his confession settle in. His shoulders slightly sagged, and you couldn't help but think about how he probably couldn't talk about this to anyone.
“Art, if you’re really unhappy, you can walk away. You know that.”
“I know, but we’ve been together for so long. It's not easy.”
You knew that feeling all too well. But that was where your difference split. You knew there was no point in delaying the inevitable.
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
Art looked at you, pondering over your question. A sad smile deepened in his frown lines.
“I thought I could talk to you, as a friend.”
“It sounds like you want something more.”
He licked his lips, contemplating his words.
“What if I did?”
You sighed, feeling memories of the past flapped their wings, overlapping with the present.
“What do you want me to say, Art? That I still love you and I want to run away with you? That's not who I am, and that’s not who you are, either. Deep down, you’re devoted to Tashi and your family. Look at you. You'll sacrifice your own happiness if that means your family can stay together. If it means staying with your wife even though you know she hates you. You’re not going to leave her.”
You knew that deep down because when he was with you, he yearned for Tashi. A part of him wanted Patrick, too, but it went unspoken due to the rivalry Tashi inspired. Yet, here he was, in this dimly lit restaurant, looking at you like you held the key to his heart, and if you said the words, he wouldn’t even question them. If you asked, he would leave this place with you.
“Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if we were still together. I will be happier. Would we have our own family? A little boy, or girl …”
His words rattled you to the bones. You grabbed your drink and took a large sip. All of a sudden, you were the one that couldn't look at him, while Art was on the opposite. His eyes on you were electrifying one moment, and intruding the next. He could see something was off in the way you went completely silent. You only realized that you hadn't said anything for a long moment, until Art softly called your name. You swallowed the lump in your throat that wouldn't go away, trying to find the words that you barely used outside of therapy sessions and many phone calls with your sister.
“I can't– I couldn't have given you what you have now. Maybe a nice house. But not a family."
You took a steadying breath.
"I’m … I have … endometriosis.”
You received the diagnosis a little while after your engagement to Isaac, your now ex-fiancé. After over a year of dating, when things had been serious between you two for a long time, he expressed his want to have kids. You didn't want any and were firm on the matter. But Isaac was nothing if not a sweet talker with a sharp silver tongue. He made the idea of having kids sound easy. Even heavenly. Your book sale was better than good and with Isaac's rich background, you were more than comfortable to have a kid. You decided to go for it. The first positive pregnancy test came with a proposal from Isaac shortly after. You were nervous but happy, and Felix always looked at you like you were his golden ticket. That statement turned out to be true, you couldn't help but laugh at the irony when you realized it later on.
The miscarriage happened just almost a month after you found out that you were pregnant. Recovery was tough, and after running some tests, the doctor told you that you had endometriosis. Isaac was pensive when the doctor broke the news, and his first question was if you could still get pregnant. The doctor responded with methods and treatments you could follow. But you didn't care for any of that anymore. The pain was all you could think about, its haunting memories plagued your mind. Your heart went completely numb when the searing pain took your breath away as you crouched on the floor of your bathroom. You could never forget the searing pain that sucked the air from your lungs as you collapsed to the floor of your bathroom, the sight of your clothes after you took them off. The bloody mess soaked through the materials and stained the white marble floor seared into your eyes while your heart pounded in your chest, knowing that something had gone very wrong. You needed time to recover, and possibly rethink the idea of having kids. But, Isaac, only a few days after you came back from the hospital, brought up many different sources and pamphlets and ideas on how he wanted to try different methods for kids right away. But you didn't want to. You didn't want to look at the evidence of your shortcomings, your harrowing experience with the pregnancy. But for some reason, Isaac insisted. When you asked if he wanted a baby or you more, he couldn't answer. You broke off the engagement, and Isaac moved out of your apartment two weeks after that.
A month later, Isaac's sister reached out to you, offering her sympathy and shedding some light on why he wanted to have a baby so badly. Their grandfather was old, dying, and most importantly, filthy rich. In his latest will, he stated that a part of his inheritance would be saved for his great-grandkids' education, paying for the best private schools in the country until they could go out into the world independently. Isaac wanted a cut of that money as well, and he needed to have a legitimate child to get a cut from his sister's two kids, who were the sole beneficiaries. It was another hard truth in a whirlwind year, and you thought that was the end of you. With the help of your sister, a few friends and a therapist, you eventually came out the other side. You poured your heart and time into your next book, forgot about dating, and kept on living the quiet life you craved.
After wrapping up the story, you glanced at Art to see his reaction. You were grateful to find compassion, and not pity as you had learned to expect from the few you told this story to. That was all you needed.
Art reached over the table and grasped your hand. You allowed his hand to linger on yours, his thumb caressed your skin soothingly. After a long moment, you pulled your hand away. Art pushed the dish of calamari forward, offering you a bite. You humoured him by taking a bite, feeling the crispy crumbs on your tongue. After the bite, you spoke with a resolve you'd learned from all these years.
“Tashi was who you wanted all these years ago. I knew it, even back then. You couldn’t quite break away from her.”
“I know, and it was unfair to you. But I hope you know that I truly loved you.”
You nodded. He didn't need to say it. A mutual understanding that was so deep that it would take both of you a lifetime to unlearn was something that you shared. Despite how your relationship ended, it didn't diminish your meaningful connection. The heart and mind were the strange and curious things despite their proximity to the body that contained them. You could control them in a way, but in the end, the heart wanted what it wanted, even though the morality deemed it wrong. You still cared for each other deeply, and even though years had passed since you last spoke, the connection was nurtured and forged in stone, becoming a part of your history that neither of you could ever forget. The concept was foreign, and you lived through it before you could truly understand it.
“Despite what happened, and I know I should hate you for it, but I’m glad that you got what you wanted. A great career. A family. Lily seems like a sweet girl.”
There was a touch of hesitation when Art spoke.
“She is. But there's … something else.”
You waited for him to go on. He eventually did, with doubt riddled his words.
“I think Tashi slept with Patrick after our engagement a few years ago.”
You blinked. You didn't anticipate that to come out of him.
“I was on a tour, and I … I couldn't sleep. She wasn't with me, so I went down to the lobby to find her. Then I saw her and Patrick sitting together. Someone distracted me, and when I turned around, they were gone.”
You considered your position, and decided to stay quiet.
“Maybe they went out for a smoke.”
“Tashi doesn’t smoke.”
“A drink, then?”
“There were two on the table by the time they left. Going to another place for drinks seems redundant. I’m not stupid, you know?”
You felt torn. Art deserved to know the truth, but it had to come from Tashi herself. You didn't want to meddle more than you had just by being here with Art and listening to the admission of how much he had missed you.
“Art. You have to ask yourself why you're thinking about the past and having doubts.”
When he didn't answer, you went on.
“Was it worth it to break your friendship with Patrick for Tashi? Are you happy with the choices you made?”
Art remained silent. He averted his eyes, a weariness weighed his shoulders down. You wanted to reach out, to almost say sorry for confronting him, but you kept your hands to yourself.
“It’s strange, how all of us are here.”
“Patrick is here as well?”
Art nodded.
“Yeah. I’m playing against him tomorrow.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Like we’re still playing for Tashi’s number.”
A sarcastic chuckle left his lips.
“He’s still the same. Cocky. Overconfident.”
“And still somehow got under your skin?”
“No. We’re too old for that game.”
A tentative look passed Art's eyes, and you could almost tell what he was about to say.
“He said that you two ran into each other a few years ago.”
“We did.”
“He mentioned that you spent the night together.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing. What you did with him is none of my business.”
You sucked your teeth before letting it go with a soft cluck.
“It’s funny. After all these years, you still can’t say what you really want to say. At least, Patrick was upfront about wanting to sleep with me.”
“So, you two didn’t …”
You waved a dismissive hand.
“Relax. For the record, we didn’t. I still loved you then. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“I know that I don’t have any right to feel jealous, but I can't help it.”
“You really don't.”
“I know. I’m the fucking worst."
You didn't feel the want to revel in the admission of guilt he had shown you. What you wanted to do was to tell him about how you felt after everything that happened.
“You really hurt me, Art. I couldn’t understand why you got engaged with Tashi so quickly after we broke up. I accepted why you wanted to be with her, but I couldn’t fathom the timing.”
“You broke up with me. And I desperately wanted to get over you. I was envious of Patrick and Tashi’s relationship for so long, and I wanted her attention for so long that I thought it was the only way to get over you.”
You sighed deeply, seeing the invisible repeating patterns that had started to resurface. You leaned over to the table and took his hand.
“You have to move on. If the three of you can’t find a way to be together, then you have to break apart. Don’t let this consume you. And stop punishing yourself. Tashi’s shortcomings aren’t yours to carry.”
Art nodded, his brows furrowed in a way that made you feel like he understood you completely. After a long moment, he turned to the jacket he left on the seat. You went to pull your hand away, but Art held onto it as if he didn't want to let you go. You let him hold you, running soothing circles on his skin. He pulled out a badge and placed it in front of you.
“It’s for you. Come, see me play. I’d love to have you there.”
You shook your head.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Please? I was hoping to have at least one person who has always been in my corner to be there.”
You rolled your eyes in good humour.
“You have plenty.”
“They’re not you.”
His eyes on you were serious and unwavering. You searched for an ounce of insincerity but came up with none. Eventually, you gave in with an exhale.
“Fine. I seem to have a soft spot for you.”
“I can say the same about you."
"Oh yeah?"
You whispered. Art locked you in with a searing look, arousing a warmth that spread all over your skin and inside. The space between you was compressed by a new proximity, so close that you could see the flutter in his long lashes.
"You are, somehow, still holding the best part of me. I have never stopped thinking about you.”
You reached out with your free hand and caressed his face. His lips kissed your palm, and you allowed him to linger for a moment.
“Too bad we aren't meant to be.”
/
Art drove you back to the hotel. Neither of you said too much, knowing everything was already laid out on the table back at the restaurant. You got out of the car first, and Art followed. You went in for a hug at the same time and met each other in the middle. His body was solid and warm, and a sense of wistfulness laved at your emotion receptor. Art wrapped his arms around you tighter, pulling you flush against him as if he didn’t want to let go. After a while, you broke apart. You walked away first since you didn't want to be seen together. Art called after you when you got into the elevator.
“I really hope to see you there.”
Your eyes locked to the very last moment. And then, you were alone with your reflection.
/
It was ten minutes past three in the morning. You fell in and out of sleep with Art's words echoing in your head. Frustrated and tired, you decided to seek a little assistance at the bar downstairs. You had about a finger of rum left when Tashi came in. You didn't bother to look away from her when she noticed you. She approached the bar and got herself a tea. You knocked back your drink and prepared to leave when she said.
“You know, I was surprised when Art offered to arrange the hotel.”
Your face was a blank slate. Tashi's carefully articulated what she wanted to show you.
“Then I found out that you were here as well.”
“I didn’t plan this.”
“I know. Art did. He saw an opportunity to see you and he took it.”
You met her pragmatic demeanour with your own unsentimental tone.
“Hm, sounds like you need to tighten your leash.”
“Look, I don’t care what he did, or has done with you tonight–”
“Does he need your permission for everything he does?”
“–as long as you don’t distract him from his game.”
She was unfazed. But so were you.
“Don’t worry Tashi. All we did was talk. I wouldn’t come between you two.”
You meant it, and Tashi's resolve softened. After a quiet standstill, she spoke with a sincerity you didn't expect.
“Art keeps tabs on you. He reads your books. He even annotates them.”
You were about to shrug her off when she said it.
“He still has the scarf you made him.”
The scarf. How could you forget? Taken aback by her confession and Art's affection, you could only stare. You had to come to terms with the outcome of your relationship with Art a long time ago, and no matter how intimate the new details were, they no longer held significance. What difference would that make now? You shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re the one that he wants.”
The bartender nodded as you gestured for another drink.
“Take care of him. He really loves you. ”
“Then why do I feel like I’m still second to you?”
“I felt the same way when we were in college.”
You shared a rueful smile. Her outfit picked at your curiosity.
“Why are you out so late?”
“I went out for … a smoke.”
“In this weather?”
“I'm just … worried about tomorrow.”
“I see.”
You nodded and didn't question her any further. Tashi stood up from her seat.
“See you tomorrow.”
“See you.”
She left the bar, leaving you alone with your drink.
/
You arrived early, grabbing yourself a seat in a familiar spot. The bleacher was filled with people and even more whispers on how it was a fated match between Art Donaldson, who had been on a losing streak, and Patrick Zweig, whose career had never taken off. Started from the same place, yet they had two wildly different paths and ended up in this place today.It had been a long time since you saw a tennis match in person, and you couldn't help but feel a little excitement.
The tension was palpable, knowing what you knew. You caught the looks exchanged between Art and Tashi, and Patrick's sneaky glances between the two of them. After the first set, they went on a break with Patrick in the lead. Art's eyes roamed over the audience, looking for you. You waved, and his eyes brightened when he found you. He gave a soft smile and a subtle nod. Your eyes stayed on each other until he broke the connection first.
Everything changed in the third set. Patrick copied Art’s serve. The atmosphere shifted. Art didn’t react. When he served, the ball hit the back wall hard, and the shout he emitted was something you’d never heard from him. Primal. Pained. His gaze shifted from Tashi to Patrick, before settling on you. The sheer vulnerability behind his eyes was heartbreaking. He held your eyes for a brief moment before turning away to get a new ball. Tashi noticed that, and craned her neck to look at you. You gazed back at her, sharing the same confused expression that she wore. Something Patrick did trigger Art, and while you didn’t know what it was, you could understand the severity of it.
The match went on. It was the most intense game you had ever seen. Your heart hammered in your chest as the rally kept going. The distance between Patrick and Art grew smaller and smaller. Art jumped, and the movement propelled him over the net. Patrick dropped his racquet, catching Art as he descended. Tashi’s scream pierced through the crowd's cheer. You exhaled in relief. It was something you’d never witnessed before. Based on Art and Patrick’s faces, it was the closure they needed. You stood up from your seat and left. You didn't need to know who won at the end. Something was unlocked between the three of them, and it was all you needed to see.
You didn't see Art’s longing gaze as he tried to find you in the audience when the match was over.
Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!
Pairing: Patrick Zweig x F!Reader, Art Donaldson x Tashi Duncan
Warnings: Angst.
Author's Note: I'm not going to apologize for what I've done, but I will apologize for uploading this chapter 10 minutes late.
GIF Source: @/spookyrps
2019. New Rochelle.
There was no music in the elevator, you noticed. You were alone with your thoughts that echoed back and forth in the chamber of your mind. Sleep didn't come easy the night before, even with the help of the prescribed sleeping pills you hardly ever reached for. After all these years, being face-to-face with Art still managed to draw a reaction from you. One that didn't make much sense. You were a different person now, as he was. Things had happened, and you had changed. Knowing that you were in the same building as Art Donaldson, separated by mere floors, shouldn't make you toss and turn in your bed. You were such a fool; you scolded yourself. He probably slept fine next to his gorgeous wife, with their adorable child in the room next to theirs.
Your likeness on the glossy surface of the elevator door appeared well-kempt, but it wasn't a truthful reflection of how you felt on the inside. The little makeup you used did its job, concealing the dark circles and adding colours to your face. Right there along the seam of yourself was the fatigue, worming its way into the slight slouch in your posture, weighing down your body's effort in keeping it upright. Remembering how your mom used to strike at your upper back so you would sit up straight, you straightened up out of an innate reflex.
The elevator door opened to reveal the first floor. You headed for the hallway Jennifer had led you down, barely passing the peripheral of Art as he stood there in the lobby, talking to a man you didn't recognize. You kept your face away from his direction and quickened your pace, hoping he hadn't spotted you yet. You sighed as the almost empty hallway welcomed you in, save for a couple of people ahead of you chattering about the seat placements. But the relief didn't last long. A familiar voice that you'd tried to forget for years called your name. The marble floor echoed the voice's owner's intention of catching up to you, hurried and rushed as if you were to disappear at any moment. You turned around, stopping him in his tracks – only a few steps from where you were standing.
Art was wearing casual attire, a fitted white t-shirt and black pants, yet he still managed to make them look phenomenal. He looked like he was about to head to practice. You remembered it, all those mornings after spending the night together, watching him getting ready for the day.
For a long moment, neither of you talked, only drinking each other in with your sights. Art broke the tension first, seeming to reprimand himself for staring at you.
"You look great."
"You, too."
You reciprocated, albeit a little cold. There was no reason for you to lie and no excuse for the conversation to be longer than it already was.
"It's good to see you."
You sighed and decided to cut to the chase.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm here for a challenger."
"No, I meant here, right now."
You pointed to the distance between you. His answer lingered on the tip of his tongue, undecided, but eventually rolled off and made itself audible to your ears.
"I … I want to talk to you."
"We have nothing to talk about."
You shook your head. Art took one step closer to you.
"I know that I'm not entitled to your time, but I've missed you."
The latter part ignited the anger in you. How could he say that so easily? You scoffed at his audacity; your own response came with a bite that aimed to hurt.
"I don't think your wife will appreciate what you've just said."
To your surprise, at the mention of the sore subject for the two of you, his resolve remained unchanged.
"Tashi has nothing to do with this."
"She has everything to do with us."
"Not when she resents me."
For the first time in your tense exchange, you relented. You searched for Art's eyes, looking for a hint of betrayal, of deception, but instead, you found defeat. Your resolve softened, and you felt the familiar pull of a memory from when you first met at the Stanford cafeteria thirteen years ago. Two lonely people meeting one another, and now, finding themselves in each other's paths again.
But it should end here.
"Your marriage problem isn't my responsibility to solve."
"I know, and I'm not asking you to. I just … want to talk about us."
You shrugged, keeping your tone nonchalant.
"There's no more us."
At that moment, a mix of voices from a group of people came out from the conference room area, chatting among themselves. The two of you involuntarily took a small step away from each other as if the guilt by distance association was enough to make anyone suspicious. Art's desperation was clear as day.
"Can we talk somewhere else?"
You couldn't say no, so you settled for the next best thing.
"I have to go."
"Can you at least think about it?"
Art closed the distance, reaching for your hand. You were pliant to his gentle touches, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions that lapped at your conscience. A piece of paper was placed in your palm.
"Text me. I'll figure out something for us."
You said nothing to his promise and walked away; your skin felt hot from his touch. You headed straight for the conference room, and your hand slipped the note Art gave you into the pocket of your blazer.
Art's number had not been a resident in your contact for a very long time. You stared at the ten digits later that night in your room, and your fingers itched to do something about it. Burn it or throw it away; it didn't matter. You knew you should do either of those things, but in the end, you couldn't.
At about 12:40 AM, Art sent you the address to a local restaurant that was about a ten-minute drive from the hotel.
Tomorrow night. 7:30.
As the day drew closer to night, the knot in your stomach tightened even more in anticipation. You sat in the car in the restaurant's parking lot for a while despite being there early. When it was 7:38, knowing you couldn't delay it any longer, you straightened your simple outfit and walked into the restaurant. You were greeted by a bored hostess on a slow night; the place was almost empty, save for two other occupied spots. Art's table was in a more secluded area, where privacy was afforded by the enclosed booth with fake vines cascading down to the back of the leather seats in intricate weaves and big leaves. Art stood up when he saw you. The familiarity of the scene stirred a long-forgotten memory that happened seven years ago.
2012. Columbus, Ohio.
Your first book tour. After the reading and signing event, you were free to do whatever you wished, and that meant roaming the aisle of a grocery store, browsing for juice, painkillers and some chocolate. Your eyes pored over the nutritional value, or lack thereof, of a pack of chips when you felt a pair of eyes on you. That, on top of the fact that they wandered into your peripheral and hadn't made the slightest move. You did a double-take when you saw Patrick Zweig standing within arm's reach with a self-assuring smirk on his face.
"Hey. It's you."
"It's… you."
You echoed his recognition, but on the contrary to his amusement, yours was the faintest touch of dread.
"It's been a while."
"It has been. How are you?"
You turned to face him fully. He scratched the back of his head with his free hand.
"I'm … great! You?"
"I'm good. What are you doing here?"
Patrick looked around the aisle as if the answer was obvious.
"In this grocery store? I'm getting groceries."
You looked at the basket in his other hand. It was filled with chips, soda and some bananas.
"Right. No, I mean, in the city."
"I'm here for a challenger. Well, was."
"What happened?"
"I got eliminated."
He dipped his head and averted his eyes from yours, seeming embarrassed by the admission of the fact.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"That's alright. At least I'm $300 richer now."
Patrick gestured to you.
"What about you? What are you doing here?"
"I'm on a book tour."
"Ahh. Sounds like you're doing very well for yourself."
"Thank you."
You felt sheepish at his compliment. The two of you fell into a lull of silence, your eyes intertwined in a languid game of cat and mouse. Patrick looked like he wanted to tell you something, but you had nothing to say to him. So you broke the silence first.
"Well, uh, it's very nice to see you again. I should go."
He stepped forward, trying to capture your attention in the way his body language created an invisible enclosure that temporarily held you in.
"Wait. Can we go somewhere else to talk? I think we have a lot to talk about."
"Do we?"
You levelled him with an incredulous look. But he met you with earnestness.
"Yes, we do."
"I don't think so."
"They got married last month."
It took you a brief moment to understand. Still, his decision to break the news to you in an abrupt manner took you by surprise. Your heart seemed to drop into a bottomless pit, and you could feel the frantic beat of it thrumming along every inch of your skin. You quickly fixed your frown into a forced smile.
"Well, that's great to hear. I'm happy for them."
Patrick gave you a look that said your effort was all in vain.
"You don't mean that."
"We all have to move on at some point. Unlike you."
The venomous bite of your words didn't go unnoticed by the dark-haired man before you.
"If you knew what I know, then you would be just like me."
You scoffed, crossing your arms.
"Please, we're not the same. Stop being cryptic and just say what you want to say."
He tilted his head at you, an idea dancing in his blue eyes.
"How about this? I'll tell you over dinner. We can use some catching up."
Your lack of a response made him feel like he needed to apply a little pressure.
"You'll want to know what happened. Trust me."
You rolled your eyes. You couldn't believe you were seriously considering his offer. You exhaled deeply and decided then that spending some time with your ex's wife's ex-boyfriend was better than a night alone in the hotel room.
"Where and what time?"
His smirk deepened, and you wanted to wipe that off of his face.
"There's an Applebee's nearby. How about we meet up there … around 7?"
"Fine."
That was how you ended up here, sitting across from Patrick Zweig, sipping on a Rum and Coke while waiting for your food. Whatever he wanted to say to you might pair better with the taste of alcohol. You hadn't even bothered to change out of the sundress you wore just hours before when you ran into him.
"How's it going for you career-wise?"
Patrick took a sip of his drink to delay answering your question.
"Oh, you know, it's … good. I'm making a name for myself."
You recalled his grocery haul, the pair of shorts that resembled pyjama pants, and the state of his car when you arrived around the same time as he did. The interior was messy, with rolled-up socks and clothes draping all over the back seat, trash and parking tickets in the front. Doubt swelled in your head.
"Are you? I have a feeling that you wouldn't be sleeping in your car if that was the case."
A playful smile appeared on his lips.
"Ouch. The hostel I was staying in had bed bugs, so my car was the next best option. I'll go to a motel after this, though."
You hummed, thinking back about what Art had told you about Patrick.
"Isn't your family rich?"
"They are. Not me."
His long middle finger traced the rim of his drink in a pensive mood.
"Why don't you ask them for help?"
"I don't want to. Let's just say we always fail to come to an agreement when it comes to the choices that I've made."
Your acknowledgement came in the form of slow nods of your head. You understood him for not wanting to depend on your family for anything. It would only give them one more reason to call you a disappointment for daring to seek their help.
The waiter brought out your food, and your conversation was pulled into a lull of quietude as you ate your food. You dabbed the corner of your mouth for a drop of the creamy pasta sauce, while Patrick munched on three pieces of fries. You picked up what was left off moments ago.
"You're still privileged in a way, you know? You could give up and crawl back to your family's mansion. I'm sure they'll welcome you back with open arms."
"I could. But there's no fun in that. Besides, I prefer being a disappointment anyway."
You shared a small chuckle. Under the low light of the restaurant, you allowed yourself to take him in fully. Curly dark hair, contrasted with the soft edges of his face. The light stubble along his jaw added a rugged charm to his laid-back attitude. You couldn't help but compare him to Art. Patrick's confidence was loud, veering on cocky. Art's was quiet, but full of surprises when the moment called for it.
The heady allure of Patrick and his association with Art had started to draw up dangerous ideas in your mind. You inhaled sharply, your fingers rubbed your temple in small circles in an attempt to bring yourself back to the conversation. The one you needed to have the moment you settled in the booth of Applebee's.
"So … they got married."
"Yeah. Pretty recently. Didn't even get an invite."
A sardonic huff of air escaped your lips.
"Join the club. I found out about their engagement last year, but I didn't think …"
You trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. But the silence did it for you. Patrick nodded.
"Art moves fast. He knows what he wants and he goes for it. And no one can tell him otherwise."
"I know it all too well."
"Little fucker."
You took a sip of your second Rum and Coke. A deep sigh escaped your lungs.
"I get it, though. She's beautiful, she's passionate about tennis. She can help him in ways that I can't."
At that, Patrick stayed quiet. His eyes took you in, all of your honesty and insecurity displayed in a glass case in front of him. You felt the briefest brush of vulnerability on your spine and shivered, but you ignored it. Despite the lack of dialogue and contact during the short period Patrick visited Stanford, your shared history ran deeper than the surface-level interaction that you had.
Patrick set down his burger and wiped his mouth with the napkin. His fingers created a rhythm on the wooden table, but then, the dull melody was cut short.
"Art is devoted to Tashi, but she's not."
"What do you mean?"
You prompted him to continue.
"Tennis is not everything to Art. But to Tashi, it is."
"I figured as much. It's not new news."
An inkling that Patrick was deliberately withholding information from you came to your mind. You sat up straighter, setting your fork down.
"Spill, Patrick."
He relented after a moment.
"I was in Atlanta last year. A couple of months after they got engaged."
You looked at him, unsure where he was going.
"Both of them were there for the Atlanta Open. I … saw Tashi in the hotel they were staying that night, and we … slept together."
You searched for a hint of deception in his face, only to come up with none. His face remained unreadable, betraying nothing, leaving only sincerity despite the irony of the situation. Your mouth opened, and closed, as you were at a loss for words. Patrick shrugged as if what he had just confessed was no more than a harmless, made-up tale.
"She wants an obedient little dog to carry out her fantasy of being a great tennis player. And Art is more than eager to do that for her."
He continued, seeming oblivious to your lack of response.
"She didn't seem happy, being engaged to Art. And if I can be honest, I think Tashi only likes Art because he's loyal to her to a fault, and he'll do anything to please her. I don't think she even loves him."
That somehow took you out of your bewildered state.
"Are you even listening to yourself? He was your best friend."
"My best friend? Who sabotaged my relationship, stole my girlfriend and basically abandoned me for her?"
Your rebuttal shot forward like a bullet out of its chamber.
"So you slept with her? To revenge? Even though she was engaged to Art? You're no better than him, Patrick. Two wrongs don't make one right."
You shook your head and couldn't help the thought that rolled off of your lips.
"You tennis players are such fucking assholes."
Patrick only nodded in agreement and didn't say anything. You sighed, asking the question you'd wanted to know.
"Does Art know?"
"I don't think so."
You shook your head, feeling a wave of fatigue taking over.
"I've had enough of you people. Just leave me alone."
He held his hands up in defence.
"All I'm saying is, you still have a chance if you want it."
You gave a rueful smile.
"Am I an idiot for wanting to believe you?"
He took his time, roaming over you with a pensive gaze. You felt exposed under it, after the confession you had never dared to verbalize out loud. Perhaps it was both of your positions in this game of tennis, the back and forth that inexplicably wove the four of you together in these intricate patterns, so tightly entangled with one another, that made you feel like Patrick would recognize. There was only understanding, and no judgement. The irony was that. Tennis was a simple game when you stripped it down to its barest principles, but the interconnection between everyone was anything but simple.
"No, you're not. You must really love him."
You looked down at your empty glass, unable to meet his eyes.
"I hate that I still feel this way about him."
Even though both of you were hurt by Art, you couldn't help the question that came afterward.
"Do you miss him?"
Patrick was his best friend, and Art was his. They had a life-long history between them that you weren't privy to. Your pain and his were different in kind, but you could understand all the same.
"I do."
The rest of the meal was cast in a sombre hue, with both of you mulling over a mutual understanding and the similarities you shared. Neither of you was the winner, but that didn't matter now.
/
"You didn't have to pay for my meal as well."
He said as you walked together to his car. You came here by taxi, and Patrick had offered to give you a ride back to your hotel. You waved a dismissive hand.
"Don't mention it. Giving me a ride back is enough."
His car was only within a few strides away when Patrick stepped in front of you.
"I can do more than that, you know? To pay you back."
"How?"
"I, we, can make Art jealous."
You halted and repeated your previous question. He arched an eyebrow, his expression said nothing but trouble, and when understanding dawned on you, you levelled him with a glare.
"No. Sleeping with you is the last thing I need right now."
"Who said anything about sleeping?"
You scoffed at the obvious bait, sidestepping him to reach the passenger side of his car.
"We can make out, take a photo, and I'll send it to Art. Make him realize what he's missing."
"If you want to kiss me, just say that. No need to make up excuses."
You rolled your eyes at him and realized just how much closer Patrick was to you than moments ago. He dipped his head to look at you, his gaze traced the shape of your lips and drifted to your eyes. When he spoke, his voice softened, low and careful, and your curiosity responded, pushing back the guard your inhibition had put up.
"I really do."
He leaned in, and you rose on your tiptoes to meet his lips. The touch was gentle and slow at first as you tested the pieces you needed to fit together. Then Patrick took over, and you followed his lead. His presence was all-encompassing, sweeping over your senses. Your lips lapsed and locked together in a feverish rhythm, a playful and exhilarating chase of lust. His tongue prodded at your entrance, and you opened yourself up to him. Your tongues intertwined, determined to draw whatever you needed from the other.
You didn't know when Patrick had pushed you up against his car, but you were grateful as your strength had become dependent on him. The cold metal of his car and the solid yet soft feel of his body created delicious friction on your skin. You grasped at each other's body, groping and pulling, your lips barely parted for a much-needed gulp of air. He grunted when you bit his lower lip, and that earned you a harsh, handful squeeze of your ass under your sundress. Your body called to his, and yet, a small part of your mind beckoned you to resurface, to come to the admission of the truth that you had been running away from.
Your ardour exchange slowed as you parted to breathe. Still, you met each other in the middle for brief touches, and you eventually pulled away. Patrick's thumb rubbed at the curve of your bottom lip as if he were admiring his work of art, which was swollen and glistening with his mark. His whisper was warm on your lips.
"Did you think about him?"
You nodded and swallowed.
"Did you think about her?"
It took him a moment, but he nodded. A woeful smile graced your swollen lips.
"I don't think this is a good idea."
"Revenge is always a good idea."
You touched his jaw, forcing him to meet your eyes.
"You don't win by sleeping with me. I don't want to be a perpetual pawn in the game that all three of you play. Besides, I don't think Art cares anymore."
Patrick shook his head.
"About what happened all those years ago? Maybe not. But I think he still cares about you."
"It doesn't make a difference though, does it?"
"I guess not."
You playfully and gently pushed him back, making Patrick set you down on your own shaky legs. Your front brushed against his arousal, and you bit your bottom lip in amusement.
"Come on, you still have to drive me back."
Before getting out of his car in front of your hotel, you reached for his hand.
"It was nice to see you again, Patrick. I really mean it."
His hand came up to meet yours, giving it a soft squeeze.
"You, too. I'm glad that we got to catch up."
You left his car without saying another word. Your heart was heavy, but at ease. Moving on and forward was your only option, but it felt much easier now. Still, you wished you would never have to see any of them ever again.
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