ana

[feyrinnn]

breaking ꒰no contact꒱ with ex!gojo

You and Satoru broke up for a reason, you keep reminding yourself.

But even months later and, ehm… other people later, you find yourself staring at his contact picture, typing and deleting the same message over and over again.

How are you even supposed to break no contact? Is there a good way of reaching out to your ex without coming across as desperate or delusional?

"I miss you" your fingers type.

Delete.

No way you're starting with that – even if it is the truth.

"Hope you're well" …you groan before you even finish typing that one, the little sound of each letter disappearing managing to piss you off even more.

You had heard it enough times already. A monotone soundtrack to every little memory of Satoru, both good and bad, that jumped to your mind without warning the longer you stared at his handsome picture.

It felt ridiculous to miss him that much. You had tried so hard to move on – maybe just to prove a point too. Because otherwise you’d have to admit what he knew all along.

You shouldn’t embarrass yourself like that, you decide with a long sigh, ready to lock the device.

But suddenly – three little dots appear on the screen.

satoru: just send it already i can't take it anymore

Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, and it takes everything in you to not throw the phone across the room and hide from sheer embarrassment.

Then it pings again.

satoru: hellooo?

Fuck.

Was it too late to change your number and move to a different country?

You sigh, finally typing a message you actually send.

y/n: how long have you been watching the screen

Three dots.

satoru: like 10 minutes

You let out a silent scream, heart hammering in your chest.

This is the worst possible scenario – time to deflect.

y/n: why the hell did you have my chat open anyway

Three dots again…

satoru: princess I've been waiting for this moment for months

Your cheeks heat up with something other than embarrassment this time.

y/n: you're an idiot

You know he’d practically be able to hear your pout through that text. But then–

satoru: that guy you were dating finally fuck up?

You let out a small chuckle at his honesty. And yeah, fuck up was putting it lightly, but you didn't exactly want to get into how every man since Satoru had been a complete disappointment.

You sigh, biting the inside of your cheek to try and force back the smile that tried to form on your lips.

y/n: guess you could say that

Satoru was typing again, three dots appearing and disappearing. Maybe he was the one deleting the messages on the other side now.

You could almost picture him – that wide cheese eating grin, celebrating his prophecy coming true. You hated how right he was about the fact you wouldn't find anyone better than him.

The overly confident bastard he was.

But the message you received wasn't smug at all. If anything, it made your heart ache with that familiar comfort no one but him seemed able to give you.

satoru: did he hurt you?

You felt a tightness in your throat as you typed out a yes. It's not like you were ever in love with the guy – you hadn't really been in love with anyone since, well… since the man you were texting right now.

White haired, blue eyed, handsome Satoru Gojo, shining so bright he overshadowed everyone in his wake, including you.

But how could anyone else even compare?

satoru: are you ok?

You bite your lower lip, reading and rereading his text. Yes that guy proved to be an asshole, but what was really making your chest hurt wasn't that short lived situationship – it was how much you missed Satoru.

Missed his stupid jokes. Missed the way he'd easily pick you up and place kisses all over your face. Missed cuddling on cold nights, laughing at the dumb movie he chose, baking cookies for lunch when his adorable pout convinced you it was healthy.

What was the use of lying, anyway?

y/n: i just really miss you

There. You finally admitted the truth you had been trying to conceal for months now.

And his response came so fast you wondered how his thumbs could type so quickly.

satoru: ill be there in 10

You laugh – Satoru easily lives a half an hour away, but you fully believe him.

How did you ever think you’d get over Satoru Gojo?

(important) DO NOT MESSAGE YOUR EX – unless he is satoru gojo, of course

permatags @madamechrissy @mercipourleveninx @septembermoonchild @plaguecxlt @nanamitiddiechomper @kekeanna266 @amazedfor @dogggggggblog-kaye @literallyadarling @dawnsoblivion @chewiebee @iquitfindingausername @valberryboos @pwd54gr54 @raendarkfaerie @bbfawns @itimisu @sapph22

art by @/hanare_615

[leevayiee]

▽ her gift △

⇒ 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂: after the devastation of the rumbling, the people of paradis struggle to rebuild their lives amidst the wreckage and the world’s lingering hatred. eren yeager, now a fugitive, wanders alone, avoiding soldiers and former allies alike. One night, exhausted and wounded, he stumbles upon a small, isolated house on the outskirts of a ruined town.

To his surprise, the girl living there—a quiet, self-sufficient woman who seems ignorant to what recently just happened—doesn’t question his presence. Instead, she simply gestures for him to come inside, offering him food and shelter as if he were any other traveler. "It wouldn't hurt to let him stay for the night." She thought

⇒ 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮: canonverse, hobo!eren, strangers to lovers, slow burn, fluff, comedy, angst, smut, mentions of torture & abuse, sexual content

⇒ 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰: eren x fem!oc

⇒ 𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰: 18+

note: it is my first time posting here & making a fanfic, please do be patient with me. tysm (´༎ຶོρ༎ຶོ`)

▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△▽

000, 001, 002, 003, 004, 005, 006, 007, 008, 009, 010, 011, 012, 013, 014

[moluvies]

crawl home ꔛ reiner braun x reader

a/n: spent way too long writing this bc i love reiner

words: 9.3k

cw: lowkey bff!jean, she/her pronouns and fem anatomy reader, soldier!reader, pre-timeskip friends/lovers, betrayal, forgiveness, reiner is pathetic, angsty, kinda serving friends to enemies to lovers, SMUT!!, oral (f!reader recieving), pinv sex, breeding, MDNI !!

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

Reiner was taller now, even if it was hard to believe. Maybe not as tall as Bertholdt was, but taller. Not only that, but while he maintained some of the more prominent muscles in his figure, it was noticeable how much weight he had lost. His hair was slightly longer - maybe he didn't keep up with cutting it as much as before. But to be fair, the change wasn't necessarily drastic. Not like the amount of facial hair he let grow out, which was completely ridiculous but so on brand for him.

But what did you care?

Your gaze lingered on him a moment longer, practically having to force yourself to look away from the man you swore was dead to you. But he wasn't, was he? He was standing right there, talking to Connie and Jean like nothing happened. As if the night prior Jean didn't literally punch him. Did they all just forgive him suddenly? Traitors.

You sighed. Maybe you were being dramatic.

The only thing you wanted to hear now was the sound of the water swishing beneath the boat, maybe even a seagull. But it was like you couldn't drown out his voice. It hadn't changed. It was exactly as you'd remembered it being about four years ago. Though, back then you swore you'd found it charming.

Odiha. That's where you were going, what you were focusing on, in order to service the flying boat that would help you and your fellow scouts reach the Rumbling, you needed to reach Odiha. To stop Eren. So why was Reiner's presence bothering you so much?

Reiner was your best friend at one point. When you first joined the cadet corps, it was obvious you were nervous to anyone who took a second to look. And for that, most people didn't see you as a potential reliable comrade.

Most people.

Reiner liked you. He had once playfully claimed you made funny faces during sparring exercises and took you under his wing, seeing your potential. Back then, Reiner had a talent for making anyone feel seen. Even stubborn cadets like Annie seemed to at least tolerate him, maybe even respect him.

So how could you not fall in love with him?

It was ridiculous how quick it happened. You were sure there were other girls vying for his attention just like you were, but you swore Reiner gave you special treatment. It was stupid.

Reiner would see you entering the mess hall and instantly make sure there was a spot open at his table for you. Bertholdt had typically sat across from him, but most of the time there was a spot directly next to Reiner conveniently available just for you. He'd call you by your last name over to their table, always a smile on his face, always so damn sure of himself.

"Bread?" He had offered, causing you to shake your head with a nervous smile on your face. Nervous. Not nervous enough, apparently. But that didn't matter—not when Reiner was offering you bread, or to train after hours with you, or take you into Stohess one weekend when you mentioned wanting a change of scenery.

"I know you wanted that muffin," Reiner said regretfully as you walked away from the bakery stall at the food market. "Sorry I couldn't get it for you."

You shook your head, mouth full from the cookie he'd already got for you just ten minutes prior. "It's fine, really," you assured him, words slightly muffled from the pastry.

Reiner simply smiled at you, taking a bite of his own cookie.

When you returned to Trost that evening as the sun was just beginning to set, the teasing from your comrades was relentless.

"Woah!" Connie had exclaimed, realization dawning on his face as he looked at you and Reiner entering the mess hall together. "Where've you been all day?" He asked, nosy as ever even if the answer was plain as day.

"A date. Is that really such a foreign concept to you?" Reiner had teased, making Connie grin mischievously.

A date. You had your suspicions that that's what it was, but Reiner hadn't explicitly said it. Not until Connie asked. The straightforward explanation made your heart race, gaze dropping instantly to your shoes as Connie's laughter filled the space.

"So that's why you've been polishing your boots and actually combing your hair. I was wondering what the special occasion was," Jean had said to you, his brow raised and arms crossed in a way that was so distinctly Jean. Despite the words, you were sure it was his own way of approving.

"Oh, my God, is that a hickey?" Sasha suddenly butt in, moving into your personal space. Her hands held your head in place as she stared at the scrape from training on your forehead.

"Hickey—what—Sasha, that's on my forehead!" You had defended, but it was too late. Multiple other cadets heard the word hickey and ran with it, causing a flurry of gossip surrounding you and Reiner. And Reiner didn't deny it. He just smiled at you, and somehow that made you feel better.

There were plenty of times he'd made you feel better. An embarrassing amount of times. A pathetic amount of times, considering what he might've been comforting you about.

You sniffled, attempting to straighten yourself out before dinner was served in the mess hall as you sat on a log on the outskirts of the training grounds, taking in the yellow and orange blend of sunset before you. Even with the view, your mind was elsewhere.

It hit you every now and then at random. Despite it happening almost five years ago, you had pushed the grief down as far as you could bury it when your family was killed during the breach of Wall Maria. You were so young when it happened, but suddenly you were alone. When the Armored had broken through the inner gate of the wall, your childhood home had been crushed by a stray boulder.

You were lucky. You came to terms with that at a young age. Far too lucky. It chipped away at you everyday since, even without you realizing. What made you so fortunate to have escaped? Avoided certain death like your family couldn't? What made that soldier step in and save you but not them?

The wondering was pointless, though. They died and you didn't. For some reason fate had kept you alive until now. And for that, you had to live with a purpose. Even if now that purpose was wiping your snotty nose and trying to compose yourself enough to go eat with your friends.

"Bread?"

You had looked up to see none other than Reiner holding out a small loaf, a second one for himself in his right hand. Hesitantly, you had taken it, using the moment Reiner sat down beside you to attempt to discreetly wipe at the tears on your cheeks.

He didn't ask. You supposed it wasn't his style, or maybe he just assumed you didn't want to talk about it.

Reiner simply took a bite of his bread next to you, leaning forward as he chewed. After moments of silence, Reiner looked at you for a second and then towards the sunset. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards into a soft, almost wistful smile, but he said nothing.

"What?" You finally asked.

He almost replied with "nothing," you could tell, but he sighed and leaned back, either hands at his sides resting on the log. "You know what I miss most about home?" Reiner asked, his gaze locked with the sky. "The way the sun would rise over the hills," he stated.

You realized you'd never talked about it—why you were crying that day. To be honest, you didn't want to. Something about his presence had just put you at ease back then, to the point you forgot all of your troubles.

When graduation drew near, you weren't even sure what Reiner's plan was. Everyone knew his perfect scores got him into the top ten, eligible to enlist as a military police officer in the interior. That would've been great for him, but you weren't sure where that left you.

You weren't with Reiner when the Collosal titan had appeared and breached the wall into Trost. But you were there when Eren was discovered to be a titan himself.

From there, something in Reiner had shifted.

Back then, you figured it was realization of some sort. Realization that things were complicated, things were scary, things were real...

Things got even more real when Marco died. Marco wasn't someone you were close with, but he was always there, always kind. If someone as capable as Marco, as determined, as strong, as kind as Marco could die, what would that mean for you and your friends?

Many cadets dropped out that day, despite graduation being so close. You almost did as well. Especially upon seeing Jean's reaction to Marco's death, you didn't know if you had the guts to continue.

But Reiner always had to step in.

"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for," he said, his strong hand on your shoulder. "Look at me," he commanded softly. You hesitated but met his eyes. They were serious, and almost cold now. Different from how they used to look at you. "I know you've got what it takes."

And that was that. Along with Jean, who was sure he'd join the military police, you joined the Survey Corps, falling under the wing of the Commander Erwin Smith.

You were terrified, but you had Reiner.

Things in your lives seemed to come to a halt when Annie was revealed to be a titan. And then Ymir, along with Krista being some kind of royalty and living with a completely different name—Historia.

It was all confusing and overwhelming, and you really wished Reiner was there for you. And he was, physically, always there. But then he was distant. Even when sitting directly beside you during meals like he did before, his focus was obviously elsewhere.

And then it happened.

You revisited that day often. When Reiner and Bertholdt transformed, and everything you thought you knew came crashing down.

You couldn't even cry, or scream, or do much of anything. You'd learned a long time ago to accept these things, but God did it hurt.

Then he was gone. He and Bertholdt, back to wherever they came from—their "hometown" as they so often called it. You didn't know back then, and you'd honestly stopped caring.

When Eren was rescued from them, he tried telling you on the way back what Reiner had said in response to him screaming at them. Eren had brought you up, telling Reiner about all the pain and trauma you endured years ago when the inner gate of Wall Maria was broken and your family was killed.

Sorry. Sorry was what he said, according to Eren.

What a coward.

The next time you saw Reiner was a few months later. But it wasn't really him. It was the Armored titan, the same one you remember from childhood who had breached the wall. And now here you were, back in Shiganshina with your fellow scouts.

The bloodshed was monumental in Shiganshina. Bertholdt had died, but Reiner lived—barely. You weren't there when Hange and Jean had captured him. And you were grateful you weren't. Just three months after discovering his true self, you knew you'd do something stupid like let him go if you had been there. But that part wasn't really up to you, and he got away regardless.

That's when you discovered the truth of everything. The titans, the walls, Paradis, Eldians.

You wished you could hate him. But everyday you'd hoped for the day you could speak to him again, just once.

Those feelings seemed to have formed into anger as the years passed. And by the time you and your fellow soldiers raided Liberio, you basically lived in a shell. You promised your comrades you weren't going to allow feelings to get in the way, and you delivered.

So much happened in such a short amount of time it was difficult to even remember it properly.

You remembered seeing him—really him—for the first time again on Paradis. He was almost pathetic looking now, but a part of your heart still yearned for him.

Were the feelings even the same, though?

You and the rest of the scouts had to compromise and join forces with the Warriors in order to put a stop to Eren's plan to go through with the Rumbling. It was the first night that Jean brutally punched Reiner at the campfire. Years ago, you might've blindly taken the side of Reiner. Hell, if he said a word to you since being back on the island maybe you would've defended him. But he didn't. So you let it happen.

When the kids, Gabi and Falco, rushed to Reiner's side after the altercation, you felt as though you needed to physically drag yourself away to avoid saying anything to him.

Instead, you found Jean, cooling off in the outskirts of the woods. His head was in his hands, leaning against a tree as he shook.

You placed a gentle hand on his arm, causing him to jump. You made eye contact, but he was quick to look away. Though, your small touch grounded him.

"Sorry about that," Jean apologized. "I got carried away." His voice was breaking, you'd noticed, but you shook your head.

"Don't apologize," you replied.

You made a choice that evening. The choice to stay loyal to your comrades instead of blindly following Reiner like you did when you were a dumb kid. But it didn't make it any less difficult when he stood there on the boat looking almost like he had years ago.

The expression on his face was that of determination. And the people at his side were none other than Jean and Connie.

You scoffed, pulling your gaze away from the men and staring off into the vast ocean—the ocean you didn't even knew existed years ago; the ocean Reiner didn't bother mentioning to you those nights you sat together for hours.

You'd gone over every emotion the past four years. You saw his side as best you could. Even so, it was hard to forgive. Especially when Reiner himself hadn't made an effort to speak to you.

"Hey." You didn't look up, you knew it was Jean.

"You gonna talk to loverboy or what?" He asked after a beat of silence. You finally lifted your head to shoot him a glare. Jean simply smiled, looking back at where Reiner and Connie were still talking and then back to you, sitting beside you on the bench.

You remained quiet for a moment after Jean sat beside you, your fingers absently picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. The gentle rock of the boat beneath you seemed to match the churning in your stomach.

"I'm not talking to him," you finally said, keeping your voice low despite the distance between you and the others.

Jean snorted. "Right. Because ignoring him is working so well for you."

You shot him another glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've been staring at him every chance you get since yesterday." Jean's knowing smile widened as your cheeks flushed with heat. "Don't worry, he's been doing the same thing."

Something fluttered in your chest at his words, but you quickly tamped it down. "Has he... said anything?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice smaller than you intended.

Jean chuckled, that same knowing look in his eyes that made you want to shove him off the bench and into the sea. But then his expression softened.

"No," he admitted. "But it's getting annoying watching you two dance around each other like this. You look at him when he's not looking, he looks at you when you turn away. It's really embarassing for both of you."

You sighed, turning your gaze back to the endless blue horizon. The vastness of the ocean still amazed you, even now. "Well, if he wanted to talk, he would've said something by now."

"Maybe he's thinking the same thing about you," Jean pointed out.

"That's different," you protested weakly.

"How?"

You opened your mouth to respond but found you didn't have an answer that wouldn't sound childish. Jean was right, and you both knew it.

"Look," Jean said, his voice gentler now, "I'm not exactly Reiner's biggest fan. You were there when I..." He flexed his hand, the same one he'd used to punch Reiner the night before, his knuckles reddened now. "But we're all stuck here together now. And whatever was between you two—"

"There was nothing between us," you interrupted, the lie bitter on your tongue.

Jean gave you a flat look. "You're a terrible liar. Always have been."

You looked down at your hands, suddenly finding your fingernails fascinating. "It doesn't matter now anyway."

"Maybe not," Jean agreed. "But you're never going to stop wondering if you don't at least talk to him once. Really talk to him."

The silence between you stretched for several long moments as you considered his words. The rational part of you knew he was right. This tension, this unspoken thing hanging in the air between you and Reiner, it would only continue to distract you. And with what lay ahead—with Eren and the Rumbling—you couldn't afford distractions. And more importantly, you didn't want to die with regrets.

"Fine," you muttered, standing up with a resigned sigh.

Without waiting for some type of reaction from Jean, you turned and made your way across the deck toward where Reiner and Connie stood. Your heart hammered against your ribs with each step, and you briefly considered turning back. But Jean's words echoed in your mind—you would never stop wondering if you didn't at least try.

Connie noticed you first, his animated conversation with Reiner faltering as you approached. Reiner turned, and for a moment, you were transported back to those days in the mess hall—him turning to call your name, saving you a seat beside him.

But his eyes weren't the same. They carried a weight now, dark shadows beneath them speaking of sleepless nights and unshakable guilt.

"Um, I'll just..." Connie mumbled, already backing away, but you barely registered his departure.

You stopped a few feet from Reiner, suddenly unsure what to say. All the anger, all the hurt, all the things you'd rehearsed in your head over the years—none of it seemed right now that he was standing in front of you.

"Can we talk?" The words came out steadier than you felt.

Reiner looked surprised, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear from you. He nodded once, hesitantly. "Yeah. Of course."

You nodded, and without another word, turned to lead the way to the stairs. You could feel his presence behind you as you descended into the dimly lit interior of the ship, the wooden steps creaking beneath your weight. The air was cooler here, tinged with the scent of salt and damp wood.

The sleeping cabins were arranged in a narrow corridor, small compartments with barely enough room for the bunks they contained. Most were empty now, with everyone gathered on the upper deck to watch the endless expanse of ocean passing by. You chose one at random, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

The room was tight, with just enough space for two narrow bunks built into the walls and a small porthole that cast a circle of fading evening light across the wooden floor. You sat on one of the bunks, the thin mattress sinking beneath your weight. Reiner hesitated at the doorway for a moment before entering and sitting on the opposite bunk, the space between you barely more than an arm's length but feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.

Reiner's shoulders hunched slightly, his large frame somehow seeming smaller in the confined space. His eyes darted around the cabin before finally settling on his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap.

You found yourself remembering another small space you'd shared once, years ago during a thunderstorm. The supply shed had been the closest shelter when the rain had caught you both during evening training. You'd sat side by side on crates of gear, listening to the rain hammer against the roof, shoulders touching as Reiner told stories about his hometown to distract you from the thunder. And you remembered how you felt when he held your hand, the way his touch was so gentle, his fingers lacing with yours. Back then, his voice had been warm, his smile easy, his eyes bright with something that made your heart race.

Now, he sat across from you, silent and tense, his gaze fixed on the floor between your feet. The only sound was the creaking of the ship around you and the distant, muffled voices from above.

The silence between you stretched until it became unbearable. Your fingers dug into the thin mattress beneath you, knuckles turning white with the pressure.

"My family is dead because of you," you finally said, your voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the heavy air. The words hung there, raw and unavoidable. "Every time I look at you, I see that day. The Armored Titan breaking through the gate. The boulder that crushed our home."

Reiner didn't flinch, didn't look away. He just nodded slowly, his eyes hollow. "I know."

"You know?" A bitter laugh escaped your lips. "That's all you have to say? You know?"

"What do you want me to say?" His voice was flat, resigned. The voice of a man who had already condemned himself a thousand times over.

"I want you to say something—anything—other than 'I know,'" you snapped, the anger you'd been holding back finally beginning to surface. "I want you to explain how you could sit with me that day by the training grounds, offering me bread while I cried about my family, knowing it was you who killed them."

Reiner's gaze dropped to the floor again. "I don't have an explanation that would make any sense to you."

"Try me," you challenged, leaning forward. "I've had four years to think about this, Reiner. Four years to try to understand."

He looked up then, and the defeated emptiness in his eyes almost made you recoil. This wasn't the Reiner you remembered—the strong, confident soldier who always seemed to know what to say, what to do. This was a shell of that man, worn down by guilt and grief.

"I compartmentalized," he said after a long moment. "The Warrior and the Soldier. Sometimes, I... I forgot which one was real."

"And which one was it?" you asked. "Which version of you was real, Reiner?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know anymore. Maybe neither."

You stood up abruptly, unable to sit still with the storm of emotions churning inside you. The cabin was too small to pace properly, but you moved to the porthole, looking out at the darkening sky without really seeing it.

"Do you have any idea what your betrayal did to me?" Your voice was quieter now, but no less intense. "It wasn't just that you were the Armored Titan. It was that you were you. Someone I..." You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Someone I cared about. A lot."

You heard the bunk creak as Reiner shifted his weight but didn't turn to look at him.

"I nearly quit the Scouts after you left," you continued, watching your breath fog the glass of the porthole. "I couldn't understand how I could have been so wrong about someone. How I could have trusted you so completely."

Your fingertips pressed against the cool glass as memories flooded back—training together in the rain, his hands adjusting your grip on the ODM gear controls, his laughter at your terrible jokes, the way his eyes would find yours across the mess hall.

"And it wasn't just you," you said, your voice growing thick with unshed tears. "I haven't been able to truly trust anyone since. Not completely. There's always this voice in the back of my mind asking if they're hiding something too. If they'll betray me just like you did."

"I'm sorry," Reiner said, his voice barely audible.

You whirled around to face him, anger flaring hot and bright. "Sorry doesn't bring my family back! Sorry doesn't erase the fact that you lied to me for years! Sorry doesn't change the fact that every memory I have of us is tainted now because I don't even know if any of it was real!"

"It was real," Reiner said, standing up now, something finally sparking in his eyes. "That's what you don't understand. It was all real for me too."

"How could it be real when it was all built on a lie?" Your voice rose, echoing in the small space.

"Because I didn't know how to separate the lie from the truth anymore!" He took a step toward you, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Do you think this has been easy for me? Do you think I just walked away and forgot about all of you—forgot about you?"

You stared at him, momentarily stunned by the sudden emotion in his voice.

"I've thought about you every single day since then," he continued, his voice breaking. "I see your face in my dreams. I hear your voice when it's quiet. You've been haunting me for four years, and I deserve it."

The raw pain in his voice knocked the breath from your lungs. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you stared at him, really seeing him for perhaps the first time since you'd learned the truth—not as the Armored Titan, not as the Warrior, not even as the Soldier, but as Reiner. Just Reiner, broken and haunted and so very human.

"I know you hate me," he said, quieter now, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. "You should hate me. If I could go back and change what I did..."

"But you can't," you whispered.

"No," he agreed. "I can't."

The admission hung between you, simple and devastating in its truth. You couldn't change the past. Your family was still gone. The walls were still broken. And Reiner—your Reiner—had still been the one to do it.

But the man standing before you now, shoulders slumped under the weight of his actions, eyes filled with a pain that mirrored your own—he wasn't the Armored Titan anymore. He was just as broken as you were.

Then suddenly you moved, your arms wrapping around his waist, your face pressed against his chest as sobs wracked your body. You could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against your cheek, so at odds with the broken man it belonged to.

For a terrible second, he remained frozen, and you thought you'd made a mistake. Then his arms came around you, tight and desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head as he buried his face in your hair. His body trembled against yours, and you realized he was crying too—silent, shuddering sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.

The stubborn shame that had kept you both at arm's length dissolved in the salt of your mingled tears. There, in the dim light of the cabin, with the gentle rocking of the ship beneath you and the uncertain future ahead, you held each other like the last two survivors of a shipwreck—broken, exhausted, but somehow still alive.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, holding each other in the dim light of the cabin, your tears gradually subsiding into uneven breaths. His arms around you felt both familiar and foreign—the shape of him changed, but the way he held you still the same.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to look up at him, your faces were inches apart. Your hands had somehow moved to his shoulders, feeling the unfamiliar angles where muscle had once been. His eyes, red-rimmed from crying, searched yours with a question he didn't dare voice.

"I still hate what you did," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I don't know if I can ever forgive that."

Reiner nodded slightly, accepting your words without defense. One of his hands had found its way to your face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear from your cheek.

"But I don't know how to hate you," you admitted, the confession tearing itself from somewhere deep inside you. "I've tried for four years, and I just... can't."

Something flickered in his eyes—a spark of something you hadn't seen since before everything fell apart. Hope, maybe. Or longing.

You weren't sure who closed the distance. Maybe both of you, drawn together like the inevitable pull of gravity. His lips found yours in a kiss that was hesitant at first, as if he expected you to push him away. When you didn't—when instead you pressed closer, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt—the hesitation gave way to a desperate need that matched your own.

Reiner's arms tightened around you, backing you against the wall beside the porthole. The cool glass pressed against your shoulder, a stark contrast to the heat of his body against yours. His kiss deepened, years of unspoken feelings pouring into it as his tongue met yours.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, longer now than you remembered. The scrape of his beard against your skin was new, and your heart skipped a beat at the way his breath hitched when you tugged gently at his hair.

When you pulled away again, breathless, his eyes were dark with a mixture of desire and pain. "I shouldn't be doing this," he whispered, even as his thumb traced circles on your hip. "After everything I've done..."

"Shut up," you murmured, pulling him back to you. "Just shut up, Reiner."

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob against your lips. "Still stubborn," he breathed.

Your hands tangled in his hair, eyes squeezed shut as you took in the feel of him. You were desperate, you knew. You felt pathetic, but you wanted him. Needed to be close to him.

"It's embarrassing how long I've wanted to do this," you murmured against his lips, your voice barely audible over the sound of your racing hearts.

His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed as he took an unsteady breath. "When we were back in training, that day in Stohess..." His voice was rough, trailing off as your lips found the curve of his jaw.

"Why didn't you kiss me then?" you asked, the question muffled against his skin.

Reiner's laugh was soft and broken. "I wanted to. Every second we were together." His hands slid down to your waist, anchoring you against him as if afraid you might disappear. "I told myself it was because of the mission. That I couldn't get distracted."

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your hand coming up to touch his face, feeling the unfamiliar texture of his beard beneath your fingertips. "And the real reason?"

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "I was afraid that if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. That I'd tell you everything." The admission seemed to cost him, his voice barely above a whisper. "And then you'd hate me."

"I did hate you," you said quietly. "When I found out."

His eyes clouded with pain, but he nodded. "I know."

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his again, more gently this time. "But I hated myself more for still wanting this. For still wanting you."

Reiner's response was to kiss you again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours more firmly against the wall. One hand tangled in your hair while the other gripped your hip, his touch both gentle and desperate. You could taste the salt of tears—whose, you weren't sure anymore—and something else, something uniquely him that you had tried so hard to forget.

The ship rocked with a stronger wave, causing you both to sway. Reiner's arm tightened around your waist, steadying you, and for a brief moment, you were back in the training grounds, his arms around you as he corrected your stance, his breath warm against your ear.

"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth, the words so quiet they might have been imagined. "Every day."

You didn't answer with words. You couldn't. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, alongside grief and betrayal and a hundred other emotions you couldn't name. But for now, in the dim light of the cabin with the sea stretching endlessly around you, you let yourself remember what it felt like to be in his arms.

Your lips found his again, harder this time, your teeth catching his lower lip in a way that made him groan. His hands tightened on you in response, lifting you slightly as he pressed you more firmly against the wall. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, years of longing and hurt and need pouring into it.

The world outside—Eren, the Rumbling, the fate that awaited all of you—seemed distant and unreal compared to the solid warmth of Reiner against you, the familiar-yet-different taste of his mouth, the sound of his ragged breathing mingling with your own.

This wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, tracing a path that made your breath catch, you realized it might be something like a beginning. A chance to finally confront all the things left unsaid between you, all the hurt and the betrayal, but also all the moments that had been real.

Reiner’s hands slid down your sides, fingers digging into your hips as he kissed you with a desperation that made your knees weak. The rough scrape of his beard against your skin sent shivers down your spine, and when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, you gasped—only for him to swallow the sound with another searing kiss.

This isn't at all how you expected your "talk" to go. Years of rehearsing different scripts in your head about how you'd tell him you hate him when you saw him, how you'd show him how it felt to feel betrayed and alone... All of those came crumbling down when he touched you like this, so gently but also so needy.

Not that the idea in general hadn't crossed your mind an embarrassing and pathetic amount of times. That, you couldn't deny. Since your cadet days you'd wondered what it would feel like with him, hoping he'd make a move. But he never did. Your heart skipped a beat when you felt the sadness well up inside you again, but that feeling quickly went away when he tilted his head to better kiss you.

His body pressed you harder against the wall, the heat of him searing through your clothes. You could feel the evidence of his arousal against your thigh, and the knowledge of how badly he wanted you—after all this time—sent a thrill through you.

Then, without warning, he broke the kiss, his breath ragged. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice rough.

You didn’t.

A low sound escaped him, something between a groan and a growl, before his hands tightened on your waist—and then he was lifting you, turning, and depositing you onto the narrow bunk behind you in one swift motion. The thin mattress barely cushioned the impact, but you barely had time to register it before Reiner was on his knees between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

His gaze flicked up to yours, searching, hesitant—like he still couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you.

"Please," he breathed, fingers curling into the fabric of your pants. "Let me taste you."

The raw need in his voice sent a jolt straight to your core. He was begging. Reiner—the man who had once been so confident, so sure of himself—was now on his knees for you, looking up at you like you were the only thing that could save him.

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat. You also didn't expect it to go like this. The Reiner that you knew back then presented himself to be some kind of big leader, something you admired because of how he never seemed to let it go to his head. He was one of the strongest, but he was humble.

So seeing him like this, desperate between your legs, felt almost like culture shock.

But even so, being with him, feeling him, talking to him all felt so good. So good you could cry. "Okay," you breathed, nodding.

His fingers trembled slightly as he undid the fastenings of your pants, tugging them down your legs along with your underwear. Your cunt was already pathetically wet just from making out, and suddenly you just wanted to close your legs so he wouldn't see how much he affected you. Stubborn pride still warred inside you even now. The cool air of the cabin ghosted over your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Reiner’s breath as he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, making your heart swell.

Reiner’s hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing over the damp curls between them. His breath stuttered when he saw how wet you were, his fingers tracing your folds with agonizing slowness.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

He kissed at your inner thighs some more, almost like he just couldn't get enough of the simple action. He'd lick at them, suck them, anything. Reiner was willing to drag this out, it seemed.

"Has anyone ever done this for you before?" Reiner asked, his tone carrying a mix of emotions, staring up at you with his pretty hazel eyes as he kissed at the soft skin of your thighs. Deep down, he selfishly hoped no one else had gotten to see you like this—feel you like this.

Your breath hitched at the sight, unable to pull your gaze away and similarly unable to stop your arousal and need as you felt yourself wet the sheets beneath you even further. "I don't see how that's any of your business," you replied stubbornly, wanting to keep the small amount of control you still held.

That gave Reiner all the answer he needed. "Hm," he responded, careful not to anger you, careful not to upset you. but also understanding and seeing just how much you wanted this—wanted him. And equally he was exceptionally aware of the way his cock twitched in his pants, desperate to make you feel good, desperate to feel your thighs around his head and your fingers against his scalp, desperate to hear you in these moments he's imagined you in so many times.

Reiner didn’t wait for another teasing remark from you—his mouth was on you in an instant, his tongue dragging a slow, filthy stripe up your soaked cunt, groaning against you like he’d been starving for this. The sound alone made your back arch off the bunk, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as his hands clamped down on your thighs, holding you open for him.

He was messy—no finesse, no practiced rhythm, just pure, desperate hunger. His tongue lapped at you like he was trying to memorize your taste, his nose pressing against your clit as he buried his face between your legs. Every flick of his tongue was sloppy, wet, loud, the obscene sounds of his mouth working you filling the tiny cabin. You could feel his stubble scraping against your sensitive skin, the rough drag only making the pleasure sharper, more overwhelming.

“Fuck—Reiner—” Your fingers tangled in his blonde hair, gripping hard as his tongue circled your clit before sucking it between his lips. His groan vibrated through you, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt your hips up, giving him better access as he devoured you.

He was relentless, like he’d been waiting years for this—because he had. Every muffled sound he made against your cunt, every time his tongue plunged inside you only to drag back up, every time his lips sealed around your clit to suck—it was all too much, and yet you never wanted it to stop.

His enthusiasm was almost embarrassing, the way he moaned into you like he was the one being pleasured, his hips moving against his hand as he rubbed his cock through his pants. You could feel the wetness of your own arousal smeared across his chin, and the sight alone had your thighs trembling around his head.

Drool mixed with your arousal, dripping down his chin as he ate you out like a man possessed. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, keeping you open for him as his tongue plunged inside you, fucking into you with rough, eager strokes before retreating to suck your clit again.

"Taste so good," he panted against you, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, fuck, I knew you would—"

His words cut off into a groan as he redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly over your clit before he sealed his lips around it again, sucking hard. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth on you filled the cabin, obscene and perfect, and you could feel the way his hips rocked slightly against the bunk, rutting into nothing as he got off on just tasting you.

"Been thinking about this—" he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in, his tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "—every night—"

His fingers dug into your thighs, leaving marks as he held you down, refusing to let you squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.

"Close," you choked out, your hips jerking against his mouth. "I’m so close—"

Reiner growled, the sound vibrating through you as he sucked your clit into his mouth one last time, his tongue flicking over it rapidly—

And then you were coming, your back bowing off the bunk as pleasure crashed through you in waves. He didn’t let up, licking you through it, swallowing every drop of you as you shuddered and gasped above him.

When you finally went limp, panting, he pulled back just enough to look up at you.

His chest heaved, his eyes dark with need. But above that, it was like he needed some confirmation he did good.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Are you okay?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him up your body until his weight settled over you, pressing you deeper into the thin mattress. His skin was fever-hot, his muscles taut with restraint, but his eyes—those damn hazel eyes—were soft, almost reverent, as he looked down at you.

You didn't answer, not verbally at least.

Your hand slid into his hair, gripping tight as you dragged his mouth to yours, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue. A rough groan tore from his throat, his hips jerking forward instinctively, the hard length of his cock grinding against your still-sensitive clit through his pants.

His groan was muffled against your mouth as you licked into him, your fingers tightening in his hair. You could feel the way his body shuddered when you nipped at his bottom lip, the way his hips jerked forward instinctively, grinding his cock—so fucking hard against your thigh.

“God, you’re—” His voice broke as you kissed him again, rougher this time, your teeth dragging over his lip. His hands gripped your waist, fingers digging in like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. “Fuck, I need—please—”

"Reiner," you breathed, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Please fuck me."

You could feel it—the way his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back, the way his breath came in ragged bursts against your mouth. His hands fumbled with his belt, his fingers shaking as he undid the buckle, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and aching for you.

Reiner didn’t waste another second.

He hooked his hands under your knees, spreading you wider, his gaze locked on where your slick glistened between your thighs. His breath hitched, his cock twitching against your stomach as he lined himself up, the blunt head pressing against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough.

You did.

His eyes burned into yours as he pushed inside, slow, so agonizingly slow, his jaw clenched tight as he fought to keep control. The stretch was delicious, the way your walls fluttered around him making his hips stutter.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. “You feel—Christ—you feel even better than I imagined.”

And then he was seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt. For a moment, neither of you moved—just breathed, just felt, the weight of years of longing crashing over you both.

Then—because he needed to see it, needed to know this was real—he leaned back on his heels, pulling out almost all the way just to watch the way your cunt clung to him, glistening and desperate, before slamming back in. His cock disappeared inside you, your wetness coating his dick as your body stretched to take him.

The sound you made was sinful.

Reiner’s hips snapped forward again, harder this time, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that made your toes curl. His grip shifted from your wrist to your hip, holding you in place as he fucked into you with slow, deep strokes—like he was savoring every second, like he wanted to memorize the way your body took him.

His dick glistened with your arousal, disappearing inside you with each thrust, your cunt gripping him like it was made for him. He couldn’t look away—couldn’t stop the way his breath hitched as he watched himself fuck into you, over and over, your body taking him so perfectly.

Reiner’s rhythm was relentless, each deep stroke dragging a gasp from your lips. His broad palm slid down your stomach, fingers gliding through your slick until his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, rough circles that made your toes curl.

"There you go," he murmured, voice thick with praise as he watched your face twist in pleasure. "So fucking pretty when you take me like this. Can’t believe you’re real—can’t believe I get to have you."

You whimpered, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, for everything. Reiner moaned at the way your body clenched around him, his thumb pressing harder against your clit.

"Love the way you take me," he panted, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. "Like you were made for me, huh? Made to take my cock just like this—shit—"

Then, without warning, he leaned forward, his chest pressing flush against yours, his weight pinning you completely beneath him. The new angle made him sink deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that had your vision whiting out for a second.

"There," he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. "That’s it, sweetheart. Let me have you just like this—fuck—"

His thrusts turned slower but impossibly harder, each one dragging a broken moan from your lips. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you again, swallowing your gasps like he needed them to survive.

He braced himself above you, muscles taut, sweat glistening on his skin as he watched your face—every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-off moan—like he was memorizing you all over again.

His hips rolled into yours with a deep, almost reverent grind, pressing so deep you could feel him in your ribs. Your breath hitched as he lingered there, his tip nudging that perfect, aching spot inside you before pulling back with a slow, torturous drag that made your toes curl.

"Feel how deep I am?" he breathed, his fingers tightening on your hip as he rocked into you again, slow and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. "Fuck, you’re perfect."

His voice was wrecked, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. But he didn’t rush—just kept moving inside you with that same maddening pace, every thrust a sweet torment.

"Could stay like this forever," he admitted, his lips brushing your jaw. "Just like this—buried inside you, feeling you clench around me like you never wanna let me go."

"Reiner," you whined.

"I've got you," he responded, hips never stopping.

And when your back arched, your body tightening around him, he didn’t speed up—just kept fucking you through it, his lips pressed to your neck, whispering praise as pleasure washed over you in waves.

Reiner’s thrusts grew more erratic, his control slipping as your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper with each desperate clench. His breath came in ragged gasps, his forehead pressed against yours as he fought to hold on just a little longer.

“I—fuck—I’m close,” he groaned, his voice rough with need. His fingers dug into your hips, his rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled tight in his gut.

You arched beneath him, nails scraping down his back as you panted, “Inside… please, Reiner—I want you to cum inside me.”

His entire body tensed at your words, a shudder running through him. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark with lust and something dangerously close to worship.

“Are you—fuck—are you sure?” he rasped, hips stuttering as he struggled to keep his pace steady.

You nodded, biting your lip as you clenched around him deliberately, drawing a broken groan from his lips.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Want to feel you—all of you.”

That was all it took.

Reiner’s restraint shattered.

"Fuck—gonna fill you up so good," he panted, his forehead dropping against yours. "Gonna make sure you feel it—"

You clenched around him, your own climax building again, and he cursed, his rhythm faltering.

"Come with me," he demanded, his voice wrecked. "Wanna feel you cum on my cock while I’m deep inside you—fuck—please—"

His words tipped you over the edge. Pleasure crashed through you, your body tightening around him in waves, and Reiner lost it.

With a growl that was almost feral, he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulsed inside you, hot and thick. His body shuddered violently, his fingers gripping you like a lifeline as he spilled deep, his release filling you in waves.

You could feel him pulsing inside you, his cock twitching as he rode out his orgasm, his forehead pressed to yours. When he finally stilled, he didn’t pull away—just stayed there, his body heavy and warm against yours, his breath slowly steadying.

After a long moment, he lifted his head, his gaze soft as he brushed a sweaty strand of hair from your face.

"Okay?" he murmured, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

You nodded, your fingers lazily tracing the muscles of his back.

Reiner exhaled, something like relief—or maybe wonder—flickering in his eyes before he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

"Good," he murmured against your mouth.

You lay in comfortable silence for what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Reiner's weight pressing you into the thin mattress, his breath warm against your neck. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, as though memorizing the feel of you. Neither of you wanted to break the spell, to acknowledge the world waiting outside this small cabin.

"I love you," you whispered finally, the words escaping before you could think better of them. They hung in the air between you, raw and honest.

Reiner stilled, his breath catching. Slowly, he raised himself up on his elbows to look at you, his hazel eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart skip. For a terrible moment, you thought you'd said too much, revealed too much of yourself to someone who had once betrayed you.

But then his expression softened, a genuine smile—one you hadn't seen in years—spreading across his face. "I love you too," he said, his voice steady and sure. "I always have."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. "I know it doesn't change anything," he murmured. "I know it doesn't make up for what I did. But it's true."

His eyes grew serious again. "Whatever happens with Eren, with the Rumbling… I'm going to protect you. I promise."

Before you could respond, a sharp knock at the door made you both jump.

"Hey, you two done?" Connie's voice called through the thin wood. "There's food up on the deck if you're interested. Kinda limited, but better than nothing."

You and Reiner exchanged wide-eyed looks before scrambling to get dressed, movements frantic and clumsy in the small space. Your fingers fumbled with buttons and clasps as you tried to make yourselves presentable.

"Uh, yeah," Reiner called back, his voice remarkably steady considering his panicked expression. "We'll be right there."

You could hear the smirk in Connie's voice as he replied, "Take your time. Not like we can hear everything through these paper-thin walls or anything."

Your face burned as you hurriedly tucked in your shirt. Reiner looked equally mortified, though a small, almost boyish grin played at the corners of his mouth when your eyes met.

"Ready?" he asked softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You nodded, taking a deep breath before opening the door. Connie was waiting in the narrow corridor, a knowing grin splitting his face. Without a word, he turned and headed up the stairs, gesturing for you both to follow.

Reiner went first, and you couldn't help but notice the way Connie immediately engaged him in animated conversation as they climbed, acting as though nothing unusual had happened at all. Their voices faded slightly as they reached the deck above.

Jean appeared at your side as you finished climbing the stairs.

"So," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I take it the talk went well?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "Yeah, really well," you replied, hoping that Connie was just teasing and no one else heard a thing.

"I just mean," he continued, a stupid and annoying grin on your face, "when I suggested you two clear the air, I didn't necessarily mean you should bring down the whole ship with your—"

Your face burned with embarrassment and fury. "I will literally throw you overboard, Jean," you hissed, shoving his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble back. "I swear to God—"

Jean laughed, ducking away from your next swing. "Hey, I'm happy for you guys! Honestly!" He held up his hands in surrender, still grinning as he backed up the stairs. "Just doing my part as your friend to give you shit about it."

[buniriski]

Nathan Prescott X Fem!Reader

The Rich Asshole . ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

masterlist

So i have a few conflicting emotions when it comes to this character. from when i found the game I hated this guy. Though like most people there is an ounce of remorse that we feel for this character. However, my love for him is so conflicting because as much as he is a victim, he is the reason for what happened to rachel. Anyways here is my little story with my conflicting feelings. ALSO YOU CAN SAY HE ISN’T AT FAULT BUT HE IS. just because he was lead to these decisions does not mean he still didn’t do them.

“Fuck off, Prescott!” Your voice snapped down the hall, sharp enough to make a freshman nearly drop his textbooks.

Nathan, slouched against the lockers like he owned the goddamn place, gave a slow, mocking clap. “Wow. Real mature, (Y/L/N). You kiss your mommy with that mouth?” His tone was lazy, but his eyes pinned you like a bug to a wall.

You marched toward him, shoving your bag higher onto your shoulder. “I’d rather kiss a loaded shotgun than deal with your shit for the next two weeks.”

Nathan pushed off the locker with a sneer, standing tall. Taller than you, not that you’d ever admit it.

“Newsflash, bitch you think I wanna work with you?” he snapped, crumpling the project assignment sheet in his fist. “I’d rather fucking drown in a Porta Potty.”

You jabbed a finger into his chest a stupid move, because under all that overpriced denim and leather, he was solid muscle but you were way past giving a shit. “Then drop out, Prescott. No one would miss you.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. You couldn’t tell because just as fast, he leaned in closer, face twisted in a sneer. “You’d miss me, sweetheart. You need someone to take your boring ass life up a notch.” His voice was low, practically a growl. “You’re so desperate for excitement you’ll probably fucking love having me around.”

“You’re delusional,” you spat, shoving past him.

But Nathan wasn’t done. He followed, keeping pace easily, his voice dropping into that dangerous, mocking tone he used when he wanted to pick someone apart. “Face it. You’re just pissed because you have to finally realized you’re not better than me.”

You whirled around, nearly slamming into his chest. “I am better than you,” you hissed, close enough to see the fine scars nicking the side of his jaw, the ones most people didn’t notice under the arrogant smirk. “I don’t have to buy my friends, or bribe my teachers ”

Nathan laughed, sharp and ugly. “Yeah? Keep telling yourself that, bitch. Maybe one day you’ll actually believe it.”

The tension between you vibrated like a taut wire, ready to snap. Across the hall, Mr. Jefferson poked his head out of his classroom door. “Everything okay over there?”

You both spoke at the same time:

“Fine,” you said through gritted teeth.

“Peachy,” Nathan drawled with a fake grin.

Mr. Jefferson raised an eyebrow but disappeared back into the classroom without another word. Nathan turned back to you, the smile dropping immediately. “We’re meeting at the library. Tomorrow. Four o’clock,” he said, his voice all business now, like he could barely stand to look at you.

“Don’t be fucking late, (Y/L/N). I don’t wanna waste more time than I have to babysitting your dumbass.”

You gave a mocking bow. “Oh, your majesty. Should I bring you a goddamn throne too?”

Nathan just rolled his eyes, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets as he stalked off down the hall without another glance at you. You stood there, fists clenched, heart pounding. God, you hated Nathan Prescott.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

The library clock ticked past 4:00 PM. You drummed your fingers on the table, glaring at the empty seat across from you. Your notebook lay open, pen uncapped. Still no Nathan.

At 4:17, he finally strolled in with all the grace of someone who gave absolutely zero fucks sunglasses on indoors, slouched walk, earphones dangling. You didn’t disappoint. “You’re fucking late,” you snapped the second he dropped into the chair across from you with a loud, obnoxious scrape. Nathan didn’t even look at you. Just threw his bag on the table, knocking your pen to the floor.

“Cry harder.”

You scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah? So’s your face, but here we are.”

You clenched your jaw, grabbing your pen. “You gonna actually contribute or just sit there throwing middle school insults?”

Nathan pulled out a crumpled folder and dropped it onto the table like it weighed ten pounds. “I already did my part. You can finish it. You’re the one who actually gives a shit.”

“You call this your part?” You flipped through the papers of barely legible answers. “This looks like it was written by a brain damaged raccoon.”

He smirked. “Well you and the raccoon have something in common. Both can’t shut the fuck up.”

You leaned in, voice low and furious. “I’m not doing this whole thing alone, Prescott. If I fail because of your lazy, coke snorting ass, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Nathan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze dark and slow. “Blow me, princess.”

You didn’t flinch. You just smiled. Sweet. Cold. “I don’t do charity work.”

A few heads turned. You didn’t care. Neither did he. Nathan barked out a laugh bitter, humorless and sat forward again, voice tighter. “You think you’re tough?”

“No,” you said, deadly calm. “I know I’m better than you. You just hate that I don’t suck up to your daddy’s money like everyone else in this school.”

His smile dropped like a stone. “You’re right,” he said, quiet and sharp. “You’re not like everyone else. You’re just louder, bitchier, and a hell of a lot more annoying.”

“At least I don’t need pills and daddy’s lawyers to make it through the day.”

“Fuck you,” he muttered, but he opened the book anyway. Slouched so low in his chair you wondered how he could even see the words.

You tried to focus on your own work, but the sound of Nathan tapping his pen against the table made your skin itch. Every two minutes he let out a sigh, a groan, or muttered some sarcastic shit under his breath.

Finally, you snapped.

“If you hate this so much, maybe you should’ve told Jefferson to pair you with someone who gives a shit about your trust fund problems.” Nathan slammed the book closed so hard it made a few nearby students jump.

“Yeah, because you’re so fucking perfect, huh? Probably got your whole boring little life planned out already. Graduate, go to some shitty state school, get a lame job, marry some douchebag with a Prius ”

“At least I’m not gonna OD in my daddy’s beach house!” you hissed back, the words out before you could stop them.

The library went deadly quiet. Even the air seemed to freeze. Nathan’s eyes darkened. His whole face twisted, raw and ugly, and for a terrifying second, you thought he might actually throw something at you. Instead, he stood up so fast his chair tipped over behind him.

“Fuck this,” he snarled.

The librarian barked from the desk, “Hey! shut up or get out!”

Nathan didn’t even flinch. He grabbed his bag and stormed out, shoving the door open so hard it banged against the wall. You stayed frozen in your seat, chest heaving, throat tight. Some students stared. Others pretended not to notice. Slowly, you packed up your things, the shame burning hotter than your anger now.

You left the library with your jaw tight and your fists clenched so hard your nails bit into your palms. Screw him. Screw his smug face, his broken homework, and that goddamn mouth that never shut up unless he was about to say something even worse.

The cold air outside was a slap, but it helped. You headed toward the dorms, steps quick and angry. Until you heard footsteps behind you. You glanced over your shoulder and sure enough, Nathan Prescott was trailing you, jacket half zipped, jaw set like he’d been chewing on broken glass. You stopped. “Are you seriously following me now? What, storming out wasn’t enough for you?”

Nathan didn’t stop until he was right in front of you. Too close. “Why the fuck are you always such a bitch to me?” he snapped.

You blinked. That… wasn’t what you expected. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he bit, eyes narrowed. “We’ve barely spoken before this week, and you act like you’ve got me all figured out. You’re always ready to throw shit at me like you know me.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came. For once, he wasn’t just being snide he was pissed, yeah, but there was something else under it. Something sharper. Real.

“What the hell did I do to you, huh?” he went on, voice rising. “We’ve never had a conversation before Jefferson paired us up, and you already decided I’m the devil or some shit.”

“You’ve got a reputation, Prescott. Don’t act surprised.”

He laughed. One dry, humorless breath. “Yeah? So that’s it? Some gossip, and suddenly you know who I am?”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t need to know you. I’ve seen enough.”

“No, you’ve seen what you want to see.” He leaned in slightly, voice low. “You think I’m some rich junkie asshole with a fucked up temper and a silver spoon so far up my ass I choke on it, right?” You didn’t answer. The silence said enough. Nathan’s tongue pressed against his cheek. He nodded slowly, like he was trying to swallow something bitter. “Right. Thought so.”

You shifted your weight. “Look, you act like a dick, Nathan. You treat people like they’re beneath you.”

“And you treat me like I’m already guilty of something I didn’t even fucking do.” His tone turned colder. “So what does that make you? If you’re throwing labels at someone without even trying to know them?”

You tried to shove past him, but he stepped in front of you again not touching you, but close enough to make your blood burn. “What? Can’t handle hearing it? You’re so sure you’re better than me?”

“I am better than you.”

“No,” he said, voice like ice, “what kind of self righteous bullshit is that”

You stared at him. His eyes weren’t glazed or cocky like usual, they were clear. You hated how it made your stomach twist. “Just stay the hell away from me,” you muttered.

He didn’t move. “Then stop talking about me like you know me. Because you don’t. And judging by today?” He tilted his head slightly, mouth curled in something bitter. “You’re not half as perfect as you like to pretend.” Then he finally stepped aside, letting you pass. But his words followed you all the way down the sidewalk.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

You moved through the halls walking beside Max while she rambled about her latest photo concept. Her words blurred something about natural light, shadows, an abandoned greenhouse. You nodded here and there, but your attention wasn’t really on her. Nathan Prescott stood across the hall, leaned casually against the lockers in that crimson red sweater he always wore like armor. His hands were shoved into his pockets, posture slouched, head tilted toward Victoria, who was perched beside him. She was talking fast probably gossiping and he was barely listening. His expression was eyes distant.

“Hey, you good?” Max asked, her voice soft as she glanced sideways at you.

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “Yeah. Just out of it.”

She smiled lightly. “Blackwell’ll do that to you.”

Across the hall, Nathan looked up. His eyes met yours. You expected him to smirk. Or scoff. Or whisper something to Victoria that would piss you off all over again. He didn’t. He just held your gaze. There was no fire in it this time.

Then Max nudged your shoulder. “C’mon, we’ll be late.”

You turned, walking with her toward class, but the moment stuck with you like a thorn beneath skin. He wasn’t just some cautionary tale wearing expensive clothes. you weren’t as far above the mess as you liked to pretend.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

You weren’t sure what possessed you to do it. You’d barely knocked twice before the door to Nathan’s dorm creaked open, not wide, just enough for a glimpse of his sharp glare and the darkened room behind him. His eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to work on the project,” you replied, shifting your weight.“You bailed on the library. I didn’t have your number.”

Nathan blinked once. Then, without warning, he reached out, grabbed your wrist, and yanked you inside. “Jesus!” The door slammed shut behind you. Before you could blink again, you were standing in the middle of his room dim, cluttered, with a faint smell of smoke and expensive cologne in the air. The only light came from a lamp on his desk, casting long shadows across the mess of camera equipment, crumpled notes, and an open bottle of water. He stood between you and the door, arms crossed, expression sharp.

“You shouldn’t be in the guys’ dorm.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not that deep, Prescott.”

“No,” he said, stepping a little closer, “it’s pathetic. You that desperate to see me? You stalking me now? Perv.”

You stared at him. “Are you always this fucking dramatic?” you snapped. “I came to work. On the project. The thing that’s due next week?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You couldn’t just ask for my number?”

“like your ass would indulge me in any conversation”

Nathan scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “And barging into my dorm was the better option?”

“You ditched me. Again.” You crossed your arms, mirroring him. “I’m not playing chase the rich kid so you can pretend this group project doesn’t exist. I showed up so we can finish the damn thing.”

He stared at you for a long beat.

Then, quietly, “You’re a fucking pain in my ass.”

“I’m passing this class.”

He turned away, flopping onto the edge of his unmade bed, elbows on his knees. “Fine,” he muttered. “If you’re gonna stand there taking over my space, grab a chair. Let’s get it over with.” You hesitated. Just for a second. Then sat down across from him silently waiting for Nathan to open the shared project file. But your eyes kept drifting. His desk was cluttered High end camera bodies rested in velvet lined foam. Lenses of varying sizes were stacked in an open case like polished glass trophies. Film rolls peeked out of a drawer he hadn’t shut properly. And on the wall above his bed, pinned with silver tacks, were photos.

Black and white. Grainy. Sharp.

Some were of strangers street shots, harsh shadows and sharp angles. Others were more abstract: empty chairs, cracked pavement, tree limbs twisting through fog. You didn’t mean to stare so long. But the compositions were striking. Not what you’d expected from someone who talked like he didn’t care about anything. Nathan sat on the edge of his bed, laptop open in front of him, fingers frozen over the keyboard. he wasn’t looking at the screen. He was watching you. Eyes low beneath his lashes, The tension from earlier had settled into something quieter not calm, exactly, but less volatile. He noticed the way your head tilted slightly as you studied a particular photo on the wall, your brow furrowed in faint curiosity. You looked different when you weren’t trying to bite back. He blinked, shook the thought away like an itch under his skin, and finally tapped the space bar.

“You gonna drool or you wanna help?” he muttered, loud enough to snap your attention back.

You blinked, jerking your head toward him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re staring at my shit”

You scoffed. “I was just surprised you’re actually good at something other than being an asshole.”

A grin flickered across his lips. “Wow. Touching praise from someone who broke into my dorm.”

“I didn’t break in.”

“guys dorm remember? That’s trespassing.”

You opened your mouth to fire back then caught the way his voice softened just slightly on that last word. Not enough to call it kind. You leaned forward, finally dragging the chair toward his desk. “Just show me what you’ve done so far. We’re not gonna finish anything if you keep acting like I poisoned your coffee.” He exhaled slowly, shifting the laptop so you could both see the screen. But his gaze lingered on you a second longer before turning to the document. You didn’t notice. He didn’t say anything.

You didn’t know how it happened but somewhere between reviewing the first slides and editing the captions, the two of you had stopped biting at each other. Nathan wasn’t exactly friendly, but he was… tolerable. He made a sarcastic comment about your font choice, and you rolled your eyes but didn’t snap. You pointed out a typo in his work, and he didn’t bark back, just muttered “Yeah, alright,” under his breath and fixed it.

life is strange isnt it?

The lamp on his desk cast a warm glow across the screen as the two of you leaned closer, arguing mildly about the placement of one of the images. You caught a soft twitch at the corner of his mouth not a smile, not quite but something quieter, like he wasn’t entirely annoyed you were here anymore. You glanced at the photo on the slide. One of his shots: a boy sitting on a curb, face obscured by shadow, light cutting sharp across his shoulder. “This one’s your best,” you said before you could stop yourself. Nathan’s eyes flicked to yours, He didn’t say anything. Just stared. Then, his phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

He glanced down, pulled it from his pocket lazily, still half focused on the screen. But the moment his eyes locked onto the message, something in him changed. Like a switch flipped. His shoulders tensed. Jaw tightened. Whatever softness had started to settle between you evaporated. He shoved the phone back into his pocket hard. You straightened, uncertain. “Everything okay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then voice low, clipped “You should go.”

The air dropped ten degrees.

You blinked. “What?”

“I said, you should leave.” He stood abruptly, already walking past you, pacing like the room had become too small to breathe in.

You stood, confused, watching him retreat toward the window without explanation.

“Nathan ”

“Don’t,” he snapped, not turning around. “It’s fine. Project’s fine. everything is fine. the world is fucking fine. I’ll send you the edits later.”

His voice was cold again. The weight was back in the room, that same heaviness you’d felt the first time he looked at you like you were just another person here to take something from him. You didn’t know who had texted him. Or why he looked like the ground had just shifted beneath him. But you didn’t ask. You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder slowly. “Thanks for not being a total dick today,” you said quietly.

No response. You walked to the door, hesitating just a moment before opening it. Nathan still hadn’t turned around. So you left quietly, without another word. The hallway light stung your eyes as the door clicked shut behind you.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

Nathan laid on his back, eyes wide open, blinking into the ceiling. He hadn’t moved in hours not really. He’d thrown on a hoodie sometime after you left, curled in on himself, and stared at nothing as the hours bled past midnight. His phone buzzed again. Another message. From the same number. He didn’t read it. His chest felt tight. He could hear his own breathing too fast, too shallow. His hands twitched where they gripped the edge of his mattress, fingers white knuckled and cold. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. But it felt worse tonight. Now shame thick in his throat, desperation louder than pride, he opened the school directory, found your name, and typed your number in. He stared at the digits for a long time. Then, he hit Call.

You woke up to the buzz of your phone on your nightstand, groggy and confused.

1:47 AM. Unknown Number.

You almost ignored it. Almost. Though you firmly believed doing stuff for the plot leads to funnier futures.

“Hello?”

For a few seconds, there was only silence. Then a quiet breath. A small, almost inaudible noise. Then, “Don’t hang up.”

Your heart stilled. “Nathan?”

“Um… hi?” you said slowly. “Why are you ”

“I just…” He sounded off. His voice was low, but shaky. Like he was trying to keep it together. “I can’t sleep.”

You were quiet for a second. Not sure what to say. It was weird. You barely knew him. The guy who made it very clear he didn’t want to work with you suddenly calling you in the middle of the night? The hell? “How did you get my number?”

“School directory. Look, I know it’s fucking weird, okay? Just fuck just don’t hang up yet.”

You leaned back in your bed, running a hand down your face. The annoyance faded just a little. There was something raw under his words, something fraying at the edges.

You exhaled. “Alright. I’m not hanging up. What’s going on?”

He didn’t answer right away. You heard him breathing though sharp inhales, shallow. Like he was pacing, or panicking.

“I just needed noise or something. I dunno. It’s like my chest’s full of needles.”

Okay. That was more than you expected. You pushed your blanket off and sat up fully, rubbing your eyes awake.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Sounds like a panic attack.”

He let out a laugh. It was bitter. Dry. “No shit.”

You stayed quiet a second, then started talking. Not about anything important just things to fill the space. You told him about the way your floorboards creaked weirdly when it got cold. The dumb poster your roommate hung crooked. The vending machine that kept eating your dollar bills. You weren’t sure why he stayed on the line. You weren’t sure why you did, either. But the minutes passed, and you could hear his breathing start to even out.

At one point, he said, quieter this time, “I didn’t know who else to call.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything. He stayed on the line until you heard nothing but slow, steady breathing. Then the call ended. You thought that was it. Just a one time weird moment. But the next night, your phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number. 12:18 AM.

You stared at it for a second. Then picked up. “Couldn’t sleep again?”

“Fuck off,” Nathan muttered, but his voice didn’t sound angry.

just like that, it became a thing. Not every night, but often enough. He’d call, and you’d talk him through it. Or he’d just listen while you rambled about whatever was in your head. Sometimes he didn’t even say much. You’d just hear his breathing. Then, one night, a text.

[1:03 AM] “Dorm’s a pressure cooker tonight. Need to get out. You up?”

You blinked down at it, thumb hovering over the screen. Then replied. “ok fuckboy, Where?”

[1:04 AM] “Back side of the art building. If you’re not scared of the dark or whatever.”

You pulled a hoodie over your head and slipped out the side door, keeping your steps light across the grass. You found him sitting on the low concrete wall, hoodie on, legs stretched out, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He didn’t look at you when you walked up.

“So… you make a habit of calling girls you don’t like at 1 a.m.?” you asked, standing over him.

He smirked, flicking ash. “You’re the only one dumb enough to answer.”

“Lucky me.”

He scooted over slightly. You sat down next to him, knees brushing briefly. He smelled faintly like smoke and laundry detergent. For a minute, neither of you said anything. Then he muttered, “Thanks. For not being a dick about the calls.”

You glanced at him. That was probably the closest thing to a thank you he was capable of. “Yeah, well,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder, “I’m not completely heartless.”

He gave a dry little laugh and took another drag. And for the first time since you’d met him, Nathan didn’t seem like he was pretending to be someone else.You hopped up beside him, the wall cold through your jeans. He handed you the cig wordlessly, and you took a drag, passing it back before pulling your phone from your hoodie pocket.

Three missed texts.

[1:52 AM Warren G.]

Where are you right now?

[1:53 AM Warren G.]

I just saw you from my window. Was that Nathan Prescott? Seriously??

[1:54 AM Warren G.]

[Y/N], what are you doing with him?

You stared at the screen for a long second, then locked it and shoved it deep into your pocket. You weren’t answering that.Warren was probably the reason you hated him so much. Right now Instead, you pulled a small joint from the hem of your hoodie tucked right where your sleeve met the wristband.

Nathan’s eyes tracked the motion, brow raising. “Since when do you carry?”

“Since tonight, apparently.” You lit it with a flick of a borrowed lighter, watching the paper curl into orange.

Nathan smirked faintly, but there was a flash of something in his face, curiosity. Not judgment. Just… surprise. “Rough night?”

You took a long pull, exhaled upward. “You could say that.”

You didn’t mention Warren. Didn’t mention the way your phone buzzed in your pocket like it was desperate to ruin the quiet. Nathan didn’t push. He just leaned back on his elbows, watching the smoke twist into the dark sky. What has been different from when you started interacting with Nathan more was not telling your friends everything. Warren might be the only reason you didnt like the guy that was sitting beside you. Though even hes such a stick in the mid sometimes.

“Not bad form,” he muttered.

“Thanks.”

He gave a soft snort, and for a minute, the tension dropped. You passed the joint over, and he took it without a word. The smoke danced lazily in the air between you, catching in the wind and disappearing into nothing. You leaned back beside him, body loose from the hit, brain a little fogged like your thoughts were wearing fuzzy socks on a hardwood floor. Nathan took another drag, eyes half lidded, and passed it back to you. You didn’t take it this time. Just stared forward, hands braced behind you, legs kicked out.

“You know,” you started, voice a little slower than usual, like you had to fish the words from somewhere murky, “I think I like you more than I realized.” Silence. You looked over, then quickly back at the dark stretch of campus in front of you. “I mean maybe it’s the high talking. Or maybe I’m just sleep deprived and having a brain glitch. Whatever.” You waved it off like it wasn’t a big deal, even though it felt like one. “It’s not like I know you, know you, but…”

You trailed off. The buzz of the joint mixed with the weight of that little truth hanging out in the open air now. Nathan blinked at you and then scoffed. “Wow,” he muttered with a crooked smile. “You catch feelings off one joint and a sad boy routine?.”

You turned to glare at him. “Shut up.”

“No, really. Should I light candles next time? Bring you flowers? Write you some poetry?” His grin stretched You went to snap back but then his hand brushed against yours on the concrete. Not accidental. He didn’t look at you when he did it. He just let his fingers slide over yours, catching them loosely. His palm was warm. Steady. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at him. Just stared at the building lights across the quad and let your hand stay in his.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Instead, you’d just laid there, reliving every second behind the art building Nathan’s hand in yours. he was warm. so warm. his eyes were glossy. the night ended later than any of you two could gather. Blackwell always felt a little gray in the morning, but today it there might have been a little pep in your step. Cold in the air, a small little nathan shaped warmth in your chest. You stepped into the hallway and spotted him before you were even fully through the door.

Nathan. Leaning against a locker laughing at something Victoria said, though it didn’t look real. Nothing about him did anymore. You slowed for just a second. “Shit,” he muttered, loud enough to carry. “Should’ve known the freak parade would show up early.”

Victoria snorted. “God, can she not?” Her eyes flicked over your clothes like she was personally offended by the fabric. “Every day’s a fashion crime with her.”

You froze mid step. Max and Warren were behind you, chatting, not realizing what you were walking into. Your heart stung before your brain could even process what was happening. Nathan pushed off the locker, brushing past you with a smug little smile. “Hope the janitors are getting paid extra,” he sneered, “cleaning up after your desperation.”

“What the hell, Prescott?” Warren stepped in fast, hand fisting at his side.

Nathan turned back, cocky, dangerous. “Relax, boy scout. Didn’t realize you two were still sharing notes. Or maybe it’s more than that, huh?” His eyes swept to you again, slower this time, and colder. “Figures. Nobody else would.”

ok pause. because what the fuck happened. Like yes he was an ass. the whole school knew that. Though considering the amount of time he was crawling into your messages, where the hell did this come from?

“Keep walking,” Max said lowly, stepping up beside you.

Max didn’t press. She never did. That was the nice thing about her. Since starting the school year, you both bonded on being new. well for you, relatively new and her coming back to her hometown.

Warren, though? At lunch, he was full of energy, waving you over like always. You sat down beside him and Max at your usual table under the half broken patio umbrella. He was in the middle of some rant about science fiction film logic when it happened.

“I’m just saying if a robot gains sentience, it doesn’t automatically mean it wants to kill us. That’s lazy writing ”

From across the quad, a loud snort cut him off.

“Wow,” Victoria said, not even bothering to keep her voice down. “Look who’s still wearing last season’s clearance rack.”

You blinked, confused, until you realized she was looking directly at you. Taylor giggled beside her, but it was Nathan who made your stomach drop. He pointed toward once at your table and leaned over to whisper something to Victoria. Then, loud enough for everyone near to hear “She should’ve stayed invisible. Worked better for her.”

Max stiffened beside you. “Jesus. What is their problem today?”

Warren stood up, indignant. “Hey. Why don’t you back off, Prescott?”

Nathan didn’t even look at him. His eyes were on you and they weren’t blank. They were cold. Icy. “Relax,” he said, tone bored. “Just making an observation.”

“You want me to make one too?” Warren snapped. “Like how you’re always hiding behind Victoria’s designer knockoffs?”

Victoria gasped like she’d been slapped. “Excuse me?”

Max grabbed Warren’s arm. “Not worth it,” she said quietly. You sat disguted. Nathan’s stare found you again. And just before he turned away, he said it not loud, but loud enough. “Better keep your pets on a leash.”

Then he walked off. Victoria followed, heels snapping against the pavement. The rest of the Vortex Club trailed behind them like spoiled royalty. You didn’t finish your lunch. You barely tasted anything after that. Max rubbed your shoulder gently, concern in her eyes. “You okay?”

You nodded. You lied. Because all you could hear was his voice, cold and clean and cutting a thousand miles from the one you’d heard whispering into the phone at 1 A.M. Like none of it had happened. Like you hadn’t happened.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

His eyes met yours, and for the first time all day, he was actually looking at you in the eyes. “Hey,” he said, voice soft.

You didn’t say it back.Instead, you stepped past him and into the room like it was a business meeting. Camera bag down. Laptop open. The wall between you and him went up brick by brick with every breath. “Let’s just get this done,” you said.

He didn’t argue. Just shut the door behind you quietly. You sat at his desk, the screen glow lighting your face. He hovered nearby, watching you scroll through edits like he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Or maybe like he didn’t know how to say anything at all. “I fixed the lighting on the last three shots,” you said flatly. “Yours were a little overexposed.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You’re better at that stuff anyway.”

You didn’t respond. Just kept clicking. He moved to sit on the edge of his bed, quiet for a while before asking, “Did you still wanna use that photo by the fountain?”

“I already did.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, glanced at you, then away. “You, uh… didn’t answer my text this morning.”

You didn’t look at him. “Didn’t think it needed a reply.”

Nathan nodded, jaw tight. “Right.”

Back to silence. He didn’t bring up what happened. Didn’t ask how you were. And you didn’t bring it up either not how he’d ignored you all day, not how the only time he seemed to be kind was when it was dark out and nobody else could see. Not how you were starting to wonder if this was all he had to give. Just this. Only at night. Only when no one else was looking. You highlighted a paragraph of text and rewrote it. He leaned closer, trying to peek at the screen.

“You’re really good at this,” he said quietly.

You flinched. Not visibly but inside, your bones rattled. It felt like a visceral reaction. You kept your voice neutral. “We’re almost done.”

He didn’t say anything else. You sat there together for another half hour, finishing edits. His bed creaked once when he shifted. You didn’t look. Eventually, you saved the file and stood up.

“That’s everything,” you said. “I’ll print it in the morning.”

Nathan watched you gather your things. “You don’t have to go yet,” he said, almost hesitant.

But you did. if he had just said something, you might understand. Though there isnt enough time in the world to be chasing after rich boy problems he doesnt want to address.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

She left.

Didn’t even look back. Just walked out of the dorm like she couldn’t get out fast enough. Yeah. That felt about right. Nathan stood there like an idiot, hands in his pockets, jaw tight, listening to the door click shut. it was some kind of final answer he didn’t ask for. You don’t have to go yet. He’d said it like a damn loser. Like he didn’t spend the entire day pretending she didn’t exist. she looked at him like he was a goddamn stranger. He sat down on his bed, rubbed at his face, dragged his hands through his hair like it would help. It didn’t. It never did. Everything just kept buzzing. Loud. In his ears, in his chest, like a swarm of flies under his skin. He should’ve said something. Anything. Should’ve told her why he was being weird. Why he was quiet. Why he didn’t even look at her earlier. But how the hell do you say,

Hey, I’m scared you’ll end up in the basement of an abandoned barn if I like you too much?

He laughed. Or choked. One of the two. God, his hands were shaking again. He stood up fast, paced once, twice, kicked his desk chair just to feel something and regretted it immediately. His toe throbbed. Whatever.

He was sweating. Why was he sweating?

He pulled off the red zip up and threw it at the wall. Didn’t stick. Just slumped down like everything else. Jefferson’s voice. Crawling back in like it always did.

“She’s interesting, isn’t she?”

“Got a real… natural quality. Honest.”

“The kind of face that looks good in contrast. You see it, right?”

“She’s got potential.”

Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

It didn’t help. Jefferson’s voice was calm. Already chosen.He didn’t want that. He didn’t want her anywhere near that world.But what the hell was he supposed to do? Jefferson noticed things. once he noticed, it was over. Nathan dropped back onto the floor, breathing fast now. he’d been running. someone was pressing down on his lungs and wouldn’t stop. He clutched his shirt, pulled at the collar, trying to get air. Trying to slow his thoughts. His heart. Anything. But it wouldn’t fucking slow down.

His vision blurred a little. Pressure in his head, behind his eyes. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek just to stop himself from crying or screaming or both.

He felt like he was going to throw up. Or pass out. Or explode. or all of the above. it all might actually happen. He didn’t know what was worse, the fact that he couldn’t be normal with her… or the fact that when he was, it made him want to protect her more than anything. That protection came with a cost. A choice. A name on a folder.

She didn’t know any of it. And she couldn’t.

until there was a knock at the door.

Nathan didn’t hear it the first time. Not really. Not over the ringing in his ears, or the ragged, frantic way he was trying to breathe. His back hit the wall. He didn’t remember moving. His hands were white knuckled fists against his chest like maybe that would keep it from splitting open.

Another knock.

He blinked. Everything was too bright and too dark at the same time. His name was a whisper behind the door “Nathan?”

Her voice. It hit him like ice water. He squeezed his eyes shut harder, digging his nails into his palms. Not now. Not like this. He couldn’t let her see him like

The door creaked open.

She stepped in fast, muttering under her breath, “God, of course I forgot my charger, that’s just whatever, not like it even ”

She stopped. Frozen. Nathan was on the floor. Slumped against the side of his bed, drenched in sweat, fists clenched so tight they shook. His chest heaved, erratic. Panicked. His face was pale, eyes red rimmed, wide and glassy. All that anger she’d brought with her white hot and ready to crack across the room halted like someone slammed the brakes. Her words died in her throat.

“…Nathan?”

He still didn’t look at her. Just gasped, breath catching hard in his throat, jaw clenched like he was trying not to cry. Or scream. Or both.

Her fingers curled around the charger in her hand. For a second, she stayed rooted to the floor, her heart pounding in her ears. Part of her screamed to turn around and walk away. He deserved that. After everything. Nathan barely registered when she moved closer. He couldn’t even look at her. Just pressed his fists against his temples like that would keep everything from collapsing.

She hovered there for a second, jaw tight, arms crossed. “You’re an asshole,” she muttered. Quiet. Bitter.

He looked like he couldn’t breathe. Cursing under her breath, she dropped the charger on his desk and stepped closer. Her knees hit the carpet slowly, hesitantly, right in front of him. She crouched down between his legs, biting her lip, watching him like he was whipped animal. She didn’t say anything right away. Just reached out, unsure, and carefully took his shaking hand.

Nathan flinched. Then his eyes finally lifted, just a little. Glassy. Bloodshot. Like he didn’t recognize her at first. But he didn’t pull away.

“Jesus…” she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady. “Nathan, you’re what the hell is going on with you?”

Still no answer. His fingers twitched in hers, breath still coming fast and shallow, but her hand grounded him. Little by little. Beat by beat. She wanted to yell. She really did. Wanted to scream at him for ignoring her. For looking through her like she didn’t matter. For pushing her away with no reason, no explanation, no damn warning.

Nathan’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched under hers, unsure, but desperate for the anchor. He gripped her hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.

“Breathe,” she said, voice flat but steady. “In. Out.”

He tried. God, he tried.

“Again.”

His lungs caught on the exhale, but he followed her voice. One breath. Then another. Her thumb moved gently across his knuckles. She didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at her. They just sat there. Angry. Shaking. Breathing.

“I’m still mad at you,” she said quietly. Just the truth.

All she could do was sit there. Mad. Hurt. Holding onto his hand like it was the only way to keep him from falling apart.

“I’m still pissed at you,” she murmured, after a long, long silence. “But I’m not gonna leave you like this.”

Nathan blinked hard. A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He looked away.

And still, she didn’t let go.

[not-neverland06]

How About a Nuke?

Part VII / Part VIII / Part IX

Series Masterlist

The ghoul x fem!reader A/N: PLEASE READ, this will be one of my darker chapters. I’m really sick right now, I have a bad fever, and when I’m sick I tend to write darker things. I’m not sure why, just keep that in mind while you read. Summary: You wake up alone surrounded by people with strange smiles and empty gazes. You’ve been left behind and you don’t know if you’ll be able to make it out of the compound alive.

You shift on the thin fabric of the cot and rub at your eyes. They’re crusted over with evidence that you’ve been sleeping for a lot longer than you meant to. You shoot up in the bed, panic flaring in you, and look around the room. He isn’t here, neither is his bag. The chair he’d been sitting in is still at the side of your bed, but no other evidence of him having been here. 

You throw your legs over the side of the cot and rip the IV out of your arm. You press your thumb down over the bubble of blood and walk towards the doorway of the room. The lights are out in the compound. You can tell from the window in the hall that it's night now, dim candles are lit along the hallway but there’s no other light. 

“Cooper?” You whisper, afraid to wake whoever lives on this floor. You look down each end of the hallway but you don’t see his silhouette or hear his spurs coming towards you. You can feel yourself starting to freak out the longer you stand alone in the dark hallway. 

With only a thin gown on and no weapons to protect yourself, you duck back in the room and lock the door. You’re sure there’s a reasonable explanation for where he is. He promised he would be here when you woke up. Maybe they’d just given him a different room. 

Though, you’re still frightened, you let yourself fall back onto the cot. You’re still exhausted, despite how much sleep you’ve already gotten. This is the first time in a while that you’re clean, not sleeping under the stars, and you don’t have to worry about radroaches gnawing on you. You don’t have enough adrenaline to keep you upright and find yourself slipping back into a dreamless sleep. 

The doorknob rattles and you jump out of bed. Without much thought you rip the door open, assuming Cooper would be on the other side. Instead a woman with bright red hair and an eerie smile looms over you. She’s startling tall, taller than anyone you’d encountered so far in the Wastelands. 

You stumble back as she advances, two armed men flocking her. “Where’s Cooper?” You demand, eyes darting around to try and find something you can use against her. You’re woefully unarmed in the room. Besides throwing a chair at her you can’t find anything to defend yourself with. 

“Who?” She asks, moving to take a seat in the chair he’d been occupying. You keep yourself backed in the corner of the room. Your eyes dart between her and her men but they seem completely at ease, the pistols on their hips going ignored. 

You glare at her, “You know who. The man I came here with.”

“Oh,” she laughed, the sound made your hair stand on end. There was nothing outwardly wrong with this woman, nothing you could point out anyway. Maybe it was the unusual length of her smile, or the lack of anything real behind her eyes, but you felt deeply uncomfortable around her. “The ghoul,” the word rolled off her tongue with a clear distaste. She sighed and shook her head, standing back up. 

She turned towards the door and looked back at you. “Join me.” It clearly wasn’t a question, not with the way her guards grabbed you by the arms and shoved you forward. You stumbled, bare feet tripping on the uneven tiled floors. 

She made her way down the hall, not once looking back to make sure you followed. It was clearly assumed that you would just obey. Despite how much you didn’t want to, you figured you would have a better chance of living through the next hour if you didn’t test the men with guns. 

You kept one arm around your abdomen, the raw wound aching. It wasn’t burning or itching like yesterday, but your skin was so sensitive it felt as though your stomach might fall through the stitches. “Lights,” she started, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin at the abrupt noise. Your eyes kept darting around the hallway, like someone was going to jump you any second. 

“Running water,” she continued, “agriculture. We have a steady supply of Radaway, meds, food. We are very fortunate here at the compound.”

“I’m sure,” you muttered. You passed by a room and she came to a stop. You glanced through the window of the room, little kids surrounded by pregnant women stared up at a man teaching them something on a chalkboard. You moved a little closer and frowned when you saw the diagram of a man and woman’s anatomy on the board. 

These kids were barely walking and they were already learning about the birds and bees?

You glanced up at the giant woman and shuddered, she had a predatory look on her face while she looked at the babies. What backwards hellhole did Cooper drag you into?

“We’re much luckier than other surface dwellers, our children no longer have to worry about fighting to survive.” A woman rolled past you in a rusted wheelchair, her belly practically bursting through her white gown, three men flocked her, their eyes straying towards you. You glanced from her and back to the window of the room. 

Was every woman here pregnant?

Feeling like a rat trapped in a cage you looked up at the red haired woman with trepidation. “Where’s Cooper?”

She smiled, the corners of her lips stretching too far across her cheeks to look real. “You no longer need to concern yourself with him. Your keeper has given you to the compound.” She kept talking but you couldn’t hear anything past the high pitched ringing in your ears. 

The room seemed to spin and you found yourself leaning on the wall for support. 

Cooper left you. 

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder and you flinched. You fought the burning feeling building behind your eyes and glared up at the woman. “We’ll finish the tour later. You seem to still be feeling unwell.” She looked to the men behind her and nodded, “Take her back.”

You didn’t get a chance to argue before they’d looped their arms through yours and were dragging you back down the hallway. They didn’t throw you in the room like you’d expected. If anything they seemed to be treating you gently. 

They laid you in the cot, propping you against the pillows and leaving without another word. You sat there stunned for a long time. You stared up at the cracked ceiling, surprised you weren’t freaking out more. Maybe it was shock, or whatever drugs they’d given you were keeping you numb. 

The most likely reason, though, was that deep down you’d never fully let yourself trust Cooper. That was what he had been drilling in your head this whole damn time. No one was to be trusted, not even him. 

You couldn’t be mad at him because it was your own damn fault for getting stabbed. You should have just let it get him, would have saved you a whole heap of problems. You throw the blankets off and get up. 

You’re not just gonna sit here and wallow the whole time. You got yourself stuck here, you’d get yourself out. You approach the door, fully expecting them to have locked you inside, but it pulls open without a problem. They must really not think you’re a threat. Not like you could blame them, you’d been half dead when you were dragged here. 

You creep down the hallway, going the opposite way the woman had been leading you this time. You round the corner, slamming into a little girl and and a man. You jump back, heart in your throat, but they don’t do anything except give you a smile and continue on. 

You suppose there’s nothing to suspect about you. You’re dressed like everyone here, in a gauzy white nightgown that goes to your ankles. You don’t have any weapons on you. If you act natural, you’re sure you can just blend in. 

You pass by another windowed room and risk a peek. You immediately wish you hadn’t. The woman on the wheelchair from earlier is squatting on the floor, holding onto the arms of a man. Her face is red and her hair is plastered to her head. She lets out a loud groan and another man removes his arms from under her gown, something small and wrinkly in his hands. 

He carries the baby to a table, weighing it, cleaning its face off and then hands it to her. You turn away, debating whether or not you should keep watching or just move on. This is incredibly intimate, a mother holding her newborn for the first time. But something about this whole place is off, there’s a deep feeling of instinctual fear in your gut that is leaving you on edge. 

You can make out muffled conversation from the room and peer back in. She smiles at the man holding her and he nods. She leans down and presses a long kiss to her baby’s forehead. The man who’d been observing this whole ordeal with a blank face steps up. He presses a pillow to the side of her head and then a gun. You stumble away from the window just as he pulls the trigger. 

The sound is muffled by the pillow, but the baby still cries as its mother goes limp. One of the men catches her body before she can fall, passing the baby off. One of them leaves with the kid, the other two collect her body and carry her out behind him. You make a run for it before they can spot you, the image of her blood spraying across the floor permanently burned into your brain. 

You don’t even bother trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for what you just saw. There isn’t one, there’s nothing that could explain what you just witnessed away. And Cooper had given you to these people. 

You could feel the rage building in you now. 

He stared down at the fire, the only sounds were the distant noises of bugs and the crackling of the burning logs. He felt odd, unsure of how to put it. It was quiet, despite the noises of the forest, everything seemed still to him. 

He glanced across the fire, expecting to see her there, surprised to find himself a little upset when she wasn’t. It’s not like he could be blamed for missing the company. Being on his own for over two hundred years was hard enough. Being on his own after having her around seemed worse somehow. 

Loneliness was easier when you forgot what you were missing. 

He shifted around but no matter how he moved he couldn’t get comfortable. The discomfort wasn’t something physical, it was a restless feeling brewing under his skin. Poking and prodding him until it couldn’t be ignored. 

Leaving her had felt like a smart choice. It seemed like the right thing to do. The compound should be safe enough. Then again, all he really knew about it was that it was only slightly more civilized than the rest of the Wastelands. 

He sighed and leaned back against the old wreckage he had propped himself against. He wouldn’t have shelter tonight, it was rare to find any that wasn't overrun by radroaches out in the sands anyway. With the light from the fire he couldn’t see much. But he could make out the old billboard across from him. 

It was the one she’d always hated and he loved. She was in that skimpy astronaut suit riding a rocket with a Nuka-Cola in her hand. He’s constantly bombarded by his Vault Boy posters. Seeing her shouldn’t bother him. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s ever seen one of her ads out here, anyway. 

But it hurts him in a way it hadn’t before. Now he knew that she’d never left him, that she’d been screwed by the same company that ruined his life. He sighed and ran a hand over his rough cheeks. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he shouldn’t be considering this. 

He should just leave it be, leave her be. But he can’t. Once he’s got his teeth dug into something, it’s nearly impossible to let it go. 

You should have been paying better attention to where you were running, but all you could see was that woman’s lifeless body clutching her crying baby to her chest. You stumbled through a door, racing down the stairs until you were sure you were at the bottom floor. 

You burst through the door, wincing at the bright sunlight that shone down on you. You heard the sound of laughter and children’s voices as they screamed and ran past you. You jumped out of their way, watching as they chased each other. 

You glanced around, confused and disoriented, trying to figure out where you were. It must’ve been the back of the compound, beyond the different crops and gardens you couldn’t see anything but a radiated ocean. It was the same odd blue the lake Cooper had taken you to had been. 

Men in dirtied clothes were bent over different crops and vegetables, digging around in them and pulling out ripe foods. Some older children assisted them, holding tools of their own or carrying baskets of different crops. But you didn’t see any women among them. 

“Lost?” You whirled around on the man behind you, he raised his hands up with a startled expression on his face. “Sorry, sorry, I thought you heard me walk up.”

“Who are you?”

He held out his hand, an odd smile on his face. Everyone here had the same smile, nearly genuine but lacking just enough life to be. You looked at his hand and then back at him, making no move to take it. He was undeterred and just reached forward, yanking your hand into his and crushing your palm in too firm a grip. “Ben, good to meet you, Sylvie told me to come find you.” He seems oddly familiar, but you can’t place why.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out Sylvie was the red head who’d been showing you around earlier. With one glance at the gun on his hip you figured this was another demand. You peered over your shoulder at the children again, surprised to find them already staring at you. The boys grinned but the girls didn’t even blink as Ben showed you back through the door. 

You took in a shaking breath and ascended the stairs once more, feeling your freedom slipping further away from you. Ben kept a tight grip on your wrist the whole way up. ”I’m excited to get to know you.”

You shot him a distrusting look and tried, unsuccessfully, to once more get him to release you. “Why would we be doing that?” 

He stopped and you were forced to follow. Your eyes bounced around the empty hallway, feeling incredibly on edge with the way he invaded your space. He had the eerie smile again, eyes roaming slowly up and down your form. “You are to be my breeding partner after all.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“Ben!”

You didn’t think you’d be happy to see Sylvie again, but right now you were ridiculously grateful for her interference. He backs off and it’s only then you feel like you can breathe again. You rip your wrist out of his grasp, rubbing away the bruise that bloomed under his hand. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you when you walk away and it takes everything in you not to turn around for another glance at him. 

Sylvie holds a door open for you at the end of the hall and you duck inside, trying to calm your racing heart after that interaction. “I apologize for Ben, he’s a bit overeager. He lost his partner this morning and I did promise him you,” she laughs and steps inside.

It’s only as she passes by you that the light goes on in your head. He’d been one of the men in the room with the mother. He’d been holding her. 

Your fists dig into the white fabric of your gown and you have to swallow the bile building in your throat down. Your hands are shaking horribly and your eyes go fuzzy. Lack of any real food is starting to catch up with you as your adrenaline spikes and plummets again. 

You’re not sure your heart can take much more of living in the Wastelands. 

Sylvie sits down at a long table, plates piled with food enough for ten people before her. But there are only two chairs, one for her, and you assume the other is for you. “Please,” she motions to the chair across from her, “sit.” Her tone brokers no negotiation and you find yourself walking on shaking legs to the other chair. 

You throw yourself down in it, staring blankly down at the plate. “What happened to his partner?” You whisper, unable to bring yourself to speak any louder. 

“It is the cycle of life here at our compound.” You glance up at her in astonishment but she’s not paying attention, just digging into her food. “Our goal is to repopulate the earth. Bring back society as it should be.”

“And how should it be?” You interrupt, fully disgusted by the people surrounding you now. “Because what I saw was sickening. You slaughtered her like she was an animal.”

Sylvie’s fork slams against the table and you jump in surprise. “That’s what she was, is.” She sighs and shakes her head, “It’s hard for an outsider to understand.”

“Then explain,” you order, voice sharp. You’re not going to play games with this woman. You want answers and you want them now. But more importantly you want to know why he would leave you here. How could he?

“Our mission, requires sacrifice. When they are ready, the women here are assigned a breeding partner. They give birth until they can’t and then…” That sickening grin was back and you found yourself shrinking back into your chair. “They provide for us in other ways. Organ harvesting is a very lucrative trade, did you know?” You shake your head mutely. “It’s what provides us with the medicine that saved your life last night.”

“The men? Does anything happen to them?”

She shrugs, digging into her meal once more. “They can reproduce much longer than women can. And when they can’t we find use for them in the fields. When they die, their body is used keep our agriculture thriving.” The woman you watched die this morning couldn’t have been older than thirty. 

And the man guarding Sylvie could have been the same age as your father. 

Cooper had sold you to be bred and then harvested. Like you were cattle. You glanced up at the guards but they weren’t looking at you. Why would they? Women clearly weren’t more than animals here. You could never be a threat. 

You slipped the knife off the table and into your sleeve. “And the women are okay with this?”

She looked at you like you were crazy for wondering such a thing. “Of course, they know they’re serving a higher purpose than themselves.” You scoffed in disbelief. Not only was this a human farm where you were harvested like a cow, you found yourself in the middle of some fucked up new world cult. 

“Did-” your voice cracks and you find the words difficult to get out. “Did Cooper know about this?”

“He would have had to.” She puts her fork down and digs through her pockets. She throws the dog tags he’d been carrying around at you. You catch them, noticing the back of the chain looked oddly melted. “The bounty he brought me, it was one of our old trading partners. Occasionally, we do business with the Brotherhood. One of their squires, he took a liking to one of our girls. She was sickly, too sickly to bring any more children to term. The day she was meant to be harvested he took her and they ran.”

She sighed and shook her head, a dark expression coming over her face. “I don’t take kindly to thieves. I wanted the tags as proof of his death.”

You didn’t know who the Brotherhood was, but you figured it was just another cult you didn’t want to know about. You placed the tags back on the table and stared down at your plate. “Couldn’t they have just stolen the tags and lied?”

She laughed and shook her head. “When his knight branded him, there was an accident. You couldn’t get those tags without taking his head off first.”

“And the girl?”

She looked up at you, frowning, “What about her?”

“Is she dead?” You knew Cooper was a bad man, but the thought of him shooting some defenseless girl made you sick to your stomach. Who could blame her for wanting to get out of this place?

Sylvie shrugged, “I don’t know. I’m sure without her little savior she’ll die eventually. She wasn’t made for Wasteland life.” Sylvie wiped her mouth and stood up. She rounded the table, coming to stand behind you, her rough palm circled around your nape and you whimpered at the tight grip. “See, there are things a lot worse than death waiting for you out there, little lamb. So, I suggest you learn your place here and be grateful for the few good years you’ll have left.”

She releases you with a shove and your hand shoots out to brace yourself against the edge of the table. She stalks towards the door, “You’ll join Ben tomorrow night. You have one night to make your peace with your place here.” The door slams shut and you finally feel the tears come.

He hears the coughing before he sees the shack. The smell of a rotting corpse overwhelms him and he figures the girl never bothered to move the body. How she’s lasted this long with the smell and gasses, he has no idea. But she was sick to begin with, he’s sure she won’t be lasting much longer. 

He throws the rickety wooden door open and steps over the bloated corpse of the squire he’d collected his bounty from. Sure enough, as he’d been expecting, the girl is curled up in the corner of the shed. She’s skin and bones at this point, her coughing causing her whole body to shake with painful tremors. 

She peers out from between her arms and levels him with a glare. Her eyes are bloodshot, the whites of them now yellow. “You.”

He leans against the table in the middle of the room and nods, “Me.”

“What,” she coughs again and his face screws up at the blood that dribbles from her lips. “What do you want now? Here to finish the job?”

He shakes his head, pulling out a Stimpak and some ration bars. She eyes the supplies hungrily, a rabid desperation on her frail face. She reaches for them but he places them just out of her reach, a cruel look on his face. “Need some answers.”

“About what?”

“The place your little boyfriend stole you from. My friend’s there, I need to know why exactly you left.”

She laughs, the sound cruel and costing. She wipes more blood from her mouth, a vicious grin on her lips. “Sorry, but your friend is fucked.” She pauses and the shakes her head, “Or she’s getting fucked at least. Over. And over. And over again. They certainly don’t waste any time there.”

She reaches for a bar again but he glares and pulls them back. She sighs and slumps against the wall. “What,” he snaps, “are you talking about?”

“They harvest us. The chickens are treated better than we are. They used us to make their little soldiers, until we can’t push them out anymore. And then they harvest us for parts. My little brother was five when he was taken, he was sick like me. He just didn’t hide it as well. They make sure you’re useful to them, dead or alive.” 

He doesn’t waste anymore time with her. He tosses the supplies at her and runs back out of the shed. Maybe, maybe, he’d had some suspicions about them being less than kind. But it was the Wastelands, no one here was truly good. 

He never would have thought it was going to be this bad. He never would have left her there if he thought something like this would happen. 

That’s what that woman had been talking about when she said compensation. He was fucking selling her, like a prize pig. He had wasted too much time traveling here for the confirmation. He should have just followed his gut instinct and gone back. But he was too fucking stubborn to let himself. 

He didn’t want to think that he was panicking. He had at one point considered killing her himself. Hell, he’d shot the girl. Why would it bother him so much if someone else did it?

He’d lost too much. He wasn’t entirely sure he could lose her again.

Your palm is wrapped around the handle of the knife you’d taken when the door creaks open. You tense up but otherwise remain still. The sound of muddy boots squelches across the tiles. You stay hidden under the covers. The moonlight from the window is just bright enough to cast a shadow over whoever is sneaking into your room. 

You smell him before you feel him. The smell of earth and vegetables suffocating you just as rough hands wrap around your arm. “Hey-”

You shoot up, uncurling like a viper and slamming your hand into his throat before he can even try to shout. Ben’s eyes flare wide, terror consuming them before you twist the knife and rip it out. Arterial blood sprays across your face and he slumps to the floor, limp. 

You rush to close the door and turn back to him. He’s a big man, tall and buff with muscle, you strip off his work shirt and pants, figuring they’ll just have to work for now. You take his boots and stuff his socks into the tips so they’ll fit better. You grasp the pistol off his waist and tuck it into your belt. 

You go through all the drawers and cabinets of the room. You take any supplies you can find and toss them in a pillow case before unlocking the door and slipping back into the hallway. You don’t hear the telltale sounds of guards patrolling and figure you should be able to slip out through the stairs. 

You’re almost down the steps when you stop. Something in you won’t let you go any farther. Your mind jumps to Sylvie. How casually she’d discussed the slaughter of women over her lunch. How quick she was to turn you into cattle rather than view you as something human. 

That familiar rage you used to feel builds up in you. Your entire adult life you’d fought to be viewed as a real person. As someone who deserved the same care and respect everyone else got. And she, a woman, was so quick to tear that away from you. To perpetuate further suffering as long as she got to profit off of it. 

You back out of the stairwell and head down the hallway. You blindly walk the path you’d walked earlier to her quarters. You see that mother in your head, clutching her baby as she drew her last breath. And she’d known it was coming. Every girl here knew what was coming.

Little boys got to smile and laugh and play and the girls grew up knowing what their fate was going to be. And they were content with it. 

Two guards are stationed outside of Sylvie’s door. You shoot them both. You know the sounds will alert others. You don’t have much time left. You burst through the door of her room. Her lamp is on and she’s already waiting for you. Her gun is on her lap, and she’s smiling at you as you walk in. “You can still turn around-”

“I know my place,” you interrupt and she frowns. “I’m not letting pricks like you, who think they get a gun and rule the world, make decisions for me anymore.” She reaches for the revolver on her lap but you’re pulling the trigger faster. The bullet tears through her throat and she lurches forward. Her hands claw desperately at her neck, blood pouring between her fingers. 

You run forward, pulling the revolver from her lap and tuck it into the waistband of your pants. You make your way out the door and towards the stairs again. You can hear booted footsteps rushing towards you, nearly at the doorway just as you slam it closed. 

You manage to fly down one flight of stairs before the door’s crashing open and slamming into the wall. Shouts echo through the stairwell. Orders to shoot you are issued but you’re barreling through the gate of the compound before they can grab you. 

You look behind you, watching as all the guards search the grounds for you and you laugh. You nearly can’t believe it. That you made it out, that you finally stood up for yourself. For a moment in there you’d almost considered giving in and just letting it happen. 

Living in the Wastelands was hard, giving in would be so easy. Letting someone just make the decisions for you would be easy. But the base instinct of survival is a tough opponent to beat. You couldn’t let yourself give up and give in to another person who thought humans were just another form of compensation. 

You only have one last stop to make. 

He’d had to camp for the night before he could make it back to the compound. He hadn’t wanted to stop but he figured they’d paid him so well that they weren’t planning on just getting rid of her the first night. He’d go by tomorrow and take her back. How well that went was up to them. 

He stared into the fire and sighed. He felt like a fucking fool leaving her there. He should know better. But he’d been so desperate to just get rid of her it was easy to ignore all the signs telling him not to. He couldn’t handle her anymore. Couldn’t handle all the old emotions she drudged up around him. 

He couldn’t be what she wanted, what she needed. Deep down, maybe, the old Cooper was still in there. But he wasn’t willing to bring him back. Not for her, not for anybody. That didn’t mean he was just going to let her die, though.

He was squatted by the dying fire, eating some jerky, when he heard someone approaching. He didn’t get a chance to turn around before a shot was going off and his hat was flying off his head. It lands in the sand behind him and he turns, almost surprised to find her. 

She’s got a revolver in her hand, dried specks of blood on her cheeks. “You better pray you didn’t just put a hole in my hat, sweetheart.” She narrows her eyes at him and lowers the gun.

“You sold me.”

He stands up and raises his hands in a placating motion. She’s trigger happy, but he knows she isn’t gonna shoot him. If she was, she would have done it a long time ago. “In my defense, darling, I didn’t know they were a bunch of sickos.”

She scoffs, eyes wide with disbelief. “Really? So they didn’t pay you for me?”

He sucks on his teeth and frowns, “Well-”

“Just shut up!” She stares at him in astonishment, shaking her head and muttering something to herself. His eyes stay on the revolver in her hands as she waves it around wildly, trying to figure out the best way to get her to put it down. 

“I was on my way back for you, darling.”

She whirls around, the gun up and pointing at him again. “Yeah, like I’ll believe anything you’ll say to me right now.” She backs away from him and her fists clench around something dangling from her left hand. He finally notices the tags she’s holding now. The same one’s he’d given Sylvie. 

Just what the hell had she done to get out of there? He’s almost impressed by her sheer stubbornness to stay alive. 

“The girl, the one who was with your bounty, what happened to her?”

He shook his head, “Nothing. I left her where she was.” Her thumbs pulls the hammer of the revolver back and he laughs. He can’t stop himself from antagonizing her, taking a sick sort of satisfaction from the fact that he could push her as much as he wanted and she still wouldn’t pull the trigger. 

“She reminded me of you. Battered and bruised, used up and left behind. She couldn’t protect herself, couldn’t even drag her boyfriend’s corpse out of their little hut.”

Her eyes get glossy and he takes in the sight with a grin. She always had been pretty when she cried. “You are a bad person. And I knew that and still tried to find something good in you. But you are rotten to your core, there is nothing human left in you.”

His mouth settles into a firm line and he finds himself a little pissed off. “Now, darling-”

He doesn’t see it coming. Doesn’t even realize what’s happened until he’s flying back and hitting the ground. He doesn’t feel any pain, his adrenaline pumping so much all he can feel is the vibrations. The impact of the bullet carving it’s way through his chest as he lay there on the ground. 

She walks over to him, eyes empty as she stands over him and watches the blood pool out. “We’re done, Cooper.”

She leaves him on the ground, not looking back as he presses his hand to his wound in shock. He didn’t think she had it in her. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the game/show Fallout, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[yasministration]

Sewing kit - Ron Weasley

summary: "The instant Ron came to you asking for help sewing a rip in his t-shirt, Molly knew you were the woman he was going to marry." wc: 0.6k+

The instant Ron came to you asking for help sewing a rip in his t-shirt, Molly knew you were the woman he was going to marry. You’d been sitting in front of the fireplace with many of Ron’s siblings, along with Harry and Hermione, listening as Fred and George recalled the story of one of their wicked pranks to Charlie and Bill. You laughed along with everyone else as the twins reached the climax of their story, cuddling into Ron’s jumper that you wore.

This was your first summer at the Burrow as Ron’s girlfriend, and you’d admittedly been a hundred times more nervous to be here, to gain his family’s approval. Your head snapped towards the staircase at the call of your name, watching as Ron padded down the stairs, gripping the side of the shirt he was wearing. “Y/n” he repeated, “Could you fix this for me?” You straightened up in your seat, unaware of the eyes on you as you took the soft fabric of Ron’s favourite t-shirt in your hands, examining the rip in the seam. Your fingers grazed his soft skin underneath the fabric. You hummed, asking “Could you get my-” But your words were interrupted when Ron thrusted your small sewing kit forward, causing you to giggle “Perfect.”

You worked silently, looking for a thread the same colour as Ron’s t-shirt, and began sewing the seam back together. Ron stood in front of you silently, aimlessly playing with a strand of your hair as he listened in on the story. He didn’t notice the look Bill and Charlie shared, or the way Molly stood still with a tray carrying hot chocolate as she admired the intimate moment between you. Molly had to turn away to hide the tears forming in her eyes at the realisation that she would never get to sew her son’s clothes ever again, that he had found someone to do it for him.

“Oh that tickles.” Gasped Ron when your hands ran up his side in an attempt to tie the thread together before snipping it with a small pair of scissors. “Sorry sweetheart.” You muttered, looking up at him while you tried straightening out the now crinkled fabric of his shirt. Ron didn’t bother to check if the job had been well done, so Bill assumed that this had occurred many times before, noticing that Hermione and Harry didn’t flinch at their ginger friend’s request from you. Ron cupped your cheeks, leaning down to press a kiss on your forehead as he thanked you, taking your sewing kit back from you. You put a hand over his, shaking your head. “Leave it, I’ll take it up later.” You patted the empty spot next to you reserved for him, and Ron immediately sat down, putting your kit on the side table next to him.

His family watched as you shared a smile, Ron’s hand snaking around your waist while you comfortably cuddled yourself into his side. You leaned your head on his shoulder, arm slung in front of his torso in a loose hug and Ron instinctively pressed another kiss to your temple, eyes trained on his younger sister who started another story to fill the silence. You both thanked Molly sincerely when she handed you your hot chocolates, and she held eye contact with you, a hand coming down to your cheek to caress your skin with a motherly smile as she held back happy tears.

That night, when Ron took you by the hand to lead you outside for a long walk, Molly held her tongue, deciding to give you both some freedom. And when Ginny approached her, asking shyly if her mother could sew up a rip in her jeans, she burst into tears, hugging her daughter close to her.

[bvrnesher]

the fact you have no harry potter requests scare me. anyway just know I'll probably be spamming requests every day (sorry)

I really want more ron weasley (I'll take anything wholesome) like imagine spending christmas at the burrow!!! and having to sneak around the creaky floors because Molly doesn't want you sleeping in the same room

❝ Sneaky visits ! ❞ ― ron weasley !

tap here for my cbh masterlist ! here for reqs info

warnings: fluff. comfort. domestic chaos. sweet kisses. soft!ron. light humor.

— ✦ pairing: ronald weasley ! fem. reader

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ꪆ ✦ 𑊁 ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗘 𝗦𝗠𝗢𝗞𝗘 and citrus hit your nose the moment your boots met the creaky floorboards of the Burrow—home of the very chaotic, very lovable Weasley family.

Fairy lights blinked lazily while floating brooms swept the floors in sync with dishrags scrubbing countertops like it was some kind of magical symphony of domestic chaos.

A soft breath escaped your lips, cold and quiet, right as a smile threatened to tug at your mouth. Your eyes swept over the familiar space.

You took one careful step forward, boots making the wood groan beneath you, and gave your body a little shake, brushing snow off your warm clothes. It hit the ground with a soft pat, melting almost instantly into the heat spilling from the crackling fireplace—where flames danced peacefully in total contrast to the mess of Christmas decorations scattered near the hearth.

You gently pushed the door closed, but of course it had to groan like a banshee, announcing your arrival with zero subtlety and absolutely ruining any chance of a surprise entrance.

The surprise was yours instead.

Loud, hurried footsteps thundered down the stairs.

You turned, lifting your head just in time to catch sight of a shock of red hair darting toward you like Longbottom fleeing from Snape.

Ron. Your Ron.

You gave him a sheepish smile—half guilty, half shy—with a little shrug that screamed “surprise?”

His eyes, already wide, went impossibly wider. And then that grin—that grin—spread across his face like it couldn’t wait another second.

Guess you had surprised him after all.

You opened your mouth to say something, your voice ready to spill out a gentle hi—but the words never made it. His hands were already cupping your frozen cheeks, and suddenly, your lips weren’t yours to use.

Second surprise of the day.

You smiled against his kiss, which ended with a quick peck to your cheek before he tucked his face into the curve of your neck like it was the only place in the world he wanted to be.

“What’re you doing here?” he mumbled into your neck, voice muffled and shaky as he started to pepper kisses along your skin.

“Molly invited me to spend Christmas with you guys,” you answered, gently pressing your hands to his chest to put just a little space between you.

He gave you a slightly embarrassed smile, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while the other stayed firm at your waist, keeping you close—but not close enough, if you asked him.

The second your words really sank in, something shifted in his face—equal parts excitement and disbelief.

He raised a brow, voice full of pure Ron energy: “We’re talking about my mum? Because that… doesn’t sound at all like something my mum would do.” He paused, and a teasing smile curled on his lips. “In fact, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even like you eno—”

You smacked the back of his head.

“She likes me more than she likes you,” you muttered under your breath.

Ron let out a dramatic groan, rubbing the back of his head like you’d just knocked a bludger into him.

“That was assault, you know,” he muttered, his bottom lip jutting out in the most ridiculous pout. “I could report you to the Ministry for magical domestic violence.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shame we don’t live together, huh? Doesn’t count as domestic.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, because of course you did.

He laughed—that snorty, half-suppressed laugh that always made you want to bottle it up and save it for rainy days. And then—of course—he had to go and make it worse.

Both arms wrapped around you without warning and suddenly, your feet weren’t on the ground anymore.

You let out a startled little squeak that was definitely not dignified.

“I missed you,” he whispered as he set you back down, gentle like you were something breakable.

“Not more than I missed you,” you murmured, fingers threading into his hair—still messy, still warm, still softer than you remembered.

And for just a moment, the world hit pause.

The creaking floors, the wind outside, the distant clatter of pans in the kitchen—all of it melted away.

But peace and quiet in the Burrow? Yeah. As if.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!” Molly’s voice rang out from somewhere deep in the house, sounding halfway between war cry and welcome. “IS THAT YOU AT THE DOOR? AND WHO ARE YOU WITH?”

Ron tensed like she’d just caught him red-handed sneaking out after curfew.

“Oh no,” he whispered like he was sharing a prison cell with you. “She’s gonna get excited. Then she’s gonna ask if you’ve eaten. And if you haven’t eaten, she’s gonna make you three full meals.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And if I have eaten?”

“She’ll make two more. Just to be safe.”

You didn’t even get a chance to laugh—because the Molly Weasley experience had just entered the chat.

Her silhouette rounded the corner with a dramatic gasp, eyes going wide the second she saw you.

“Oh, darling! You’re here! And without warning—honestly!” she scolded, even as her arms wrapped around you in a hug that could only be described as life-threatening.

You made a muffled sound somewhere between “hi” and “help.”

“Told you,” Ron muttered behind you, not even trying to hide his smirk.

After a flurry of cheek kisses, bone-crushing affection, and rapid-fire plans involving hot chocolate, Molly turned to Ron with a look.

Not a look. The look.

“And you, young man, will be sleeping in your own room tonight. Don’t think I don’t know how your brain works.”

Then she turned back to you, all maternal warmth and boss-level charm, hands landing gently on your shoulders.

“You’ll be staying in Ginny’s room, sweetheart. It’s all ready for you.” A beat. Then—eyes flicking between you and Ron—“And if I catch even one of you sneaking around to do Merlin-knows-what—”

You flushed so hard you were surprised your face didn’t combust.

“Mum!” Ron practically shouted, horror written across every freckle. “We’re not Percy and his seventh-year girlfriend!”

“Don’t drag your brother into this,” Molly huffed, already marching off like a one-woman army of festive chaos.

Silence.

Then Ron slowly turned toward you with the energy of someone accepting a tragic, unavoidable fate.

“So... plan B?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Sneaking around the loudest, creakiest house in the magical world.”

A grin tugged at your lips—sharp, wicked, absolutely in. “Perfect. I live for danger.”

Ron kissed your temple, laced his fingers through yours, and whispered like it was a sacred oath:

“Then welcome to the most dangerous mission since Fred and George tried to steal the Christmas pudding.”

You both started up the stairs in hushed giggles, dodging garlands and rogue gnome ornaments.

The stairs creaked like they had a personal vendetta against you.

You and Ron froze in sync halfway up the second flight—your hands still intertwined, your breath caught like two kids caught red-handed sneaking biscuits before dinner.

Ron leaned in, his voice a whisper against your ear. “That step always squeaks. It’s like… cursed or something.”

You nodded solemnly. “A protection charm. Designed by Molly Weasley to keep hormonal teenagers in line.”

He huffed a laugh but clamped a hand over his mouth right after. “Shhh—don’t make me laugh. She’ll hear. She always hears.”

You waited a beat, listening. Nothing but the crackle of the fire downstairs and the distant sound of George laughing at something on the wireless.

You took another step. It groaned like a ghost with a grudge.

Ron winced, looked up at the ceiling like he was begging the universe for mercy, and then shot you a look. “Alright, new plan. I go first. If I fall through the floor, save yourself.”

“Chivalrous. But we both know you’d trip over your own feet and take me down with you.”

“Probably,” he admitted with a sheepish smile, then motioned for you to follow him.

The two of you finally reached the upstairs landing, where dim fairy lights still blinked lazily along the banister, casting a soft golden glow across the walls.

Ginny’s door was just ahead.

But Ron didn’t stop there.

He tugged you past it—past Bill’s old room, past the crooked family portrait wall—and into his own bedroom, gently closing the door behind you with exaggerated care.

You blinked. “I thought your mum said—”

“She definitely said,” he cut in. “But hear me out.”

You crossed your arms. “This should be good.”

“I thought maybe,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck like it was a nervous tic wired into his DNA, “we could just talk a while. You know. Before sneaking you back to Ginny’s. Like... fifteen minutes. Tops.”

You stared at him, and something warm bloomed in your chest.

There was his bed, slightly messy. A weird assortment of Chudley Cannons memorabilia scattered across every surface. A half-eaten chocolate frog on the desk. A single slipper with no known partner. And Ron, standing there like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands, like maybe asking you to sit on his bed was the equivalent of proposing marriage.

You smiled and walked in, sitting down with a soft floomp onto the edge of the bed.

Fifteen minutes, huh?

Ron sat beside you, just close enough for his knee to brush against yours. For a moment, the quiet returned—warm, comfortable, humming with all the unspoken things that didn’t need to be said.

He nudged your shoulder with his. “So. Best part of today?”

You tilted your head. “Seeing your face when I walked in.”

His ears turned a very satisfying shade of pink. “Yeah? Same.”

You leaned back on your hands, looking around. “And the worst part?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Mum threatening to separate us like first years caught in a broom closet.”

You laughed, and he did too—soft and quiet and lovely.

Then, after a beat, he reached out, intertwining your fingers again, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your skin.

“I know it’s chaotic here. Loud. A bit overwhelming sometimes. But…” He glanced over at you, his expression shifting into something softer. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just scooted a little closer until your shoulder pressed fully against his. “Me too.”

Another pause. Another little pocket of peace between the cracks of Weasley chaos.

Then—

A floorboard groaned loudly in the hallway. Followed by the unmistakable sound of Molly muttering something about “wandering children” and “for Merlin’s sake.”

You both stiffened.

Ron’s eyes went wide. “Operation: Retreat?”

You nodded. “Go, go, go!”

You bolted out the door hand-in-hand, trying not to giggle, dodging the squeaky step, tiptoeing like pros through the flickering shadows—two partners in crime on a mission to beat Molly’s bedtime patrol.

Because sneaking around the Burrow might’ve been a terrible plan…

But it was also kind of perfect.

Especially with Ron.

a/n: I know it's spring, but I loved the idea and had to do it. ! words count: 1,859

[housofapsychoticwomn-deactivate]

hiii i have a request for sirius black, maybe they had a date / anniversary/ birthday or something and he forgets or there was a misunderstanding/ miscommunication and she got stood up while waiting him and she gets upset and ignores him (as she should) and he has to grovel after her with a happy ending please x and thank you xx love your work

thank you for the request love! hope you like this <3

sirius black x fem!gryffindor!reader

word count: 2k

You checked the watch on your wrist.

The torches in the corridor were shining from their last power, but you managed to read the time.

Seven in the evening. Exactly an hour after Sirius was supposed to meet you there.

It was your one year anniversary. One year since you finally gave in into his begging for you to go on a date with him and he was over the moon.

Him standing you up lead you to think that he prehaps didn’t find date nights so exciting or important anymore.

You were pissed.

You got off the cold stone wall, your legs growing tired with each minute. Your day was already bad because you got an Acceptable for a History of Magic exams you studied hours for. Spending time with Sirius was all you needed to feel better.

Him not showing up was your last straw.

You sighed in both frustration and dissapointment as you began to walk towards the direction of Gryffindor tower, staring at the ground, listening to your shoes graze the ground beneath your feet.

You murmured the password and the Fat Lady let you in.

The Common Room was relatively empty. You passed three first-years playing chess and two fourth-year girls who were giggling at something. Gossip, you assumed.

You threw your bag on the floor and fell into the sofa next to Lily.

Marlene, who was painting her toe nails dark red, looked up at you from her spot on the armchair.

“What are you doing here so early?” she asked curiously with her eyebrows furrowed, closing the nail polish bottle.

“He didn’t show up,” you muttered, playing with the bracelet Sirius gave you for your birthday. “Bloody idiot.”

“What?” Lily gasped. “Why not? Did you fight?”

You shook your head, your anger rising. Not because of the interrogation by your friends, but because you were confused.

“We didn’t. Everything has been fine just this morning. We talked about what we were going to do a few hours ago and then he decided not to show up? Who even does that?” Your words came out much louder than you intended, catching the attention of a group of younger sudents. You pulled out a photo album from your bag. “And I spend hours making this,” you said with a lower voice, tossing the gift for him on the table.

Just then, the entrance door of the common room opened and Sirius came strolling in with James and Peter following close behind.

Your anger grew even more. Sirius wasn’t dead nor injured so why the fuck hadn’t he met with you?

When his eyes landed on you, you could see guilt write all over his beautiful features.

“Hi, doll,” he greeted unsurely, walking slowly over to the sofa you sat on with Lily.

You only glared at him in response.

“Baby,” he spoke desperately, all his usual confidence and cockyness wearing off. He dropped to his knees in front of you, placing his hand on your knee.

You slapped his hand away and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Where were you, you toerag?” you asked harshly.

“I’m sorry, I was in detention,” he explained, giving you his best puppy eyes.

You rolled your eyes. He should’ve known better that this wouldn’t work in his favor.

“Detention?” You repeated. “The fuck did you do?”

He sighed, drawing circles onto the pillow lying next to you. “Prank went wrong. Got sent to detention right after, that’s why I couldn’t tell you.”

You raised your eyebrow, unamused. You couldn’t believe you got stood up just because he was meeting the consenquences of being an idiot.

But at the same time, at least he didn’t forget, right?

You inhaled and exhaled deeply, catching your lip in between your teeth.

“I just wish I hadn’t wasted an hour waiting for you in the corridor like a total idiot.”

He tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed. “Why were you waiting in the corridor for me?”

You blinked. Then again. “Because we agreed to meet there at six?”

Sirius hummed, but something told you he still didn’t know what you were talking about.

“Did we?”

Your friends were unusually silent, especially James and Marlene. You glanced at them to see they were watching the situation unfolding in front of them with great curiousity.

“Yes.” You nodded slowly, eyes flickering to him. “For our anniversary?”

“Ah!” Sirius said and you swore you could see the lightbulb turning on right above his head. “That was today?”

Marlene dropped the nail polish bottle onto the carpet and Lily slapped her forehead.

You stared at him in disbelief, sitting up more straight. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Sirius scratched the back off his head. “Well…”

You picked the photo album, still carefully wrapped up, from the table and smacked his shoulder with it.

“Y/N–“

“You asshole!” You said through gritted teeth, and smacked him again. “You complete dickhead.”

He managed to steal the album from you, staring at you with wide eyes. You never really were mad at him, and when you were, he made you crack a smile with his stupid flirting techniques.

It wouldn’t work this time.

“Y/N, baby, I am sincerely sorry–“

“Don’t call me baby!” You huffed, glaring. “And we talked about the date just this morning how could you even forget?”

“I- I don’t know!” He stuttered, making your blood pressure go up to 150 systolic, at least. “It’s just that James got this brilliant idea for a prank–“

“Nah, mate,” James interrupted, shaking his head, his arm around Lily’s shoulder. “Don’t bring me into this.”

Sirius looked utterly betrayed.

Your mouth slackened. “You ditched me for a prank, you wanker!”

You were sure everyone present in the common room was watching you two. You could hear whispering and snorts.

Sirius pointed his pointing finger at you, frustrated at the fact that he was not getting his way.

“And you didn’t come to yesterday’s match because you were tired!”

That was a lie, but he didn’t know that. You did tell him you wanted to rest but the truth was, you were falling behind with the present for him and needed time to finish it.

You took the photo album from his lap and pressed it into his chest.

“I said that so I could make this for you, you twat!”

He looked down at the present and realized what he had done. His mouth fell opened as his eyes met yours again.

“Baby, I’m so sorry–“

“No,” you cut him off and stood up. You reached for your bag and threw it over your shoulder. “You’re a dog and you’re going to be in a dog house for a while.”

You had slept surprisingly well that night.

Maybe it was because you knew Sirius was going to do anything for you to forgive him.

And you’d lie if you said you didn’t want exactly that.

And by anything, you didn’t mean jewellery or other expensive gifts, just to make him suffer for a little while.

When you opened the door of your dorm for the first time that morning, Sirius was already there with an enormous boquet of your favourite flowers in his hand.

You had no idea for how long he was standing there or where he got the flowers but decided not to ask anything.

After giving him a mere nod as a form of greeting, you took the boquet from him and put it in a vase by your window.

He walked you to breakfast like he did every morning, but instead of talking your ear off, he was uncharacteristically silent, and so were you.

You took a seat next to between Marlene and Lily and he looked like he was about to cry, pouting his lips. But you knew that was all his dramaticness talking.

He made a cup of tea and pushed it towards you without a word. Your eyes flickered to him before you hesistantly took the cup in your hand and studied it. You took a sip.

Sirius made it the way you liked it. It was sweet, but not too much with the right amount of milk. And you thought you were going to go to hell after death as you reached for more sugar and put another teaspoon in it.

The look of pure disappointment in himself on his face made you feel guilty.

But he was the one who forgot your one year anniversary, wasn’t he?

After finishing eating, he walked you to class and asked if you wanted to hang out with him by the lake later. You said maybe and his entire face lit up before he had to sprint to the opposite side of the castle to get to his own class on time.

At lunch, you decides to sit right across from Sirius next to Remus, still not close enough for your boyfriend to be able to touch you, but it was better than at breakfast.

“Sweetheart,” he said at one point, making you stop chewing on your potatoes with a questioning look. “I got you the new Fleetwood Mac record.”

You had been wishing for it since it came out and it took you everything not to jump over the table and kiss him.

Remus turned to you with a frown on his lips. “Didn’t you say you wanted the new ABBA record?”

That wasn’t true, but the glisten in Remus’s eyes as he asked told you he knew that.

God bless Remus Lupin.

Sirius’s jaw fell and you had to stiffle a laugh.

“That’s not true!” he pointed his finger at his friend. “She loves Fleetwood Mac more! She called Stevie Nicks a goddess!”

You tilted your head, lips pressing into a thin line. “Are you sure I wasn’t talking about Agnetha Fältskog? You know, they’re both blonde and pretty…”

Sirius’s face became paler than usual as he seemed to think, trying to recall your conversation about Nicks.

You were definitely going to hell.

By afternoon, Sirius was pathetic and desperate to make you forgive him.

He dragged you outside, despite your protests, and lead you to sit by the lake where he laid a blanket and prepared a basket of food. Although he said he made it himself, you were sure he just stole it from the kitchens.

And you told yourself that if he brough chocolate covered strawberries, then you would consider giving in into his pleading.

As you stood on the grass with arms crossed, having an entire conversation in your mind whether you should get on the blanket or not, Sirius spoke.

“I even got chocolate covered strawberries.”

You closed your eyes as if you were defeated.

Damn it.

You kicked off your shoes and sat down nect to him, not really saying anything or moving at all.

You watched the lake, admiring how the spring breeze created ripples on the water. From the corner of your eye, you could see Sirius watching you and it made you a little but nervous.

“You know, I think you’re the most beautiful person in the world?”

You glanced at him, eyebrow raised as if saying “Is that all you got?”.

His fingers brushed over your arm and you could feel it too well even through your robe.

“You know what I really, really miss?”

You sighed, wondering what kind of nonsense he was about to say.

“What?”

He grinned widely. “When you smile at me.”

Bloody hell.

Your lips twitched, and you had to turn around before he could see. But it was too late. He already did.

Sirius gently grabbed your jaw and turned your head to face him just in time to witness your face slightly turning red.

You knew you lost when he beamed like the sun and you were like an ice cream, trying hard not to melt but do it eventually.

Sirius took your hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing the inside of your wrist.

“I’m really sorry for forgetting our date.”

His apology sounded sincere and you thought that maybe, just maybe you’d forgive him today.

“I was a real dickhead,” he continued, intertwining his fingers with yours.

You hummed.

“I’ll spend my whole life making up to you,” he promised. “Will you forgive me?”

You narrowed your eyes, as if suspicious. “Depends.”

“On what?”

And then, you finally smiled at him. The weather grew warm, or it could’ve just been him and you.

“Did you really get me a Fleetwood Mac record?”

[moonstruckme]

I really hope you mean here 🤭

Request: "Remus is being rude to the reader due to the upcoming full moon.. make it as angsty as you can"

Thanks for requesting babe <3

cw: migraine, Rem is mean :(

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

When you come home from work, the apartment is dark and there’s evidence of Remus’ shit day everywhere. 

The curtains are drawn closed against the sunlight, and there’s a discarded blanket on the couch and several snack containers half-emptied on the coffee table. One of them has tipped onto the floor, a mess of crisps your boyfriend was likely feeling too unwell to tidy. He’s spilled tea on the table, too. These kinds of things are more common in the days before the full moon, but you think he must really be having a rough one. Even a few unwashed dishes in the sink is usually enough to stress Remus out, so he has to have been in a state to leave things like this. 

You brew a fresh cup of tea, grabbing some chocolates from the cabinet in case he didn’t bring any with him, and broach the bedroom. A shape moves under the sheets when the door creaks open. 

“Hi,” you say softly. You kneel by the bed, lightly touching the ends of Remus’ hair. “How are you, love?” 

“Bad,” he mutters from beneath the covers. You wince. He must be, if he won’t even lower the sheets beneath his eyes. 

You do your best to keep the pity from your voice, knowing he’d hate it. “I brought you some tea,” you murmur, “if you want it.”

“Can’t right now.” 

“It’s chamomile,” you coax. “It might help—”

“I can’t.” The low rumble of his voice takes on a hard edge, and you fall instantly silent. You nod even though he can’t see it, setting the tea and chocolate on his nightstand as quietly as you can. 

You don’t tell him you’re going, sure every footstep is agonizingly loud for him. You force down the lump in your throat. Remus is miserable right now; he’s not thinking about how his tone affects you, and that’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You can deal with it, help anyways.

You sweep instead of vacuuming, gathering the little bits of crisps into a dustpan and dumping them in the trash. The half-eaten snacks get reshelved in your cabinets, the puddle of tea cleaned off the coffee table, and candles lit to banish the stale smell in the living room. The cinnamon ones are usually Remus’ favorite, but you trade them out for lavender on the off chance it helps with his headache. You’re washing dishes one at a time so they don’t clatter when the bedroom door creaks open. 

“Hey,” you say, relieved. “Feeling better?” 

“No.” Remus’ voice is low, and the scratch of it tears at your heartstrings. He trudges to the end of the hall, where he stops, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I need you to be quiet.” 

“Oh, sorry.” You soften your voice, freezing with your hands submerged in the warm dishwater. “I’ve been trying, I didn’t realize you could hear. I’m almost done with this, so—” 

“Could you stop?” he asks, tone going harsh again. “Just, be quiet or find somewhere else to be, please. I can’t deal with this.” 

You swallow against the intrusion in your throat. Will away the heat from your face. “Okay,” you say, the word barely a whisper. 

Remus turns, plodding back to the bedroom. You hear the door shut.

You leave the dishwater to get cold rather than pouring it out and making more noise. You sit down on the couch with a book, eyes skimming over the words as you convince yourself over and over that it’d be stupid to cry about this. Your face heats, then cools. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. This is ridiculous. Remus is just moody, he didn’t mean it. You know better than to take anything he says to heart right now. You can’t expect your efforts to be properly appreciated, but the important part is to keep making them. When he’s feeling better, he’ll thank you in a million sweet ways, because that’s who he is. He loves you. He didn’t mean it. 

It’s dark outside when the bedroom door creaks open again. You hadn’t noticed night falling, even when the light became too dim for you to make out the words on your page. You set your book down; you hadn’t been reading anyway. 

Remus sits next to you without a word. He leans the side of his head against the cushion with a sigh. 

“Dove?” he murmurs. 

You don’t dare do more than hum in response. 

A scarred hand finds your leg, the thumb sweeping back and forth over your skin. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he says quietly. “That was…it was really mean. And undeserved.”

“I’m sorry I was being loud,” you reply, and you can’t help it, your throat clogs all over again. “I was just trying to help.” 

Your voice catches on the last word, and Remus makes a pained sound that has you silencing yourself instantly. He makes another at your response. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “Do you want a hug?” 

You bite down on your lower lip. “Are you okay to hug?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart.” 

He meets you in the middle, pressing upon your shoulder blades like he can hold you together by sheer physical force. You try for his sake, swallowing the cries that rise in your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, palm marking a slow path up and down your back. “You weren’t too loud, I’m just fussy. You were only being your kind self. I had no reason to be so horrid.” 

“You weren’t horrid,” you warble. “I know you’re having a hard time.” 

“That’s no excuse.” His palm makes its way back to your shoulders just in time to feel the first little sob escape you. Remus’ grip tightens. “Aw, dovey. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe I spoke to you like that.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” he murmurs, kissing the exposed bit of skin where your shirt is slipping down your shoulder. “It’s not, and—” He pauses, looking around the room for the first time. “Did you clean?” 

You nod against his front, feeling the pained sigh that leaves him. 

“Fuck, I’m awful.” 

“You’re not.” 

“You were cleaning up my mess, and I yelled at you.” Now Remus’ voice sounds a tad raw too. He gathers you closer, stubble scratching your forehead as he kisses your hairline. “My sweet girl. You should have ripped me a new one.” 

“You weren’t yelling,” you point out, teasing a bit now, “and anyway, it seemed like you were already being ripped a new one.” 

“Still,” he mumbles into your hair. “You lit the lavender candles and everything. You deserve to put me through hell.” 

“You’re already going through hell,” you remind him gently, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “I don’t need to help the process along. Do you want some tea, love?” 

Remus hums. “I do, but let me get it. Let me get some for you, too, yeah?” He leans back to look down at you. “You want some nighttime tea, darling?” 

You’re alright really, but you tell him you do anyway. He looks nearly happy as he drags himself into the kitchen, and he won’t stop mollycoddling you for the rest of the night. 

[dismalflo]

can't help myself

Sirius Black x reader who aren't great communicators ✩ 6k words

summary: you and Sirius sleep together for the fun of it. no strings. you decide to call it off when it all becomes too much and the cons outweigh the pros. and maybe you have some feelings.

cw: allusions to sex, friends with benefits with feelings, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, accidental wingman james

“Hello?” you call, letting yourself into the Potter’s house, frowning a little when it seems oddly quiet. James had insisted the first warm day of the year called for a proper get-together—and really, who could say no to seeing all your friends in one place?

You’d pulled on your sweetest summer clothes, ready to soak up the sun and laugh until your stomach hurt.

James’ head pops around a doorway, curls a messy halo around his face, and he grins the moment he sees you—that big, eye-crinkling kind of smile that makes it impossible not to smile back.

“There you are,” he says. “You look very nice.” He nods toward the back door. “Everyone’s in the garden. Want a drink?”

“I’m alright for now, thanks,” you say, walking toward him.

You give him a quick hug—though, he turns it into a full-body squeeze—before he leads you outside.

The garden’s full of chatter and laughter, warm in every way. You give out quick hugs, a few hellos, before settling into a fold-out chair next to Lily.

“God, you look like you're ready to pop,” you say, leaning in to give her forearm a friendly squeeze.

You haven’t seen her and James as much lately, with the baby on the way and everything. It makes these little moments feel even more special. They’re glowing, both of them, like love has settled around them in something soft and golden. It twists at something in your chest—not jealousy, exactly, just a strange ache. Being loved like that, freely and without question, is… unfamiliar.

“I feel like it too,” Lily says with a groan, glaring half-heartedly at her belly. “Still a few months left.”

She lets her head loll back against the sun-warmed chair, eyes fluttering shut as she exhales dramatically. “Swear to God, if one more person tells me I’m glowing, I might hex them.”

You snort, reaching for the lemonade on the little table between you. “You are glowing, though. Like. In a glowy, magic-sunbeam sort of way. Sorry to say, it’s very annoying for the rest of us.”

Lily cracks one eye open, smirking. “You’re just mad I outshine you.”

“Always have,” you agree easily, bumping your knee against hers. The two of you smile at each other for a beat, and it’s one of those soft, warm silences that doesn’t feel like anything needs to be said.

James appears again, this time with two sweating glasses of something stronger in hand. He passes one to Remus and drops into the grass next to Lily with a content sigh, resting his chin on her knee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

They start whispering lowly to each other, and even though you know them both incredibly well, you still feel like you're intruding. So instead you turn to eye up the buffet spread, covered in cling film, spying what you might like to eat. 

Just as you ready yourself to move, a ring clad hand holding a plate moves into your field of view and suddenly it's being placed in your lap. You look up squinting against the sun, ready to say thank you, but Sirius shifts to solve your squinting problem and the words dry up in your mouth. 

“Eat that, please.”

“I was just about to get up for some.” you say, dumbfounded. 

“Almost like I can read your mind, babe.” He replies, winking at you. “Eat.”

He flops down next to James and they start talking about something you don't care to listen to. When your eyes meet Lily’s, she gives you a knowing look that you choose to ignore, staring down at the food on the plate instead. 

You and Sirius have, for lack of better words, been fucking for a while. It started after a drunken night out and it continued from there. It's fun. Casual. But the more you’ve thought that recently, the more it feels like you're trying to convince yourself. The lines are starting to blur and it doesn’t really feel like two friends shagging for fun anymore. Or it doesn’t to you. You can never tell what's going on in Sirius’ head.

You’re jolted from your thoughts by Sirius gently shaking your knee, his hand warm where it rests. You blink, realizing James and Lily have disappeared. Embarrassment flushes hot in your chest—you hadn’t even noticed.

“You okay?” he asks, eyebrows pulling together with quiet concern.

“Yeah. Yes.” You nod quickly, offering your best smile.

He studies you for a moment, like he’s not entirely convinced, but then relaxes with a little huff of relief.

“You’re coming home with me, yeah?”

You hesitate—just for a second—but you nod again. Of course you do. You can’t help yourself.

-

When you arrive at Sirius’ flat, it's a well rehearsed routine. He offers you a drink or something to eat, because he’s sweet, and when you decline a switch is flipped. Rather quickly, your mouths are moulded together in bruising kisses, tripping over yourselves as you make your way to his bed. Or his couch. Or twice, his kitchen.

Tonight it's his bed.

-

Despite the exhaustion rolling over you, you get up to pilfer one of Sirius’ band T-shirts before crawling back up the bed toward him. It always shocks you how comfortable he is in his nakedness. He lies there like he owns the world, stretched out and unbothered, utterly bare. There's nothing coy about him. He’s the very picture of ease, of indulgence.

He should be that comfortable, you think. He looks like a man sent by the gods to cause your damnation. His tattoos stand stark against his pale skin, and his sharp features are magnetic. He’s beautiful.

When you make your way back to him, he pulls you quickly into his side, intent on closeness. You’re grateful for the small barrier of fabric between you then. It makes it feel less real. He starts talking—properly, about little things that have happened since the last time you saw him. You listen, your head tucked under his chin, fingers idly tracing the lines of the tattoo curling over his ribs. His voice is low and warm, somewhere between storytelling and confession, and you let it wash over you.

It’s a strange thing, how this always happens—how easy it is to fall into this rhythm with him. Just bodies. Just convenience. Just friends.

“I missed this,” he says eventually, like it’s nothing. Like the words don’t lodge somewhere deep in your chest.

You shift, propping your chin on his chest so you can look at him properly. “You missed getting laid? I saw you a week ago,” you tease, your tone playful.

But Sirius just looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment too long. Then he huffs a laugh, brushing a thumb over your shoulder where the shirt has fallen slightly. “That too.”

You laugh, the sound low and comfortable, and brush your hand through his messy hair. "You know, you're impossible," you say, rolling your eyes before resting your head back against his chest. You can hear his heart beating beneath the skin, steady and calm.

He shrugs, his hand drifting down your side, tracing the curve of your waist with lazy circles. “Like you can talk,” he murmurs softly.

You lift your head to retaliate, but his gaze catches you off guard, and the need for space becomes overwhelming.

You pull away from him, sitting up and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “I should go,” you murmur, voice softer now. Your fingers curl around the hem of the shirt, readying yourself to change back into your clothes. Something about leaving feels necessary.

Sirius watches you, his eyes tracing your movements with an unreadable expression. You grab your shoes, your phone, your scattered things, but before you can make it to the door, he speaks again, his voice quieter this time.

“Stay.”

It’s a simple request, a command almost. You hesitate, your hand still on the doorknob, and glance back over your shoulder.

“Why?” you ask, not unkindly. He’s done this a lot recently—asked you to stay when he shouldn’t. Usually, you’d stay without a second thought. It doesn’t help the scrambled thoughts flying through your mind, so you need to know why.

His gaze is intense, his lips parted slightly as if he’s choosing his next words carefully. “I don’t want you to leave,” he admits, the vulnerability creeping into his voice in a way you’re not used to hearing. It catches you off guard.

You could leave. You should leave. But you also know, without a doubt, you want to stay.

The way he said it lingers in your mind, replaying over and over, keeping you awake long into the night. You find yourself staring at Sirius’ sleeping face, running the pros and cons of this arrangement through your head. Quickly, the myriad of negatives outweigh the few positives.

The biggest one is that, despite the closeness of it all, you feel lonelier for it. A deep, gnawing sadness tightens around your chest every time you think about it. There’s doubt too. You wonder if there’s something wrong with you—something wrong for him to want you this way and no other. To know you, and to think that a good fuck is all he’s ever wanted. To know that you’re feelings won't be reciprocated.

-

The morning light creeps in through the blinds, pale and soft, casting a hazy glow over the room. It’s quiet, except for the faint sound of Sirius’ breathing beside you. You try to focus on the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead, but all you can think about is the conversation you know you need to have.

You try to ease out of his arms without waking him, but his hold tightens around you, instinctual, almost possessive. For a moment, you just lie there, tangled in the sheets with him, eyes closed, wondering what it would feel like to simply stay. To keep pretending this is all fine—that you can keep moving like this: no strings, no complications. But the gnawing feeling in your chest is louder than the silence in the room. It’s impossible to ignore anymore.

Finally, you gently disentangle yourself from him, sliding out of bed and standing still for a moment at the edge, watching him sleep. He looks so peaceful. So at ease. It’s a stark contrast to the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

You move quietly to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, taking deep breaths, trying to pull yourself together. When you return, Sirius is awake, blinking sleepily, his messy hair even more disheveled than before. He reaches for you without saying anything, just a simple gesture—a pull toward him.

You hesitate, then sit down at the edge of the bed, wringing your hands together, unsure of where to start. Sirius notices the change in your demeanor immediately, his brow furrowing in concern as he sits up beside you, the sheets falling around his waist.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice rough from sleep. “What’s up? You okay?”

You want to say something flippant, something easy to brush it off, but it’s not that simple. You can't make this easy for either of you anymore. You exhale slowly, gathering the courage to speak.

“I think we need to talk,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You don’t meet his eyes, staring instead at the floor, suddenly acutely aware of the space between the two of you. It’s too much now. You know what you need to say.

Sirius sits up straighter, his hand instinctively reaching for yours, but you pull back slightly—not enough to be distant, but just enough to let him know this is serious. "What about?" His voice is tinged with uncertainty now, the light teasing that usually lingers in his words gone.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your heartbeat, but it feels like it’s skipping in your chest, pulsing painfully with every word you know you have to say. “I think we need to stop... sleeping together,” you say finally, the words hanging heavy in the air. "I don’t think we should do this anymore, Sirius."

His expression falters, confusion flashing across his face like a wave. He blinks at you, his lips parting as if he’s not sure he heard you right. "Wait, what? Stop? Why?" His voice sounds a little too light, like he’s hoping you’re joking.

Your heart races, and you pull your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your knees for comfort. "I just... I don’t think it’s working for me anymore. This—us. Sleeping together, I mean." You shift uncomfortably, trying to find the right words, but they feel inadequate, incomplete.

He leans back against the headboard, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration. His voice drops to a quieter, more serious tone. “I thought we were having fun.”

Your chest tightens at that. Fun. It’s all he ever thought it was, wasn’t it? To him, it was just easy, simple. The word "fun" sits there like a wall between you both.

“We were," you say, your voice softer now. "We are. But I think... I just don’t think I can do it anymore.”

Sirius stays silent for a moment, his eyes watching you with a mixture of confusion and something deeper—something you can’t quite place. The playful charm is gone, and you feel the weight of your words settle between you like a thick fog.

You turn to face him, trying to meet his eyes, but it’s harder than you expected. 

Guilt creeping up your spine. "I just can't keep doing this." you repeat.

Sirius doesn’t respond immediately, but the silence between you thickens. His brow furrows deeper, eyes scanning you as if he's trying to decipher a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. It makes the pit in your stomach grow. You thought you had been clear enough, but the confusion in his gaze says otherwise.

Finally, he speaks, his tone low and edged with frustration. “You’re not making any sense,” he says, his voice rougher than before, as though it’s hard for him to wrap his head around the fact that you’re pulling away.

You want to explain, want to make him understand, but it’s like the words are stuck in your throat. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something, unsure if jumping is the right move, but knowing you can’t stay on the edge forever.

“I just… I can’t keep doing this, Sirius,” you say again, but your voice wavers, and you curse yourself for it. “I can’t keep pretending this is just fun. Because it’s not. I can’t… feel like this, every time, and still act like nothing’s changed.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his face a mixture of confusion and something else—something raw, like he's hurt. The weight of it presses on you, and you wish you could take the words back, or at least make him see how much this hurts you too.

“This is what you want?” he asks softly, leaning forward slightly, still trying to figure it all out.

You nod, though it feels wrong, like your heart’s trying to convince you otherwise. “I think so,” you whisper.

He leans back, running his fingers through his hair again, his lips pressed tight. You can see the frustration building, feel the distance stretching between you, even though you’re sitting right next to each other. His eyes flicker to yours, searching. “I don’t get it. We’ve always been… like this. What’s changed?”

You shake your head, unsure yourself. "Maybe it was always too much. Maybe I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. It’s just—" you falter, trying to put it all together. “I’m not sure what I want, but I know I can’t keep doing this with you. Not like this.”

For a moment, the silence feels endless. He watches you, his face unreadable, his hand still resting on the sheets. Finally, he speaks again, softer this time. "Are we… Are we still friends, then?" The question feels tentative, like he's afraid of the answer, as if that one word—friends—might fall out of his reach.

You take a deep breath, the weight of his words sinking in. You’re not sure how to answer. Your own heart is unsettled, but you know deep down, this isn’t something you want to lose.

"Of course, we are." You manage to force the words out, even as they feel fragile

-

You’ve started to think that you and Sirius don’t know how to be friends without all the extras anymore. Maybe you never were just friends to begin with. You can’t remember. That much is painfully clear in the three weeks you’ve spent avoiding him.

And you've gotten good at it—dodging group plans, slipping away without drawing too much attention. Until Remus catches on in less than five minutes when you meet up for coffee. 

“Are you coming to Lily and James’ this weekend?” he asks, casually sipping his drink.

Another get-together in their garden to celebrate their anniversary. You want to be there—you love your friends, and you love seeing them so happy together—but the thought of facing Sirius for the first time since you called things off feels like swallowing glass.

“I can’t. My cat’s at the vet, y’know how nervous she gets.”

“You used that excuse for the pub quiz on Wednesday,” he replies, blunt as ever. You feel your face flush, caught.

“Yeah, well… she’s very poorly.”

“No, she’s not. You’d be a wreck if she were.”

“How would you know, Lupin?” you shoot back, defensive. He gives you a knowing look, his eyes narrowing slightly, and you deflate under his gaze.

“Fine. She’s not.”

For a brief moment, Remus looks victorious before his expression softens into something more serious.

“Has someone upset you?” he asks, his tone quiet and gentle.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you reply quickly, nodding a little too hard. “I’ll be there.” He doesn’t believe you—he’s too good at reading people for that—but he lets it slide, for now.

That’s how you end up wedged between Remus and Lily on a sofa that’s far too small, trying your best to ignore the weight of Sirius’ gaze from across the room. It’s strange—you're trying so hard not to look at him, but every time you do, your eyes lock. Sirius gives you a shy smile, and you can’t help but return it, even though it stings more than it should.

The party hums along as it always does, the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and soft music in the background. You find yourself slipping into the familiar rhythm of the evening: catching up with friends, teasing James about his terrible taste in music, and joining in on the lighthearted bickering about the best way to cook some dish. For a moment, you almost forget about the ache that has been gnawing at you these past few weeks.

The evening passes quickly, the hours slipping by in a haze of friendly conversation and the occasional awkward silence when your eyes meet Sirius’s across the room. But as the night deepens, you realize you’re starting to feel more comfortable—like maybe you can be around him without everything falling apart. Or at least, you tell yourself you’re starting to.

Lily is standing now, announcing she’s about to make another round of drinks. "Anyone need a refill?" she asks. You wave her off, content with the drink in your hand. You’re already nursing it as much as you can, using it as an excuse to avoid conversation and, more importantly, Sirius.

You take a deep breath, pushing yourself off the sofa, silently grateful for the chance to escape the moment. "I’ll be right back," you murmur, heading toward the bathroom. The warmth of the room suddenly feels too much, and you need a space where you can breathe.

Before you can make it far, James appears in front of you, dragging you by the arm to the nearest unoccupied room.

“Do I need to go get your wife, prongs?” you joke as he shuts the door behind you.

“What's going on with you and Sirius?” The tact that Remus had skirting around the issue is nowhere to be seen in James Potter. To be fair to him, he looks distraught and you can't tell why.

“Nothing, why?” Your brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Come off it, L/N, did you fall out? Have you stopped shagging?” 

“You knew?” you mutter, your confusion only growing. As far as you’re aware neither of you had told anyone you were fucking. But it was never a rule, so you suppose Sirius telling James is probably quite likely. 

“Everyone knows, you’re both bloody obvious. All smiley goo-goo eyes when the other isn't looking.” you can imagine yourself like that, sure, but Sirius? Never. Not over you anyway. 

“Then, yes, we’ve stopped sleeping together.” 

James lights up then, triumphant.

“I knew something was wrong with him, he’s been moping around for weeks. Weeks!” James rambles on, his words so fast you struggle to take them in. “I knew it had something to do with you too since he’d stopped mooning over you. I thought you might’ve just rejected him and it was taking a while to get over all the pining, this makes more sense.”

You’re stunned to silence at that. What does he mean ‘all the pining’? It’s more the other way around surely. When you look back at James’ face he’s got a hand covering his mouth, and regret covering his face. He’s told you something he wasn't supposed to.

"James," you begin, your voice quieter than you'd intended, "What exactly are you talking about?"

James winces, looking incredibly sheepish, as if he realizes the weight of what he’s just let slip. He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze.

"Well… I didn’t mean to—shit. You didn’t know, did you?" he mutters, sounding almost guilty

You stare at him, trying to piece everything together. “Why didn’t he tell me?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and your chest tightens uncomfortably.

“I don’t know, but he’s miserable, Y/N,” James says, his voice softer now, like he's trying to be delicate. “He tried to play it off, but I’ve never seen him this down. It’s not just because of the… whatever you want to call it between the two of you. It’s because he really liked you. And I think he thought it was more than just a casual thing.”

The words hang in the air like a cold draft. You swallow thickly, feeling suddenly dizzy. He can't be right. That's exactly why you had ended it, too scared of feeling something more than casual for him. Too scared knowing that he doesn’t want more, not with you. Or at least he didn't.

James freezes, the words hanging in the air for a long moment. His eyes widen slightly, and his mouth opens and closes like he's trying to figure out the best way to proceed. You can see the wheels turning in his mind, weighing his next words carefully.

“Maybe you should speak to Sirius, yeah?” He says softly, pulling you into a steady hug, hand sweeping across your back. 

You nod, pulling away trying for a smile, landing on a grimace. 

“I need to think for a bit, I’m gonna go home.” 

You don’t remember getting home, not really. The rush of thoughts, the confusion, the words James said—they're all spinning in your head in a dizzying circle. You pace your room, your fingers tapping against your phone like you're trying to ward off the silence, but it only amplifies the questions in your mind.

The uncertainty, the back-and-forth, had always been there, but you’d convinced yourself that it was just... something casual. Nothing more. But what if you were wrong? What if everything you thought you knew about Sirius, about what you two had, was actually completely backwards?

You pick up your phone, stare at it for a moment, before unlocking the screen. Taking a breath, fingers hovering over his contact name. It’s late, but what else do you have to lose at this point?

You press the call button before you can talk yourself out of it, your heart hammering in your chest as the phone rings. You count the seconds, but when he picks up, it feels like the world tilts.

“Y/N?” Sirius’s voice is low, groggy, and it makes you pause for a second. “It’s late. What’s up?”

You hesitate, unsure of what exactly you're asking for, but all you know is that you need something. You need to see him.

“Can I come over?” you ask, the words falling out almost too quickly. “Please.”

There’s a long pause, and you hear a faint rustling on the other end of the line. “Uh… I don’t know,” he murmurs, clearly still trying to piece things together, just like you. “It’s late, Y/N. I don’t know what’s going on. What do you want?”

You swallow thickly, the uncertainty creeping back in. But you push it aside, determined. “I need to talk to you.”

He’s quiet for a moment longer. “Alright,” he finally says, voice softer now.

You don’t reply, just hang up and grab your coat, your mind racing faster than your feet as you rush to the door.

When you arrive at his flat, you don’t bother knocking—you simply open the door, your pulse pounding in your ears. He’s standing there, pacing, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. His hair’s messy, his shirt slightly wrinkled, but it's like seeing him in this state makes him look more human, more real.

He glances up when you step inside, his expression unreadable. His lips press together in a tight line, his eyes flicking to the floor for a moment before landing back on you.

“What are you doing here?” His voice cracks slightly. “I thought you didn’t want me—this.”

The question is simple, but it feels like he’s asking something deeper.

You take a step toward him, your throat dry, but your voice is steady. “I never said I didn’t want you, Sirius,” you reply, your words firm but quiet, like you’re testing them as much as you’re saying them.

His eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and he opens his mouth to say something but pauses. The air between you crackles, charged with everything that hasn’t been said.

You swallow, your gaze flickering down to your hands before looking him in the eye again. “James said something this afternoon. And I need to know if it’s true.”

Sirius freezes, a hesitant breath escaping his lips as he shifts on his feet, his brow furrowed. “What did he say?” His voice is almost cautious, like he's afraid of what you might say next.

You take another step closer, your heart beating louder in your chest. “He said… he said you liked me. More than just… whatever it was between us.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy. You can see the muscles in his jaw tighten, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to process your words. His fingers twitch slightly, but he doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t move at all, except for the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.

“I don’t…” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to find the right words, but everything feels tangled. “Y/N, I—"

"You don’t have to say anything," you interrupt, your voice quieter this time, softer, even though your insides are a storm of confusion and uncertainty. "I just need to know. I need to know if it’s true."

Sirius looks at you for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are wide, and the way he shifts on his feet makes it clear he’s struggling to find the right words. You can see the conflict in him, the way his mind races through possibilities, each one more tangled than the last. And you can feel the same confusion mirrored in your own chest.

"I—" he starts, his voice rough, but he stops himself. The weight of the question seems to sit heavily between you, like a physical thing pressing on both of you.

“I’m not sure how to explain it," he says finally, the frustration evident in the motion. "It’s not like I set out to fall for you. I didn’t even want to, if I’m being honest.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a second, you don’t know how to react. You want to respond, but it feels like everything inside you is twisting.

Sirius continues, his voice softer now, as if he’s carefully choosing his words. "But I did.”

The honesty in his voice is raw, unexpected. It’s not what you thought you’d hear. And, for the first time in weeks, you feel the tight knot in your chest loosen just a little. Maybe you were wrong.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he admits, eyes flicking to the floor, then back up to meet yours. “I didn’t want to ruin everything we had… I thought if I said something, it’d mess it up. So I kept quiet.”

“You thought I didn’t want you?” The question feels almost ridiculous as it leaves your lips, but the confusion is still fresh. “I—I was scared too, Sirius. Scared of wanting more, scared of what it meant. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I pushed it away. But… I thought it was just me.”

Sirius looks at you, something raw in his eyes, like he's waiting for permission. You see the hesitation in him, but you also see something else. Something familiar, something that makes you take the final step forward, closing the distance between you. Your hand finds his, and for the first time in weeks, it feels right.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse now, his thumb brushing against your hand. “That I made you think all I wanted from you was a fuck. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to make it work.”

You shake your head, feeling the weight of it all finally begin to lift. “We’re both a bit of a mess, aren’t we?” you say, trying to lighten the moment, but your voice trembles just a little.

Sirius chuckles softly, the sound bringing some relief. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You both fall into a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, not really—it’s just… full. Full of everything unsaid, everything finally surfacing, finding its place between the two of you. His thumb keeps brushing over the back of your hand, soft, hesitant, like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. Like he’s afraid if he stops, you’ll vanish.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest, but something inside you is steadier now, like the ground beneath your feet isn’t shifting quite so much. You glance up at him—he’s watching you, eyes dark and unsure, but softer than you’ve seen them in a while.

You take a breath, then another. And then—quietly, almost like you’re afraid of scaring the moment away—you say it.

“Sirius?”

He hums in response, eyes locked on yours. There’s something nervous in the way he looks at you now. Like he knows something’s coming, but doesn’t dare hope for it.

You press your lips together, cheeks warming as your voice dips into something almost shy. “Do you… do you want to be my boyfriend?”

The words hang there between you, fragile and small.

Sirius blinks. Then blinks again. You watch as something shifts in his face—like whatever wall he’s been holding up finally cracks, just a little.

“Are you serious?” he asks, lips twitching like he’s trying to stop himself from smiling too fast, too much.

You nod, heart hammering in your chest. “I mean… yeah. If you want to be.”

And then—finally—he grins.

It’s a real grin, wide and crooked and full of disbelief, like he can’t quite wrap his head around what you’ve just said but doesn’t want to waste another second trying to overthink it.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, pulling you in before you can even blink. His arms wrap around you like they’ve been waiting to do that forever, holding you close. “Yes. Yes, I want to be. I thought you’d never ask.”

You laugh, a bit breathless, as you bury your face in his shoulder. “I almost didn’t.”

“Yeah, well, lucky for me you’re braver than you look,” he teases, but his voice is thick with relief, with something tender. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Your hands are on his chest now, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palms as he holds you there, forehead to forehead, like neither of you knows how to pull away. His grin is lopsided, all teeth and scruffy warmth, and you’re laughing, really laughing, the kind that bubbles up from your chest like champagne, unstoppable and a little giddy.

Sirius pulls back just a little to look at you properly, but he doesn’t let go. His hands stay right where they are—one at your waist, the other brushing along the curve of your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it. “God, you’re really here,” he murmurs, and there’s so much wonder in his voice it makes your breath catch.

“You’re really mine,” he adds, quieter.

That makes your cheeks burn in the best way, and you duck your head a little, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze. “I’ve kind of always been yours,” you mumble.

That gets a full-blown, slightly shocked laugh out of him—deep and real—and before you can say another word, he tilts your face up and kisses you.

It’s warm and a little clumsy at first—like he can’t quite believe it’s happening, like he doesn’t know where to start—but then you’re kissing him back, and it clicks into place.

And when you both pull back, a little breathless and a lot smiley, his thumb still brushing lazy circles on your hip, you don’t let go of each other.

“You taste like toothpaste,” you whisper, nose wrinkling in amusement.

“Wow. Rude,” he says, grinning as he bumps his nose against yours. “I brush twice a day like a responsible adult.”

You giggle, the sound escaping before you can stop it, and he just stares at you for a second like he’s completely and totally ruined. “God, I’m so screwed, I always was,” he says with another laugh, and then he’s kissing you again—this time slower, gentler, like he’s savouring it.

And you let yourself melt into it, into him, your fingers curling into his shirt like maybe if you hold on tight enough, this will never end.

There’s laughter between kisses—stupid, breathless laughter when your noses bump or when Sirius makes a ridiculous sound at the back of his throat just to make you snort.

“You’re insufferable,” you murmur against his lips.

“You’re obsessed with me,” he counters, barely pulling away.

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Maybe a little.”

“Good,” he says, pressing another kiss to your cheek, then your nose, then your lips again, like he can’t help himself. “Because I’m definitely obsessed with you.”

You kiss him again, just to shut him up. And he laughs into your mouth.

-

masterlist <3

[weasleys-wizard-writes]

Return {O.G}

Synopsis: You and Ominis are finally reunited on the Hogwarts express after several weeks apart. The only problem is, you're running late, and Gaunts are not known for their patience...

Note: Here's a little (fairly unedited) Ominis fluff blurb for you all to help tide everyone over until the next big fic is ready for posting <3.

"He's been waiting for you"

Sebastian teased as you all but stormed toward him, that smarmy grin of his making you wish you could recall the spell you'd learned to temporarily move one's mouth elsewhere.

You scoffed, giving him your most unimpressed glare,

"Of course he has. Doesn't he always?"

Except both of you knew what the slytherin had meant when he said those words, and you could tell by the look in his eye that he was more than aware of your understanding.

His grin morphed into something far more akin to a smirk than anything else, and you briefly searched the depths of your mind once more for any recollection of that mouth relocation spell, though you came up with nothing after a few moments of contemplation.

You sighed. There were much more pressing matters to attend to anyhow, it seemed.

"Quite."

Sebastian all but purred in response to your previous remark, shooting a less than subtle wink your way before gallivanting off in the direction of a bickering Leander and Garreth, no doubt hoping to stoke the flames of their already less than friendly conversation.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed open the door to the compartment that you and your friends had sat in for every trip made to Hogwarts thus far.

It was an unspoken rule, after all, that this particular car was favored by the ever particular and oddly intimidating Ominis Gaunt.

And, as things went, Ominis tended to be granted that which he was selective enough to vocalize aloud, whether he ever truly recognized it or not.

"Omini-"

"You're late."

You flinched softly at the obvious displeasure in the young man's voice, not for fear of his doubtless nonexistent retribution, but out of discomfort at the mere thought of being the cause of such a tone.

You wondered if Sebastian ever had the sense to care about such a thing, but found you would rather not know after a moment or two of deliberation on the subject.

You did not need yet another reminder of the ways in which your friendship with the youngest Gaunt heir differed from the one he shared with the sole remaining male Sallow.

Sighing, you nodded, knowing full well after so many years together that the blond sitting before you would sense the gesture regardless of his lack of sight.

He had a way of knowing such things, after all, particularly when they pertained to you and your movements.

He always seemed to know exactly where you were, as if attuned to your every breath.

"I know, I apologi-"

"I had to call in two favors to keep this train from moving without you, you know."

Ominis bit out before you could finish, immediately all but stunning you into silence.

Cutting you off twice in one conversation? Perhaps you'd upset him more than you'd initially realized.

"I mean honestly, late for the train in your seventh year? Was I foolish to believe you might have learned better by now?"

He all but scoffed, continuing with his tangent whilst crossing his arms and fixing his face with a scowl so cold it very nearly had you shivering.

"Probably not,"

You began a few moments later, allowing the sliding door to rest against your shoulder as you stood in the opening, your carry bag of necessities slung haplessly over your shoulder.

"But you know timing was never my strong suit."

Ominis rolled his eyes, immediately causing a small smile to tug at the corners of your lips in spite of your best efforts to keep it at bay.

"Far from it, as you've so kindly shown."

He muttered beneath his breath before turning his head toward you wordlessly, expression a rather amusing mixture of exasperation, confusion, and dwindling frustration as he opened his mouth to speak up once more after a few seconds of silence.

"And just what in Salazar's name do you think you're achieving by standing in that doorway, hm? Have somewhere else to be that you've conveniently neglected to mention?"

In response to your friend's accusation, you found yourself having to bite back a bout of laughter.

He would never admit it aloud, but Ominis was immensely fond of your quiet train rides back to school with one another, regardless of where he was returning from, and clearly he was concerned that you'd made other plans for your afternoon journey back to Hogwarts.

And of course, you would never admit it aloud, but doing such a thing was so inconceivable to you that it nearly made you burst out laughing, as evidenced by your present struggles.

After all, why would you ever want to spend time with someone else when you had Ominis Gaunt so impatiently waiting for you in the train compartment furthest from the rest in the second car down?

The answer, of course, was that you wouldn't.

"Certainly not."

You replied casually, amusement coloring your tone as the blond sitting before you scoffed once more, his cheeks glowing with a pink so faint that you could scarcely make it out, even in the brightness of the afternoon sun that beamed through the windows from high above the valley you were passing through in that moment.

"Well then what in the hells are you waiting for, a written invitation? Sit down already, you're letting far too much racket in standing there with the door open."

He huffed, averting his unseeing gaze away from you and toward the wall that sat opposite him as you shook your head with a grin and did as you were told with an eagerness you were glad that Ominis couldn't make out.

Making yourself comfortable within your place beside him, you couldn't help but take in the sight of his familiar profile, illuminated ever so slightly by the light filtering in through the glass.

It was always like this on these long rides back, you quietly admiring your friend as he sat, none the wiser, in the spot beside that which he always saved for you.

And, as an easy silence filled the room for the first time since your delayed arrival, you watched as the blond finally relaxed a bit in his seat, massaging his temples in slow circles until you finally leaned forward slightly to place a gentle hand just above his knee, the fabric of his perfectly tailored and painstakingly pleated trousers somewhat rough against your soft palm, though you found that the warmth radiating off of the man wearing them more than made up for that fact.

"I really am sorry for being late, you know."

You assured quietly, watching as the boy sitting beside you sighed and nodded almost imperceptibly, his cheeks now pink enough that you could make the color of them out with ease.

You tried not to think too hard about how happy the sight of that color upon his flushed skin made you, nor of just how much the fact that you had caused such a reaction was driving said happiness.

"I know."

Ominis replied gently, his hand finding yours, warm flesh upon warm flesh, the feel of his palm much softer than the fabric that was presently pressed against your own.

"I was simply worried that something had happened to you. It isn't typical to miss the train entirely, even for someone as truant as yourself."

His voice had a teasing lilt to it now, but you could still hear the strain hidden just beneath it as he spoke, poorly concealed even as you squeezed just above his knee encouragingly, reminding him of where you sat, perfectly safe at his side.

He seemed to deflate slightly at the gesture.

"Well, no need to concern yourself with my whereabouts anymore, Gaunt. I'm here, aren't I?"

Ominis chuckled under his breath, rolling his eyes with an exaggerated exasperation that you could tell he wanted to convey far more than he actually felt.

"Yes, I suppose you are."

And with that, you smiled, leaning your head familiarly upon the shoulder of the young man sitting just to the right of you before closing your eyes fondly when you felt the weight of his own atop it.

The two of you stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, head against head, until eventually, the train began to slow, and the door burst open to reveal Sebastian, who grinned rather obnoxiously as he took in the sight before him.

"Well well well, not waiting anymore now are we, Ominis?"

"Oh sod off, Sebastian."

[sunskisser]

mouth wide open | s.b.

tw: major character death

post-azkaban sirius x reader

summary: your husband, sirius, returns to you after twelve years. but at what cost?

A million different memories flash in your mind as you stare transfixed at the man in front of you - intertwining your fingers together when you first entered Hogwarts at 11. Smiling into the first kiss the two of you shared at fifteen. Being held in his arms as you sobbed into his chest when he proposed at twenty-one. Once memories to treasure had now morphed into memories to desperately grasp onto as they were snatched away from you.

“You just wait and see, love. I’ll leave you with your mouth wide open,” he used to say confidently, a grin on his face before he went and did something stupid to impress you. A small smile forms on your lips as you recall how often he claimed that in your teenage years.

It felt surreal, the moment you had dreamt of for years finally taking place right before your eyes. Twelve years, to be exact. You continue to stand there dumbly, quietly taking in his features and timeless beauty. His long, silky black hair, now unruly and messy with lack of care. His hypnotising grey eyes, now sunken and without a spark. Hey, what about that smile of his - the one which always made your heart flutter? You lock your eyes on his lips, eyes lighting up as you see the corners of his mouth tilted up in that familiar, teasing smirk. The familiar sensation of butterflies soaring in your stomach takes over your senses as you look him up and down.

Sirius Black. A name you had grown so accustomed to calling, but a name that had never left your mouth for the past twelve years. He was here now, after all this time. Sirius kept his promise - he said he would return to you, and he did. Your prayers had been answered. The world had brought your husband back to you.

But oh, how you wished he had been brought back to you alive.

“Miss?” the mortuary worker asked irritably, her voice filtering through the haze in your head, causing you to snap back to reality. “Is this your husband or not?”

You glance at her, inhaling sharply. The taste of blood is metallic in your mouth as you bite your lip to stop it from quivering. “Yes,” you murmur, your eyes glossing over as you reach over and gently close his eyes. “This is my husband, Sirius Black.”

“Good,” she mutters to herself, scribbling something on a piece of paper before grabbing the cart carrying his dead body and wheeling it out of the mortuary. You silently watch as he leaves you again. He had left you with a broken heart, crushed soul, and true to his words - your mouth wide open.

[victorian-writez]

New Barmaid (Bitch)

Tommy Shelby x Wife!Reader Setting: S1, post-war Summary: There is a new barmaid in town and Reader doesn't like it

The Garrison buzzed with the usual noise—drunken laughter, clinking glasses, murmurs about the races. You sat at your usual table, a glass of whiskey in hand, watching. Always watching.

Grace stood behind the bar like a fucking statue—perfect posture, practiced smile, batting her lashes every time Tommy walked past. And he did. Often. Too often.

She laughed at something he said—light, airy, like it hadn’t been practiced in front of a mirror a hundred times before.

"She's charming, isn't she?" Arthur muttered beside you with a half-drunk grin. "A bit too charming."

You scoffed. "I’ve met whores with more subtlety."

Arthur howled with laughter, but you didn’t crack a smile. Your eyes followed Grace as she leaned across the bar, lips too close to your husband’s ear. Tommy didn’t pull away. He just nodded, murmured something, and walked off.

When his eyes met yours across the room, you didn’t flinch. Just downed the rest of your whiskey, rose from your chair, and made your way upstairs to your shared home above the pub.

You were tugging the pins from your hair when the door creaked open.

“Something wrong?” Tommy’s voice was low, unreadable. You didn’t bother turning around.

“No.”

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. The air between you was thick—smoke, whiskey, and something darker.

“She’s just doing her job,” he said.

You let out a sharp laugh. “Is that what it is? Funny, I didn’t know her job involved undressing you with her eyes.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “You’re jealous.”

You turned then, slow and deliberate. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“She’s a barmaid.”

“She’s a leech,” you snapped. “And you’re letting her cling because you like the attention.”

Tommy stepped closer. “You’re my wife.”

You smirked, bitter. “By arrangement. Not by choice.”

His eyes darkened. “You saying you regret it?”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You can fuck whoever you want, Tommy. That’s how this works, right?” You stepped past him, brushing his shoulder. “And I get to fuck whoever I want too.”

Silence fell like a blade. Heavy. Dangerous.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, icy. “Is that what you want?”

You turned, looked him in the eye. “No. But it evens the field, doesn’t it?”

His gaze was unreadable. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed permission.”

Tommy’s steps echoed as he moved toward you, stopping just short of touching. “You hate her because she wants something I already gave you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“My name,” he said. “My protection. My bed.” His voice dropped. “She can look all she wants. But I come home to you.”

You swallowed. Goddamn him. Goddamn that voice.

“I didn’t ask for any of that.”

“No,” he murmured. “But you’ve got it. And whether you like it or not, you’re mine.”

You hated how that stirred something in you. How the fire in your chest wasn’t just anger—it was want, it was need, it was fuck you for making me feel like this.

You stared at him for a long moment. Then: “If I’m yours, then act like it.”

Tommy didn’t need to be told twice.

And somewhere below, Grace poured another drink for a man who would never be hers.

It started with a laugh.

Yours.

Not the usual dry chuckle you handed out like rations, but an actual laugh—sharp, unapologetic, bright like gunfire in the dark.

And it wasn’t for Tommy.

It was for some idiot with too many teeth and not enough sense, a businessman from London who didn’t know better than to flirt with the wife of Tommy fucking Shelby in his own pub.

You leaned against the bar, chin tilted, lips curled, nodding along to the man's story. And then, you laughed again.

Tommy saw red.

He didn’t storm across the Garrison. No, that would’ve given too much away. He lit a cigarette instead. Took a long drag. Exhaled slow. Watched.

The man’s hand brushed your arm.

That was it.

The next second, Tommy was behind you, one hand on your lower back, the other plucking the cigarette from your fingers and sliding it between his own lips.

“Evening,” he said coldly to the man.

The businessman, to his credit, didn’t flinch—but his smile did falter. “Ah, Mr. Shelby. Didn’t realize your wife had such a sharp wit.”

Tommy didn’t smile. “She does.” His tone dropped. “And sharp teeth, too.”

The man coughed, nodded, muttered something about getting another drink and disappeared.

You turned to Tommy, unimpressed. “Seriously?”

“What?” he asked, lighting your cigarette again for you. “Didn’t like him looking at you like that.”

“I’m not your property, Tommy.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking. “You’re my wife.”

“By arrangement, remember?” You snatched the cigarette back. “You said it yourself—I didn’t choose this.”

“You didn’t have to flirt back.”

You scoffed. “So it’s fine when you let Grace drool all over your boots, but God forbid I talk to a man without you pissing on my heels.”

Tommy’s hand shot out, gripping your chin gently but firmly. “Don’t talk about her.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Or what?”

His gaze darkened. “I’ve killed men for less.”

A beat. Then another. You stared at each other like a standoff, heat thrumming under your skin.

And then you smirked, infuriating and unbothered. “So have I.”

Tommy’s lips twitched. God, you drove him mad. And yet—he wouldn’t have you any other way.

He leaned in close, voice rasping against your lips. “Let them look, love. Let them fucking dream. But you? You’re mine. You come home with me. You scream my name, not theirs.”

You didn’t move. “And if I don’t?”

He kissed you then—hard, fast, desperate. The kind of kiss that started wars and ended them.

When he pulled away, he muttered, “Then I’ll remind you exactly who you married.”

You licked your lips. “Go on, then.”

And just like that, Tommy Shelby led you upstairs—hands possessive, mouth claiming, fury melting into lust—ready to prove that for all your fire, you still burned just for him.

[storiesforallfandoms]

the bad room ~ homelander;the boys

word count: 2654

request?: no

description: in which a ghost from his past returns when he needs her the most

pairing: homelander x female!reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n, lil bit of angsty angst, mentions of death and violence, mentions of threatened suicide, mentions of what homelander and reader went through in "the bad room", the boys typical stuff, spoilers for 4x04, reader was also raised in "the bad room" but is not homelander's sister we'll say she created using another supe's dna

masterlist (one, two, three)

"John?"

The name that just moments ago made him so angry he saw the brightest of reds, brought him to a halt. It wasn't the name, but rather the voice. When he turned and saw her there, he was almost certain it was a hallucination.

"(Y/N)?"

He hadn't seen her in years. Since she somehow escaped The Bad Room before he was set free of it. Before he became Homelander. But it felt like she hadn't changed at all. Not her eyes, watching him with care and concern. Not her face, just as beautiful as he remembered. Not the fuzzy feeling in his stomach just being in her presence.

He was tempted to take her in his arms and never let her go, but then he remembered the blood soaked super suit and the thick liquid still dripping from his face and hair; the blood of the people who tortured them both.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

A wry smile twisted on Homelander's face. "Visiting home."

Her eyes flickered to the building behind them. "Did you leave anyone alive?"

"Barbara."

(Y/N)'s face darkened. "Should've killed her first, very slowly and painfully."

Homelander chuckled, humorlessly. "That's quite the thing to say about your mother."

"That woman was never a mother to me."

"She raised you."

"If that's all it takes, then Vogelbaum was your dad, right?"

Homelander scowled at her. "Point taken."

(Y/N) looked him up and down. He suddenly felt very self conscious and small, even though he stood a few inches over her. They were emotions he thought he wouldn't feel anymore; human emotions. He was supposed to have left those behind in The Bad Room. That was the whole reason he had come back to this nightmare.

But he realized he wasn't feeling this way in a negative way. Well, he definitely felt ashamed that (Y/N) had to see him like this. But he realized he felt small because he was remembering every moment he and (Y/N) had in The Bad Room. She was the only good thing about that place. They kept each other going; they kept each other sane. When she suddenly disappeared, he thought the worse. He wanted to escape himself, to burn the whole place down, to burn himself with it. But he was still young, not yet The Homelander.

He later found out she was alive and had just managed to escape. He would've been angry that she didn't take him if he wasn't so heartbroken by it.

"I live nearby," (Y/N) said, breaking the silence. "You can come over and get cleaned up."

It took him a moment, but he finally registered what she had said. "Yeah. Okay. Lead the way."

(Y/N) seemed confused. "Um...I drove here."

Now it was Homelander's turn to look confused. When he realized she was being serious, he said, "Oh...okay. Well...you drive and I'll follow your car."

"You think it's a good idea to risk people seeing Homelander flying around covered in blood?"

He knew she wasn't wrong, but he hadn't driven in a car since...well, maybe ever.

"I'll clean the seats later, and it'll be less risk for your image," she said. "John...please?"

She wanted him to come over. She wanted to spend time with him. In her space. How could he say no?

That's how Homelander found himself stood under a stream of hot water in an unfamiliar bathroom. The blood ran from his face and hair, staining the water red as it ran down the drain. He found himself looking at the products she had there - her body washes and shampoo. He tried not to think too much about the fact that there were no men's products there. Although, he would've appreciated some men's body wash at the very least. He wasn't sure if he could handle using her body wash and smelling so much like her.

Eventually the water went from red to clear, so he shut it off. He wrapped one of the towels (Y/N) had left for him around his waist. He had left his suit on the floor, but now it was gone and any blood that had dripped onto the floor was cleaned. Homelander found himself blushing at the thought of (Y/N) coming into the bathroom while he was showering without him knowing, but then the blood moved from his face to a lower area.

He walked out of the bathroom and into (Y/N)'s living room. She was sat on her couch with a glass of wine in hand. He could smell bleach trying to be masked by the smell of hand lotion, which told him that she had cleaned her car while he was in the shower.

"Does that stuff get you drunk?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Of course not," she responded. "I drink it for the taste at this point."

He noticed her looking him up and down again, and he suddenly became very aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing any clothes.

"My suit..." he started.

"The cape is in my washer, but I wasn't sure how to wash the rest of it. Especially with those shoulder pads you have."

"That's okay. I can get someone back at the tower to dry clean it for me. They won't ask any questions."

(Y/N) winced and took a sip of her wine.

"I have some clothes you can borrow," she said, placing her glass down and standing from the couch.

"I don't think any of your clothes will fit me," Homelander said, a smile tugging at his lips.

She gave him a look, but he could see she was smiling as well. "They're men's clothes."

His smile suddenly fell. "Oh."

"They're my brother's."

He should've been happy for that clarification, but it only made his brow crease more. "Brother?"

"Foster brother, but I see him as an actual brother," she explained. "He stays over whenever he's in New York so he's left some clothes here. They should fit you."

He dressed in the clothes that (Y/N) gave him, but he was filled with more questions. She had a foster brother, did that mean she had a whole foster family? It would make sense, she was still a minor when she had escaped. He guessed she couldn't just live on her own under the age of 18.

But couldn't she? She had powers. She was raised to be a Supe just as powerful as himself. She could've taken care of herself, gotten whatever she wanted.

But maybe what she wanted was a real family.

But they weren't her family. They were just posing as one.

He was still turning these thoughts over in his head as she entered her living room again. She was back on the couch with a second glass of wine. He didn't drink alcohol. He was told he couldn't before. He had an image to uphold. But who cared about that image now? He literally killed a man and got away with it.

He sat next to her. She took a sip of her own wine before looking at him. "You have questions."

That was an understatement.

But she was opening the floor for him to ask everything on his mind, and he had a lot of things he wanted to know.

The first thing out of his mouth was, "Why were you there tonight?"

She seemed almost amused by this being his first question. "Barbara called me. She said there was a breach."

"What are you, their bodyguard?"

"That's what she thinks. Or...thought, I guess."

"I didn't kill her. I left her with the bodies of the people who tortured us."

(Y/N) looked at him, almost in disbelief, before a laugh slipped from her lips. "Jesus, that's worse than death. That's what she deserves."

"Why does she still have your number? You escaped, why would you want any connections to her or-or that place?"

She sighed. "It's...complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it for me."

When (Y/N) looked at him, there was no fear in her eyes. Not like most people who get this close to him, who know what he's done and have to deal with him after the fact. Instead, he saw sadness. And with it, any ounce of anger that was growing in him evaporated.

"I didn't escape, I made a deal with Barbara and Vogulbaum. I told them either they let me go and stop trying to train me and make me into their next Supe princess, or the second they let me leave the facility and put me on camera I would reveal everything those people did to us. And then...and then I'd kill myself on live television so the world knew what Vought did to us."

Homelander watched her as she took a sip of her wine. Well, a gulp more like it. She finished the contents of her glass and reached for the bottle to get herself more. He reached for his own glass and swallowed it all in two gulps. He winced at the taste and suddenly was glad he never drank before.

(Y/N) started to refill his glass when he asked, "Why didn't you take me?"

She paused. He could hear her heart rate picking up, and he could see the tears welling in her eyes.

"They wouldn't - " she started, but choked on her tears. She cleared her throat and tried again. "They wouldn't let me. I tried to negotiate it with Barbara, but she said no, and she said even if she agreed Vogelbaum never would. She said the deal was only me, and if I didn't take it then...then that was it. I had to stay, continue all the training and...experiments. Neither one of us would ever get out if I agreed to that, so...I took their deal. They rushed me out in the middle of the night so that you wouldn't know, blindfolded me so that I wouldn't know where the facility was, and then dropped me in the middle of nowhere to fend for myself. I was hitchhiking for hours when this family drove past and found me."

"What did you tell them?" Homelander asked.

"I lied and said I had no idea what happened to me. I said bad people took me and I couldn't remember who they were or where I came from. Only that I remembered my first name, the only name that Barbara gave me. They looked into missing persons and couldn't find me anywhere here or in any other state. So - "

"They took you in," he finished. "They fostered you."

(Y/N) nodded. "They wanted to adopt me officially, but that's a whole process. They became like my family anyways. Like I said, I'm still in contact with them."

"Do they know you have powers?"

She shook her head. "I haven't used my powers since I got out of there. Not on purpose, anyways. There's always the odd slip up, but that's bound to happen."

Everything she said just resulted in more questions in his head. He wanted to ask her why she never disclosed to her "family" that she had powers, but he figured the answer to that was pretty simple: she wanted to be normal.

But she's not normal. She's never been normal. She was made to be a God, like me.

Instead of saying that, he said, "You never...called. Or came by the tower or...anything. You never tried to contact me."

"I did once, remember? When you asked me to be in The Seven."

Oh, he remembered. It was just after Lamplighter had announced his intention to leave, before they put out a nation wide search for a new member that resulted in Starlight joining the team. He asked Stillwell to wait on putting out word on a search because he had someone he wanted to ask first. Reluctantly, he turned to Vogelbaum, because he knew they must've had an idea of where (Y/N) ended up. Even when he thought she had just escaped, he knew they never would've let her truly be free of them. He asked Vogelbaum to send her a message: "Please come join The Seven. It would mean the world to me if you did."

Almost immediately, Vogelbaum called the tower to let Homelander know she had responded. "She said I'm sorry, but I can't."

He was locked in his room for days after that.

Now, he scoffed at her bringing up that memory. "That's not trying to contact me. That's responded to me trying to contact you, and having to go through Vogelbaum of all people to do it. You basically fell off the face of the Earth to me, but I was readily available to you if you ever gave enough of a fuck to reach out."

"You think I didn't care?!" (Y/N) snapped, standing from the couch. "You think I wasn't thinking of you every second after I got out of that hell hole?! That I wasn't trying for years to figure out where the hell they had you hidden so I could come save you, too? I tried everything John! I looked everywhere that I could, but I was too late. They were already parading you around on TV as the next Soldier Boy! The second they announced you'd be the leader of The Seven, I knew I was too late. They had already corrupted you too much, you were already another Supe pawn in Vought's attempts at global domination. I couldn't handle that. I couldn't try to pry you away from that when I knew you would never leave the spotlight. How could you? You're the world's greatest superhero, you had everyone at your feet. And I was just the girl who ran away from that life and stopped using her powers. How could you ever choose me over that?"

"I would've chosen you every time!" Homelander snapped back, getting to his feet as well to stand over her. "That's why I asked you to join The Seven!"

"But that's not what I wanted, John! I didn't want to be a hero. If I took you up on your offer, I would be letting Barbara and Vogelbaum and all of those other fuckers win. I just wanted to be normal! I wanted me and you to be normal!"

"But we're not fucking normal!"

Tears were running down her face as she backed away from him. He realized then that he was crying, too. So much built up emotion between the two of them was finally coming out. They both needed it, but goddamn, Homelander felt his heart breaking all over again.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

Suddenly, (Y/N) was throwing herself at him. Her arms were around his neck, holding onto him for dear life, and her lips were on his. He was surprised at first, but quickly wrapped his arms around her to hold her to him. He could taste the salt of their tears mixed with the wine they had been drinking. It was messy and far from the perfect kiss, but neither of them cared. It was the cultivation of years of emotions between them.

(Y/N) pulled away first. She rested her forehead against his, looking into his bright blue eyes. "I can't be your perfect Supe counterpart. I can't be a Supe, John, you have to understand that."

"I do," he said. "Whatever you need, I won't push you. I just want you back."

"You can have me," she said, her voice a whisper but he could still hear her plain as day. "You always had me."

He leaned in to kiss her again, picking her up in his arms as he did so. He never wanted to let her go again, so he wouldn't.

[anotherhomelanderblog]

Ichor

Summary: Homelander returns to you bleeding after his confrontation with Soldier Boy goes awry. Seeing your lover injured is a new and disconcerting experience for you - and, unfortunately, sometimes panic makes your tongue stupid. Content: Homelander x Reader | established relationship | angst | hurt/comfort | set near end of S3 | mild injury | blood Word count: 2.7k Author's note: Hello again, lovely people! This is just a standalone fic since I wanted to post something and I figured this would be one of my shorter ideas. However, it has still turned into a psychological minefield for me to navigate - and now, my own sanity in tatters, I cut it loose! I just thought Homie could do with some reassurance after Soldier Boy rejects him near the end of S3. This fic is also a birthday present for @themeraldee, who is so sweet and kind and has the absolutely galaxy brained ideas planned for this awful man! I hope you have the best day! ❤️

ao3

You’re not thinking when you say it.

You’re running on adrenaline, trying to be the grown up, hold the fort together. He’s bleeding, for Christ’s sake. You’ve never seen him bleed before. He hasn’t even specified why out loud to you. What on earth are you meant to be thinking?

He’s barely said a word since thundering back into the penthouse, where you were anxiously waiting, with a bleeding Ryan and a team of even more anxious medics in tow. His gloved hands haven’t stopped twitching at his sides for at least ten minutes, something the medics clustered around Ryan on the sofa seem all too conscious of.

You want to ask Homelander what happened, who did this to him, to both of them, but there’s a silence in the air that’s got your nerves on edge. Homelander’s eyes are irritated when they flit recurrently around the room. There’s a light flickering above that you can tell is bothering him.

He’s probably right – of course he is – when he mutters to no one in particular that Ryan doesn’t need checking over. Ryan is like him. But then, that gash on Ryan’s forehead would concern any father, wouldn’t it? And you can’t see who else but Homelander dragged the medics up here while the rest of the tower is under evacuation orders.

And it’s not as though he’s stopped you from dabbing his left ear with a cloth. It’s not as though he is invulnerable to injury either, apparently.

Blood. Homelander’s blood. You can smell it, or maybe that’s just panic. A droplet of it is smeared across the meat of your hand. You don’t know whether this makes you feel sick or honoured.

The Homelander is bleeding. He bleeds.

And all you can do is fucking dab, dab, dab at the evidence.

You’re furious with yourself for taking his invulnerability for granted in the past. He bleeds. How can such a thing surprise you? You're really not thinking straight. You get about half a second’s worth of internal warning that you’re about to say something stupid when a strange little laugh bubbles up from somewhere panicked in your chest. But it’s too late.

“So it is blood and not ichor running through your veins then,” you blurt out.

You can’t take your eyes off the redness leeching from his ear.

At once, Homelander’s restless gaze snaps to you. He looks unimpressed – you have made a bad joke – and an apology is already forming in that same panicked place inside you. You can’t imagine what your own face is currently doing.

But then, lo and behold, his expression falters. His brows pull together, and he tilt his head slightly.

“Why– Why would you say that?” he asks.

He sounds wounded in a way that makes your heart knock with guilt. You freeze and withdraw the cloth from his ear. His ego is worryingly fragile for a man of his abilities, yes, but tonight of all nights you shouldn’t be tripping over the cracks.

“I–”

“Just forget it,” he interrupts you.

He curses under his breath and turns towards the invitingly lit wall of mirrors lurking to the side of you both, his eyes glistening. Oh no. You know the signs of what – and who – may be bargaining for a visit if he’s eying those up. Fortunately, Ryan seems too distracted in conversation with the medics to notice the change in his father’s demeanour.

You pivot after Homelander, grabbing his padded arm. He doesn’t stop you. You feel him trembling. A muscle in his jaw spasms in warning. He’s clearly caught between storming off and drawing Ryan’s attention or staying put for more public humiliation.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You sound more grounded this time.

He doesn’t move. If you were anyone else, it’d be imperative you run a mile right about now. But you both know you’re in far too deep for that.

Instead, you walk directly into the blast zone: stepping in front of him, you take his face in your hands. His eyes are downcast, purposely avoiding yours. He scrunches them shut as you start to stroke his cheeks.

“Hey. I am sorry,” you say in a softer tone. “Sometimes I say stupid stuff when I’m shocked, but I really didn’t mean anything. Will you please tell me what happened tonight? Hm?”

On the one hand, he’s fine: his hearing doesn’t seem to have been affected by what must be a ruptured ear drum. You know he has unimaginable experience in dealing with pain, but you don’t think he’s masking anything here. No, what’s bothering him is more mental than physical.

Isn’t it always?

His eyes open again as a rogue tear finally spills down his left cheek. For the sake of his pride, you ignore it. His gaze becomes distant, honed on one of the mirrors; it’s from behind that protective glass he’s recounting events. He gestures vaguely to his ear.

“This was Maeve. She got my nose as well.” He shrugs nonchalantly. Then he sniffs despite himself. “She’s dead now. Soldier Boy too.”

You’d figured he was gone when that terrifying explosion destroyed half the tower. The fact Homelander could fly you to safety at a moment’s notice, should the whole structure collapse, is one of the only things keeping you brave enough to stay up here.

But Maeve…

You’ll have to decide how you feel about that later.

Homelander closes his eyes once more and finally lets himself lean into your touch, as needy for your affection as the first time you offered it.

“Did you get to talk to him?” you ask, brushing your thumbs along his jaw.

That was supposed to be his play for the meeting: try to get Soldier Boy to switch sides now they knew their familial connection. Who were Butcher and his ragtag band of criminals in comparison to Compound V and blood? It was a wishful scheme borne from the desperate, impulsive part of your lover that increasingly gets the best of him, but you wouldn’t have dared suggest an alternative. He’d gotten that look in his eye.

And then Noir ended up dead.

Right here, however, in the cold light of reality, something in Homelander’s face crumples for a second time. You’re getting close to the raw core of this. The bleeding you’ve witnessed very literally pales in comparison. He’s avoiding your gaze again.

“Yes,” he says, and his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “But…”

You don’t like the emphasis he puts on that word.

Your mind runs through every possible nightmare scenario until you find your arms are enveloping him of their own accord. You bury your face against his chest and inhale deeply. A soft, surprised noise breezes over your head, then you feel one of his hands reach up to gently stroke through your hair.

You pretend you don’t also feel the vice-like grip of his other hand as it snakes around the base of your neck, keeping you wedged to the Vought-branded padding of his suit. His. It really is far too late for running, but this element of him you can handle.

As long as he’s standing. As long as he’s alive. You don’t try to resist him; you press a kiss to his chest.

What happened at that confrontation? It’s times like these you wish you had powers too, so you could stand alongside him when the crunch comes. You knew something was going to go wrong in there…

“You deserved better,” you whisper.

You’re not expecting this comment to make him flinch like you’ve burnt him, but it does. His hand stills in your hair for an instant before he’s petting you like nothing stopped him. If you listen carefully enough, you’re sure you’ll be able to hear the muscles behind his face filtering through several conflicting expressions.

“What?” he eventually asks, bewildered in that unworldly manner of his that surfaces when the world gets too genuine. You know he can’t help it; most of the time, it only endears him to you more.

“You deserved better than to find out you had a father and then lose him like that,” you clarify.

Truth be told, you’re not particularly saddened by the demise of Soldier Boy. Finding out he was Homelander’s biological father might’ve been enough to turn Homelander’s world on its head – how could it not? – but, to you, he remained the scarily powerful supe trying to depower and murder your lover. Forgive you if you’re not his biggest fan. With his death, at least he can’t pose that threat anymore.

“Yeah, well…” Homelander’s voice sounds choked all of a sudden. Because he feels touched by your words or is freshly grieved about his father, you're not sure. He sighs and clears his throat. “Let’s just say, he didn’t see it that way.”

Now you frown.

“What did he say to you?” You let go of him and try to pull back to properly gauge what he’s getting at, but that’s the wrong response. He doesn’t let you. You hope Ryan is still distracted enough not to notice any of this. “Homelander, I swear to God, if he’s been filling your head with bullshit–”

“I’m a fucking disappointment, apparently. Imagine that.”

He snarls the words into your ear, and his fist tightens in your hair as he does. The whiplash of his vitriol would make you flinch in return, if you didn’t already feel his hold on you finally loosening – though you’re still not free.

Clinically controlled, he tilts your head back like you’re a precious china doll for him to position, and one of his thumbs strokes your jaw as yours did his earlier. But there’s none of that anger in his voice marring his face. Instead, he stares into your eyes – scrutinising you, yes, but – with a wariness that should be unbalancing.

“Well? Am I a disappointment to you too?” he asks.

He’s trying to project bitterness. You sense the undercurrent of a plea for your assurance mixed in, never able to just ask outright without lashing at you too, so you know better than to think this means you have the upper hand here. After all, this isn’t a fair question for the strongest man in the world to ask a person whose life he could crush between the fingers of one hand. But that isn’t his fault, you tell yourself, and you meet his desperation with an intensity you can only have learnt from him.

“No, you're not,” you say firmly. “And I know you much better than Soldier Boy did.”

It takes a lot for you to hold off sneering his father’s name. Still, if anything, this measured response seems to upset him further – you’re not giving him opportunity to escalate. How unfair.

With a curt sigh, he slides the arm not gripping your jaw downwards to take the bloodstained cloth from you. It’s been clenched in your grip, but you relinquish it without fuss to watch in confusion as Homelander draws it up to his face to wipe something from his right cheek.

Foundation? Concealer?

Your brow creases, but he doesn’t speak. His eyes bore into yours as he drags the cloth over his skin. His movements are rigid, like you’re forcing him to do this. Is this a test of some sort? Gradually, the makeup smears with the blood already laced into the cloth’s damp fabric, revealing the not-quite invulnerable skin underneath is… inflamed.

You blink.

Homelander has a bruise below his right eye socket spreading the length of his cheekbone – and, from the state of the discolouration, you’d wager it’s not a fresh one. Your mind starts to fly once again with questions, when the culprit hits you.

Herogasm. That fucking ambush.

“Fuck,” you whisper, staring transfixed at the unwanted souvenir.

You don't want to imagine how hard someone would’ve had to hit him to leave a bruise like this. You reach up to caress the injured cheek, but he turns his head away. Your heart clenches.

“Oh, sweetheart–”

“Don’t be embarrassed? Right.” He scoffs, forcing the fake nonchalance back, then releases his hold on you entirely. His eyes close, and when he reopens them, they’re glassy and irritable like earlier. “I mean, you signed up to date a god, didn’t you? Don’t you wish my veins were filled with ichor? You can be honest.”

You bristle. “Of course not. I told you. I didn’t mean–”

“Because I fucking do.”

There’s an accusation in his gaze – and, if you’re not mistaken, a millisecond’s flash of red. Fortunately for him, you spy the pitiful and humiliated creature lurking underneath it, and it gives you pause.

“Blood is more than good enough for me. Especially the blood that runs through your veins,” you tell him, stepping closer as if to prove it. You jab his chest. “You’re not the disappointment in this situation, understand? Soldier Boy is. Stop expecting me to reject you too.”

He blinks several times in quick succession, but, this time, when you tentatively reach out, he lets you trace over his cheek with the pads of your fingers. He hums, which you take to be a nonverbal sign of his approval. He’s barely resisting the urge to nuzzle against your touch.

Relief floods your system.

Chuckling, you lean in and kiss the part of the bruise that appears the least tender, for good measure. Despite the fact you don't have the strength to make it any worse, that isn’t the point.

“You have a family who loves you, Homelander. We’re not going anywhere,” you whisper. “I chose you. I’ll choose you every day. You’d better believe me.”

A huff leaves his lips as you start peppering little kisses across his face. His hands slip comfortably around your waist, and he offers you a soft look. You offer him a smile in return. His lips meet yours like nothing is wrong in the world.

And, for one blissful second, nothing is.

“Uh, dad?” Ryan calls over.

You jerk back in surprise, your face warming. It doesn’t take an emotional genius to hear the awkwardness in Ryan’s voice. There’s a brief glimmer of amusement in Homelander’s eyes at your reaction before he’s plastering on his most reassuring, fatherly smile.

“Yeah, buddy? Everything alright?” he calls back.

With a needlessly dramatic swoosh of his cape, he strides over to his son, dismissing the medics with a warning flick of his wrist. None of them need telling twice.

Crisis averted. You hope.

The source of your anxiety finally settled, you take to inspecting your hands in an effort not to eavesdrop on father and son. The small streak of Homelander’s blood that had so bothered you earlier catches your attention. You find yourself more at peace with it now. What was previously crimson liquid is turning a dry brown in the fine lines of your skin, nestled into you as snugly as you know he’d like to be in his ideal world.

You observe this tangible proof of his humanity that connects you both on a level you’ve not had access to before. The sight of it fills you with a strange compulsion, one you’d normally consider morbid. You raise your hand to your lips, casting a quick glance across the room to make sure you’re not being watched, and lick at the blood.

…What exactly were you expecting?

The taste is faintly metallic, same as your own. Ordinary. Authentically human. Nothing artificial, to your palate. Nothing divine either.

You glance back over at Homelander. He’s reverted to form – hands clasped behind his back; superhero assurances that he won’t ever let anyone hurt Ryan like this again, he will not let them; that William Butcher doesn’t deserve Ryan, that Ryan deserves better, is better, innately better, than everyone who caused him this pain; that Homelander isn’t going anywhere; that they’ve got this, they’ll be fine. It makes you happy and sad.

Your lover may now know he isn’t as synthetic as he was led to believe, and he may know you love him, but you’re not so sure he’ll ever accept that he isn’t of the divine.

But Homelander bleeds blood and not ichor, and you wouldn’t have him any other way.

[hatethysinner]

i've been thinking about an angsty little thing where remmick can hear there's something very wrong with your heart. it started small at first, he'd barely noticed when he met you, but lately it's been getting worse and worse (he can see it in your eyes, too. smell it on you) and it gets to the point where he's begging and pleading with you to just let him turn you - but you refuse every time. would rather die, in fact, than lose your soul. thoughts?

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴɴᴇʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ

ᴡᴄ: 5.3k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. fun fact, i was actually donna in my hs junior year spring musical (second fav role ever). i built my entire performance around meryl streep's i fear. anyway enough about me, YASSSSSS THIS ASK HAD ME SALIVATING HEAVY ANGST MY BELOVED!!! i honestly could've turned this into a full fledged fic but decided against it since i had so much other stuff to work on. i did not hold back y'all WE ALL NEED TO HURT! hopefully it doesn't seem too rushed but i as i said before i wanted to keep it drabble length so i had to consolidate the depression.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship, angst on x1000 lines of cocaine, this is actually so sad why did i make this, detailed description of heart issues, character death, very minorly playing around with vampire lore, excessive use of dividers

You never minded walking alone at night.

Had done it for years, really. Long before you met him. Something about the quiet made it easier to think, to breathe. The world got small when the sun went down. Just you, the dirt road, the cypress trees, and the warm Mississippi air pressing soft against your skin. Fireflies blinked like slow, patient stars at your feet. The cicadas hummed steady in the trees. And the moon was always so full, so close, you felt like you could reach up and pocket it if you wanted.

Folks told you it was foolish, of course. A woman of your complexion wandering out this late. But you weren’t reckless. You stayed on familiar paths, kept your wits about you. And for a long time, nothing ever gave you reason to be afraid.

Until him.

At first, you didn’t even see him.

The first few nights it was only a feeling. Something heavy hanging just behind your shoulder, close enough to stir the air but not close enough to touch. You’d pause. Look back. Find nothing. But the weight stayed, like a second shadow.

Then the sound started. The faintest crunch of boots against the loose gravel. The careful snap of a branch bending underfoot. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Deliberate.

You’d stop walking, heart thumping loud enough to hear in your ears.

Stillness.

Nothing but cicadas again.

It happened enough that your nerves should’ve snapped. But they didn’t. And maybe that was the strangest part. How the fear stayed distant, never quite blooming fully in your chest. Like whatever was following you didn’t mean you harm. Like it was waiting.

And then, one night, the silence broke.

“Evenin’.”

You nearly stumbled at the voice. Low, smooth, not more than a few feet behind you. You turned fast, breath caught sharp in your throat, and there he was.

Standing just under the curve of an old cypress, one hand hooked casually into his pocket, like he’d been there the whole time.

Pale, though not sickly, warm undertones kissed by the moonlight. Broad shoulders beneath a pressed white shirt, collar open at the throat, sleeves cuffed up just enough to bare strong forearms. His dark suspenders cut clean lines down his chest, and a simple gold chain glinted faintly at his neck. Hair dark, swept back loosely, like it couldn’t decide whether to fall or stay neat. And his eyes, those eyes. A blue so deep you swore they held pieces of the night inside them, pulsing faint beneath the moon’s glow.

He smiled, small and careful, like he didn’t want to scare you.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya, miss.”

You stared at him for a moment too long. Waiting for some signal. A reason to run. But none came.

He raised both hands slightly, as if to offer peace. “I been walkin’ out this way too. Thought I might introduce myself, since we seem to share the habit.”

And somehow, you let him.

His name was Remmick.

And after that night, he started joining you. Not every evening, not at first. But enough. Enough that the strange thing at your back became a quiet presence at your side.

He spoke little those first few weeks. Let you lead the conversation. Let you talk about your days, your small life, the world you carved out for yourself here. He listened with a kind of focus that made you self-conscious at first. Like every word out of your mouth was precious, worth tucking away somewhere safe.

Little by little, you learned how to read him. How his silences were full of thought, how his eyes softened when you smiled. How, even when he stood still, his chest rose and fell just a little slower than it ought to.

And how he never joined you before sundown.

He never offered much about himself. You didn’t press. Not then.

Until one night, cooler than usual, the sky pulled tight with stars, you invited him in. You don’t even remember why. Just that it felt right. The house was warm. The tea was sweet. And his eyes, God, those eyes, looked like they hadn’t seen home in years.

From that night forward, Remmick stayed close.

And now? He was part of your life.

The walks never stopped. But lately, they’d grown slower.

You noticed it first in your legs. The quiet heaviness that settled like wet cloth clinging to your bones. Then in your breath, how it seemed to catch quicker, how the cool night air filled your lungs less fully than it used to.

Still, you pushed forward. Like always.

The fireflies danced around your ankles, little pulses of amber blinking against the dark. You’d always loved them. They seemed softer here, in the night’s embrace. Like old friends keeping you company. You tried to focus on them instead. On the music of the frogs croaking near the creek, the whisper of wind through the tall cypress.

But you couldn’t ignore the ache that pressed into your chest, tight and hot beneath your ribs.

You pressed your hand there, fingers spreading instinctively as if you could ease it somehow, as if your own touch might convince your heart to behave.

Beside you, his voice came low, careful. “Ya alright?”

Remmick’s eyes were already on you. Always on you.

You nodded, too quickly. “Mmhmm. Just... winded, I guess.” You tried to lace the words with something light, tried to smile like you hadn’t just felt your own heartbeat stumble. “It’s been happenin’ more these days.”

He didn’t answer right away. But his gaze flickered.

Not surprise. No. He wasn’t surprised.

Something older moved in him. Something deeper, heavier. Like he’d been carrying this knowledge longer than you’d dared admit even to yourself.

He said nothing of what you both already knew.

Instead, he simply adjusted his pace again, falling half a step behind you, hand brushing your elbow in that soft, familiar way. Steadying without crowding. Comforting without pressing.

“Ya sure y’don’t wanna rest a while?”

You shook your head, biting down on the tightness in your throat.

“I’m fine, Remmick.” You smiled, though your breath came thinner than it should. “The air feels good tonight.”

He didn’t argue. He never did, not out loud.

But you felt it, how his eyes never truly left you. How they flicked between the dark path ahead and your unsteady steps, cataloguing each stagger of your breath, every time your hand drifted to your ribs.

His jaw flexed once. Twice.

And though he said nothing, you could feel it. The quiet storm building inside him.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just your breath.

Not anymore.

The sharp pinches in your chest had been happening more often. Small flashes of pain that stole your breath for a moment, like invisible threads pulling tight beneath your skin. Your legs felt heavier in the mornings, your arms weaker by the end of the day. And when you were alone, when the world hushed itself and the stillness crept in, you could feel it clearest of all: your heart, stumbling through its rhythm. Like a bird with one wing broken, fluttering unevenly.

You hadn’t told him all of it.

You didn’t know how.

But Remmick?

Remmick knew anyway.

He could hear it. He could always hear it.

You caught him listening sometimes, when he thought you didn’t notice.

At night, when you were drifting to sleep, you’d feel his arm tighten around your waist, his head dipping just slightly, just enough for his ear to rest near your chest. Not in search of comfort. Not for closeness. But to listen.

To your heart.

To the quiet betrayals happening beneath your skin.

You could feel his breath hitch when it faltered. You could feel the way his thumb would start to trace soft, anxious circles on your stomach whenever it skipped.

He never said anything.

But it terrified him.

And somehow, that terrified you more.

Because if he was scared, a creature who had walked this earth longer than you could comprehend, who feared nothing and no one, what chance did you have?

The fireflies blinked around your feet again, little golden lights rising and falling like tiny prayers. The trees whispered overhead.

And Remmick stayed close.

Always close.

As if his nearness alone might steady you. Might hold you together.

But some things couldn’t be held.

Not forever.

And you both knew it.

Even if you hadn’t said it yet.

The morning started quiet.

Soft wind curling in through the open windows, carrying the faint smell of honeysuckle and damp earth. Sunlight poured in gentle stripes across the wooden floorboards, warm and golden, like the house itself was still waking up alongside you.

You hummed a little under your breath as you moved through the sitting room, fingertips trailing lightly across the old lace curtains as you straightened them. Dust motes spun in the light like tiny dancers, catching on the fabric of your dress as you bent to tuck a stray corner of the rug back into place.

It felt good to move. To do something.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Remmick, of course, didn’t agree. He never did.

He was only a few paces behind you now, arms folded across his chest, leaning lazy against the doorway. But you could feel his stare, heavy as a hand at your back. Watching every little thing. Waiting.

“Sugar, I told ya, I can get that,” he drawled softly. “Ain’t no sense in you strainin’ yourself none.”

You waved him off with a small smile. “I’m not strainin’. Just tidyin’.”

His brow twitched, jaw shifting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the place to press.

You weren’t fooling him.

You never really did.

Still, you moved carefully to the small table near the window, adjusting the vase there, fingers brushing over the wildflowers you’d gathered days before. They were already starting to droop a bit, their colors dulling under the weight of time.

That was the thing about delicate things.

They didn’t always last long.

Remmick stepped forward as you fussed with the tablecloth edge, voice gentle but firm. “Darlin’, truly. Let me.”

“I got it.”

You heard the faint exhale through his nose. A sound halfway between patience and worry. “You always got it. But that don’t mean you should.” His tone thickened a touch, slipping into that old softness when he got like this.

You didn’t answer. You just kept smoothing the fabric, pretending your fingers weren’t trembling slightly where they rested.

And for a moment, it seemed like that might be the end of it.

But then,

It hit.

Sudden.

Fast.

Like your lungs forgot what they were made to do.

You felt it first as a tightness, sharp and squeezing, high in your chest, and then the air simply wouldn’t come. Your head went light. The room spun soft at the edges, colors bleeding like watercolors left too long in the rain.

Your knees buckled before your mind even caught up.

But you never hit the floor.

Because Remmick was there.

Quicker than any man ought to move. Like he’d known, heard, the shift inside you before it even fully arrived. His arms caught around your middle, pulling you up against him in one swift, desperate motion. The vase tipped from the table and shattered somewhere behind you, but neither of you looked.

“Easy, easy now, I got ya, I got ya,” his voice broke, fruitlessly attempting to mask its own panic as he lowered you gently to the floor, cradling you upright against his chest.

You gasped, mouth open, searching for breath that wouldn’t come. The pressure in your ribs pulsed like a fist tightening around your heart.

“Oh, Christ almighty- breathe for me, sweetheart, please, come on now,” His hand moved to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking fast and shaky against your cheek. “Stay with me, hear? Just stay with me.”

Your vision narrowed, tunneling to the sharp blue of his eyes. Wide. Wild. His pupils blown so wide the color barely held. There was fear there, deep and raw, more than you’d ever seen from him before.

He was scared.

Truly scared.

And Lord, if that didn’t scare you more.

“I c-can’t-” you managed to wheeze, voice thin and breaking.

“Yes ya can. Yes ya can, baby. You’re right here with me. That’s it. That’s it, c’mon.” His arm tightened around you, steadying your weight as his free hand moved, pressing flat and careful against your sternum, like he could calm the storm inside you if he just touched it right. “Slow now, easy. Don’t fight it, breathe with me, darlin’.”

He rocked you gently as he spoke, his voice low and rhythmic, trying to guide your body back to itself. You felt the faint tremble in his limbs. He was shaking.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “Eyes on me, sugar, okay?”

You did.

Because you didn’t know what else to do.

The panic gnawed at your chest, but his voice, barely managing to keep itself together, laced with something old and desperate, cut through enough to ground you.

“That’s my girl. That’s it, there ya go.” His breathing exaggerated, slow and deep, trying to pull you into his rhythm. “In through the nose now, c’mon. Just like we do. Easy.”

Your chest hitched.

Then, finally, air.

Ragged and shallow at first, but air nonetheless. Enough to make the black at the edges of your vision pull back slightly.

“There it is, there she is,” Remmick exhaled, his whole body seeming to sag with the weight of it. “Good girl. Good girl, that’s it.”

You clutched weakly at his shirtfront, fingers curling into the fabric as your breathing steadied inch by inch. Tears pricked your eyes, partly from the panic, partly from the sheer relief of it.

“I-I don’t know what-”

“Shh. Don’t you worry ‘bout none of that now.” His hand never left your face, thumb brushing away a tear that slipped free. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

But you could hear the strain behind his words.

Could see it in the way his throat worked, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched like he was fighting something back.

For the first time since you’d known him, Remmick looked like a man barely holding on.

“Remmick…” you whispered, voice still hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

His face broke then, like the word wounded him. “Ain’t nothin’ for you to be sorry for, sweetheart. Don’t you dare.” His voice cracked again as he blinked back tears of his own. “You scared me half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I know you didn’t.” He swallowed hard, pulling you tighter against him. “That’s why I’m here. I got you. Always got you.”

The house had gone so quiet you could hear both your heartbeats.

Yours, still uneven.

His, pounding fast as a hammer.

The evening light bled soft through the windows, painting the little house in long streaks of gold. Cicadas buzzed outside, low and steady, a hum that sat heavy beneath the quiet between you.

You hadn’t moved far from the spot where he caught you earlier.

Even now, hours later, you sat curled against him on the small settee, your head resting on his chest, his arms locked tight around you like he was still scared you might slip through his fingers.

You didn’t have the strength to pull away.

Truth was, you didn’t want to.

The air between you had held nothing but silence for what felt like forever. But you’d known this was coming. Could feel it building behind his ribcage with every breath.

And finally, when the last threads of daylight slipped below the trees, he spoke.

“Y’know there’s another way.”

You closed your eyes.

There it was.

His voice was low. Steady on the surface, but trembling beneath, like something brittle pressed thin. The words caught now and then, like his throat couldn’t quite carry the weight of them.

“Y’don’t have to suffer like this, darlin’.” His hand rubbed slow along your arm. “I can stop it. You know I can.”

You swallowed, lips pressing tight together. “Remmick…”

“I mean it.” His grip tightened, almost instinctively. “I can keep ya safe. Keep ya here. No more of this. This sickness eatin’ at ya, takin’ little pieces more each day.” His chest hitched beneath your cheek. “Ya wouldn’t have to feel like that no more.”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes. They shone too bright in the dim room, already wet at the corners, like just saying it out loud had cracked something open inside him.

“I don’t want that,” you whispered.

His face broke a little right there, like the words wounded him sharper than any knife could’ve.

“Y’don’t know what you’re sayin’.” His voice shook, barely more than breath. “Y’don’t- sweetheart, y’don’t see what I see. Y’don’t feel it.”

“I do.” Your voice was soft but firm. “I’ve thought about it. Long before now. And I know it sounds easy. Temptin’, even. But it ain’t livin’. Not for me.”

His breath hitched again, faster now. “Y’don’t know what it’s like. What it’s like for me, watchin’ ya like this. Every time ya stumble, every time your breath catches, I hear it. I hear your heart struggle. I hear what’s comin’ before ya even feel it.” His hand cupped your face suddenly, his thumb trembling where it brushed your cheek. “And one day I won’t hear it quick enough. One day I’ll be too slow.”

“Remmick-”

“Please.” The word broke out of him, so earnestly it made your throat ache. “Don’t make me watch ya go.”

Tears slipped free down his face now, unchecked. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths as his hands clutched you tighter like the world itself was trying to pull you away from him.

“I can fix it. I can. Just say it. Say y’want me to, and it’s done.” His voice dropped to a whisper, wrecked and desperate. “I’ll be gentle with ya. Ya won’t even feel a thing. You’ll be safe. Forever.”

You reached up, pressing your hands over his where they held your face, trying to steady him.

“No,” you whispered. “Remmick, no.”

His whole body shuddered beneath you like the word shattered him all over again.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single word, the sob behind it splitting straight up his throat. “Why won’t ya let me keep ya?”

“Because it’s not meant for me,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.” He choked on the words, burying his face into the crook of your neck now, clutching at you like something drowning. “I can’t lose you. I can’t, darlin’. Please, please, don’t ask me to stand by and watch ya fade. Don’t ask me to bury ya. Not again.”

His shoulders heaved with the weight of it, his sobs spilling out ragged and broken into your skin.

You held him.

Ran your fingers through his hair as his body trembled against you.

“I know you’re scared,” you whispered. “Lord knows I’m scared too. But I need you to love me enough to let me go when the time comes.”

“I-” he gasped, breath catching again. “I don’t know how to live without ya.”

You kissed the top of his head, feeling the salt of his tears soak into your dress. “You won’t have to. Not yet.”

He clung to you tighter still, as though each passing second might be stolen if he loosened his grip.

The house stayed quiet.

Only the sound of his breathing and your heartbeat filled the room, steady for now.

And so you held him, as the night stretched long and heavy, wrapped together in the slow ache of what neither of you could stop coming.

You wished it had killed you quickly.

That would’ve been easier. Cleaner.

Something swift, something merciful. Something that hit like a bolt of lightning in the middle of a sentence, gone before the thought even finished forming. You’d prayed for that, in quiet, exhausted moments. You’d begged for it, even. A sharp end, a quick fade. No drawn-out aching. No time for goodbyes.

But instead, it dragged you slow toward the end. Bit by bit. Breath by breath. Like the sickness wanted to savor its work.

Some mornings it started behind your eyes, a dull pressure you couldn’t blink away. Other days, it sat like lead in your spine, turning each small movement into something heavy and hollow. There were hours when you felt like a husk of yourself. Nothing inside but heat, and pain, and the weight of what was slipping through your fingers.

The mornings blurred together. Then the afternoons. Then the nights.

Meals became sips of broth. Then just water. Then even that burned going down. The world outside the bedroom slipped further and further out of reach. The sound of the creek, the light breeze from the back porch, the smell of wet grass after rain, gone now, like dreams too faint to hold onto. Each day stole more than the last. More air. More strength. More pieces of yourself.

Until all you had left was this bed.

And him.

Remmick never left your side. Not for a second. Not once.

He was always there, his silhouette hunched near the headboard, one hand gripping yours like a lifeline, the other on your torso, like he needed to feel the steady rise and fall of your chest to remind himself you were still breathing.

You’d lost count of how many nights he sat upright beside you, shoulders stiff and unmoving as stone, his frame outlined in the faint, flickering light of the oil lamp he kept burning low on the dresser. His clothes grew rumpled. His hair stayed uncombed. Days passed, and still he didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Like his body had surrendered to the same rhythm as yours. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

He cradled your hand in both of his like it was the last piece of you he could hold on to. Like if he held tight enough, if he laced your fingers between his and pressed the back of your hand to his chest, he might somehow keep your soul from slipping loose.

He barely spoke anymore.

No more half-jokes about your stubbornness. No more soft stories about the land or the creek or the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. That steady hum of his voice, the one that once wrapped around you so tenderly and completely was gone now, tucked deep beneath the weight of his silence.

Just watched. Listened. Waited.

The house was dim, curtains drawn to keep the light soft on your skin. He’d done that himself. He said the sun hurt your eyes. Said the light made your cheeks too flushed. But mostly, he did it so he could sit with you in a room that didn’t ask for anything else. So the world outside wouldn’t press in.

The only sound was the steady rasp of your breathing, thin and fragile as a thread pulled too taut.

You could feel it.

The end wasn’t far.

It sat just beyond the horizon of your chest. Looming, certain. Like a tide finally rolling in to claim what it had been circling all along. You felt it in the cold weight at the base of your spine, in the dull flutter of your heart as it labored harder for less. It wasn’t fear you felt, exactly. Just… clarity. Like the world had stilled enough to let you see it for what it really was.

Your eyes fluttered open, lashes sticking to the heat beneath them. You searched for him even though you already knew where he was.

Right there.

Always right there.

He looked up the moment your gaze found him, like he’d been waiting for that small flicker of movement all day.

His hands tightened around yours the second he saw your eyes open. Not hard, just firm enough to steady himself. Like if he didn’t hold on, he might fall apart entirely.

His face was pale, drawn thin from the weight of too many sleepless days. The angles of his cheekbones had sharpened. His jaw looked tense enough to crack. The skin beneath his eyes had hollowed into deep shadows, bruised with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from a lack of rest, but from a soul stretched too far for too long.

Grief was already carving its place inside him. You saw it in every angle of his face. Every shallow breath he took like he was afraid it might be his last with you.

And still, he held your hand.

Still, he stayed.

Still, he looked at you like nothing else in the world mattered. Because to him, nothing else ever would.

“Hey, darlin’.” His voice broke as he whispered it, low and rough.

You turned your head with effort, the motion slow and small like everything else these days. Still, you managed a soft smile just for him. It didn’t stretch far, didn’t brighten the way it once had, but it was real.

“Hey,” you breathed.

Remmick leaned in closer, close enough for his shadow to fall across your face. His fingers found your hair and ever so gently played with your curls, like he was afraid even that might be too much. His hands never used to shake. Now they trembled like he couldn’t hold anything steady, not even this moment.

“Y’still with me?” he asked, voice tight with held-in breath.

You gave the faintest nod. “I’m still here.”

He let out a shuddering breath and gripped your hand tighter in his. His thumb rubbed across your knuckles, over and over again, like maybe he could ground himself there. Keep you anchored with the rhythm of it.

“I-I don’t think I can do this,” he said, barely audible. “I don’t think I can sit here and just… watch ya fade away.”

You brushed your thumb along the back of his hand, your touch weak but steady. “You don’t have to watch. Just stay beside me. That’s all I want.”

Remmick blinked fast, but it didn’t stop the tears. They came anyway, slipping past his lashes in silence. He shook his head, his whole body trembling like something inside him was unraveling.

Because it was.

“I could stop it,” he whispered. “Y’know I could. I’ve been beggin’ you for weeks now, but... sweetheart, please. Please just let me. One word, and ya won’t have to go.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, breath hitching between words.

“I can fix it,” he said, broken and full of hope so fragile it barely stood upright. “I swear to God, I can fix it. Ya’d never feel like this again. Ya’d stay. We’d have time. Real time. Just say yes.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as you took a long, tired breath, letting his voice wrap around you like a favorite song. You wanted so badly to take the ache from him. To make it all better.

But your heart had already made its peace.

“Remmick,” you whispered, your voice soft as you could manage. “I know. I know you could. And I know you’d give up everythin’ to do it.”

He clutched your hand tighter against his chest, like he could keep your warmth there a little longer. His tears spilled freely now, streaking down his cheeks, wetting the pillow beneath you both.

“Then why?” he asked, voice cracking around the edges. “Why won’t ya let me? I can’t lose ya, sugar. I don’t know who I am without ya no more.”

You opened your eyes, and the sadness in his face nearly broke you in two.

“Because it wouldn’t be me anymore,” you whispered. “Not really. Not the way I am now. And I want you to remember me like this. Just me. Alive. Human. Yours.”

He shook his head again, wild with grief. “I don’t care what ya’d be. I’d still love ya. I’d love ya through all of it. I’d follow ya into hell if I had to.”

You smiled through the tears. “I know you would.”

Your breath hitched softly, chest fluttering like a bird trying to lift its wings one last time. He was already leaning close, so you reached up with what little strength you had and brushed your fingertips along his jaw. He caught your hand halfway and pressed it to his cheek like it meant everything.

“I love you, Remmick,” you whispered, so warm and sure it made his eyes squeeze shut.

He folded into the words like they gave him somewhere safe to fall.

“I love you more,” he sobbed, voice so thick he could barely speak. “More than life. More than anythin’. You hear me? You were always my breath, my light, my- my whole damn world.”

You smiled again, the edges weak but sweet. “Will you kiss me?”

His answer didn’t come in words, only in motion.

He bent toward you, lips trembling as he pressed them to yours. The kiss was soft. Full of everything he didn’t know how to say. The shape of every goodbye wrapped in one final touch. You could taste the salt of his grief, feel the way he poured every last bit of love into you.

When he pulled back, you leaned your forehead to his, your breaths mingling.

“I’m not scared,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes shut tight.

“I’m right here,” he promised. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And you smiled for him.

One last time.

Your eyes drifted closed.

Your chest rose, slow and shallow.

Then stilled.

The room fell silent.

The quiet stretched long.

Longer than time.

Longer than grief.

Nothing moved.

Nothing breathed.

Not for him.

And then,

You gasped.

Eyes flying open. Chest heaving. Sharp and full and wrong.

The world slammed back into you like a storm door flung wide. Too bright. Too loud. Too much. You choked on the first breath like it hurt, because it did. It burned. Your lungs screamed with it, your body flooded with sensation you’d already let go of. Air. Heat. Sound. Blood in your veins that thudded too hard and too fast.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Hovering above you, eyes wide and wet and terrified. His mouth trembled as it formed your name, soundless at first, then barely whispered, as if saying it too loud might shatter something sacred.

Your body was still wrapped in his arms.

Still warm.

Still here.

He was staring at you like you weren’t real. Like you might vanish if he blinked. His whole frame shook against yours, every muscle tensed to breaking. Until it wasn’t.

Until something in him gave way all at once, and he collapsed forward.

You caught him out of instinct, what little strength you had now cradling him back. But it was strange, how heavy he felt. How fast his body sank against yours.

And then you saw it.

His mouth.

Red.

Not the dry red of old blood. Not the glossy red of smudged lipstick or split skin.

Fresh red. Your red.

His fangs, half-bared and still slick, glinted faintly in the low light. His lips stained deep like wine on white linen. No attempt to clean them. No shame.

Only relief.

A smile had begun to form on his face, shaky and unsure, like a man standing at the altar of a god he’d never believed in until now.

You knew what he’d done.

Before you could feel anything about it, not anger, not sorrow, not horror, he sank deeper into your chest, arms going slack but clinging all the same. Like his body couldn’t decide whether to faint or hold on forever.

He’d spent everything.

Poured it all into you.

And now,

Remmick was trembling, wracked again and again with guttural sobs. Breathing, but just barely.

You lay there, dazed and aching, one hand caught in the back of his shirt, the other pressed gently to his damp hair.

The silence that followed was not peace.

It was something else.

Heavy.

Stained with love and betrayal and devotion and grief, all tangled so tightly together they might as well have been the same thing.

And you...

You held him anyway.

[z33101]

I can’t do this rn

[cherryheairt]

A Long Day's Night

Remmick x reader

need a pathetic yet protective husband fs

It wasn't unusual for you to keep your doors locked and curtains drawn. The same went for all of your neighbors, and their neighbors after. Your husband considered himself resilient to the outsiders, and you did too. Though their oppression was strong and their numbers mighty, you stood stronger in your core values and beliefs.

No outsiders would tell you who or what to be.

They didn't like that attitude. Thousands upon thousands resisted, though eventually succumbed to them and their brutish ways. Kings and kings and kings fought over land that none would ever set foot on themselves. You were lucky to live outside of the cities, away from the worst of the war and the foot soldiers that invaded unsuspecting citizen's homes. The outskirts of Dublin were as quiet as war-ravaged plains and starved, rumbling stomachs could be. This didn't quell the fear burning a hole in your throat when your husband didn't come home at his usual time.

His days at the farm were long and troublesome, and yours were mentally straining with keeping the children of your little village occupied whilst their parents worked their day away. But it was worth it to reunite at sundown and wind down in a quiet peace together.

His sun-kissed skin was always warm and smelled of soil and sweat when he walked in, wiping his glistening forehead with his sleeve while kissing you delicately on your temple to not sully you with grime. You never cared much, pulling him down surely and meeting his lips with your own, dry and cracked as they might be from his labours.

You'd cook a small dinner to share between the two of you, ensuring he wouldn't pass out from exhaustion and hunger the next workday (not an uncommon occurrence these days amongst the farmers) and drawing a cooling bath for you both to soak in and take in each other's company.

Life was better before they came. Still, any life with him was a good one. Whether that meant starving most days or fearing your door being the next one knocked down—so be it. You knew he shared that exact sentiment.

So where was your dear husband?

It was well past sunset, and the birds had long since made a peep. Even the critters were silent tonight, and you couldn't help the nausea crawling up your throat from worry.

After what felt like hours of pacing your worn wooden floors, potato soup long gone cold, you heard the frantic stomps of a man stalking through grass and gravel outside of your home. Without truly thinking it through, you swept open the door and grabbed your lantern to lighten the pitch black midnight.

There, at the bottom of your porch steps, was your husband, heaving and gasping for breath like a man hunted.

“Micky!” You abandoned the lantern at the table next to the door, rushing down the steps to grab him and hold him up. He swayed a bit before straightening himself, just barely, looking down to you with a wild look of fear in his deep brown eyes. For a moment, you didn't think he registered who you were.

Blood stained his white cotton shirt. It was aged and worn before, but mended carefully by you on the regular. Now it wasn't salvageable—torn at the collar and arms, ripped like claws had dragged through at the waist. Any visible skin on him was muddled red and you couldn't even tell where his wounds were nor how deep. The nearest clinic had to be a few miles walk, one he couldn't possibly make.

His breaths were still ragged as you guided him to the first step carefully. His weight nearly knocked you down. “Mick, talk to me. Did they come to the farm?” You spoke hushed as if the invaders might be in the bushes listening to you.

“Baby—” He coughed, wet and choking. He spit after a few moments of tense heaves, and what left his mouth could only be the very thing covering his body.

“You're coughing up blood, we need to get you to Peter's,” Before you could take another step, he righted himself. He stood rod-straight and seemed broader than when he had left this morning. He wasn't wheezing any longer, but took completely silent and controlled breaths. His grip on your waist tightened and he shifted his hands to your face, inspecting you carefully.

Like he gained some kind of new consciousness.

“Yer’ scaring me, Mick.” You whispered, his intense gaze boring into your own avoidant one.

“You're okay?” He asked, his first full sentence, ignoring your own. “No one came by?”

“No one.” You assured. “What—”

“We need to leave. Now.” He grunted out, stained hands leaving wet marks across your cheeks as he released you and guided you by the waist to the doorway. All the while he shot his head back and forth and looked into the treeline to ensure no followers. If you went silent, you swore you would be able to hear his anxiously racing heart, and maybe your own running right alongside it.

You didn't have much of an option except to blindly follow. You trusted your husband more than anyone, and his judgement hadn't failed you this far. Not when he decided to move outside of the city after your wedding, not when he chased off the men following you home from work, and certainly not tonight when he had clearly seen hell and came back from it.

As you crossed the house's threshold, you paused when you noticed him flinch. He jerked back away from you like he'd been burned, a noise of surprise and pain leaving his chest.

“Remmick?” You turned, eyeing his figure in the doorway. He looked paused in time, brows knitted impossibly tight and grasping onto the frame like he was about to kneel over. “Come on, what was that?”

Remmick glances between you and the creaky floorboards. With a tentative step forward, he crossed the doorway and met you in the living room-kitchenette.

His moment of hesitation didn't last long as he started stuffing necessities into bags. Every few seconds, he moved at an inhuman pace for a brief moment before pausing and taking a deep breath, righting himself and continuing rummaging through cabinets. You stayed glued to your spot, worrying that your husband hit his head when he was attacked.

“I think you need to sit down, Rem.” You squinted, placing a palm on his shoulder and clenching your jaw when he flinched. He was cold to the touch, something you hadn't noticed when you found him outside. You thought it was simply the cool night's air chilling him through thin clothes.

He muttered something incomprehensible.

There was nothing you could tell him. Nothing that could break him from this trance and get an explanation. Wordlessly, you allowed him to move around the home while you wet a washcloth from the cold water left in the kitchen's pail.

“Remmick,” you grabbed his arms, gentle but still firm in your toeing back to the dining table where you sat him down in a chair. He looked up at you, and the lighting finally illuminated him properly. He looked absolutely awful, the product of some massacre you would surely hear about from the town’s mothers the next morning. Something about him stayed eerily still, and you weren't quite sure if his shoulders were moving up and down anymore.

You started with his face, cleaning smeared crimson from around his mouth and down his neck. His stare bored into your face as you worked. The clothes were destroyed completely, but he didn't seem to pay any mind to the damp and shredded linens on his body.

Tugging it off from the waist on up, lifting it over his head was all too easy when he followed every silent command like a dog.

“Are you holdin’ your breath?” You asked, placing your hand over a cleaned part of his chest.

His jaw ticked. His eyes closed for a minute and slowly, he nodded.

“You gotta breathe, baby.” You ushered. Holding his face in your hands, you rubbed your thumbs over the highs of his cheek soothingly. “They're not here. It's just me and you.”

When he opened them again, the flash of red made your heart jump. It was gone in a silver of a second, just a trick of the light against his brown hues, but enough to catch your own breath.

He noticed, of course, being too observant when it came to you. He grasped onto your wrists. “I killed him.”

That shouldn't have surprised you. When he showed up looking like a hound dog fresh from a hare hunt, murder was the most obvious answer. Either for him to commit or another to attempt.

Death wasn't a foreign concept anymore. No, not with war on your front porch.

Death had become your neighbor. He was your neighbor just as much as Mary Corono down the street was. When she went missing—as many did, these days—you kept your questions to yourself. The curious cat gets no reward besides his own end. This time, it was your own business. Your own husband. There was no avoiding him.

Still, you didn't know what to do or say to comfort your husband. It must be justified, it must. Remmick was a good man. Remmick was good.

“I don't know what happened,” he swept his hands through blood-crusted hair. “I woke up and everything felt wrong, I felt like I was seeing someone else's life through my own eyes.”

You shifted to sit on the chair opposite him, still not allowing too much distance between the two of you but letting your shaking knees rest.

“I was so hungry.” He exhaled, finally. He didn't take a breath in to counter, just kept talking. “He stood over me and I could see myself through his eyes. He saw himself, too.”

“Did you take something from Peter?” You asked slowly. His dilated pupils could be from the new drug medication. His panic, hunger, violence.

He continued on.

“He saw you. I saw what he would do to you—what he did to me.” Remmick grasped your hands, grip becoming more than firm and certainly bruising. “I couldn't let him get you.”

Fear was in your husband's darkened eyes as plain as moonlight on the lake.

“He was ancient. Older than countries and laws. I couldn't even move my own body at first.” He swallowed harshly, adam's apple bobbing and splitting his throat.

There were no other sounds, you realized. No crickets chirping away or cicadas ruining a peaceful night of sleep. The world felt dead around you, and you started to believe Remmick was telling the truth.

“He had a way of controlling me. Controlling every man he'd ever turned into this. . .” He closed his eyes. “Thing.”

“I couldn't let him get you. I couldn't, baby—” The hoarseness and guilt in his voice broke your heart.

You'd never know what happened in the fields that night. If the man was innocent or guilty. All you could do was trust Remmick like you had for years.

“I'll keep packing.” You managed to mutter, forcing your voice not to tremble. “We'll leave before sunrise. Get cleaned up and into different clothes.”

His eyes flashed a red that nearly matched the dark smears across his clothes. This time, you knew you weren't crazy. There was no light flickered that made a man's eyes blood-lusted and red. You watched his shoulders finally lift on command as he inhaled, lightly resting his jaw against the smooth area of your neck. Automatically, your hands met his hair and you soothed it down, feeling the warm restraint of his large hands around your waist.

"We'll be okay. Wherever we go, whatever life transforms us into." You murmured lowly, kissing his temple. "We're together. That's all we need."

By the time the sun rose in the morning and your neighbors came a’knocking on your door, the house was empty and lanterns cold.

This ended up fairly shorter than what I imagined but basically occurs during the time when Remmick would first be turned, during the time of Ireland's colonization and invasion by two other countries/parties. I thought it would be an interesting concept if he truly did have a wife, and whether or not he turned her is completely up to the reader.

working on some remmick reqs still! feel free to add some more to my inbox.