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from-the-clouds · 1 year

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bad liars (savior complex ii) - joel miller x f!reader

part one | masterlist | song inspo |

Baby, you're a vampire You want blood and I promised...

summary: It's been a month since Joel has last seen you, fully healed since your last interaction. But you haven't spoken...at all. Your radio silence becomes cause for concern when he hears about an outbreak of Infected at the hospital where you work. There's enough explanation in this part that you could read it on it's own, probably, but I'd highly recommend reading part one first to get the full experience. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 7.9k warnings: SMUT - 18+ ONLY, minors DNI. (porn w/ plot, unprotected sex, oral, rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, age gap. dom/sub dynamics.) Heavy angst, multiple POVs, implied drug abuse, alcohol use, canon-typical suffering! Blood mention. Both reader/Joel are insanely emotionally unavailable, and love to lie to themselves and each other! (please dm for specifics if you have any questions). a/n: Ya'll loved savior complex and I'm so happy! Literally don't think I've had a fic get that many notes before, i had so many requests for a part two and because it felt like i left things open-ended enough, this came to me pretty easily! It might be the horniest thing I've ever written and also very angsty (what's new?)....but I think you'll like the ending <3 Special to @ay0nha for letting me yell at you about my writing and to @zbeez-outlet for the wonderful idea.

Joel exhales and runs his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair – the tips of which were frozen together from standing outside for so long. It had gotten cold out. Very cold. Boston always did this time of year, and because of it, people stayed in, and crime in the QZ dropped, making it a safer place - though that wasn’t saying much.

Of course, the cold didn’t stop him from dealing. It did make his job a hell of a lot more difficult, since FEDRA was bored, out looking for trouble, and didn’t have more pressing matters to attend to. Although today, he must’ve been in luck, because the only sign of FEDRA had been helicopters and tanks that were clearly on a mission, driving to the opposite side of the QZ. Good, he had thought. A distraction.

Joel leans back against the brick wall of the alleyway, pulling the hood of his jacket up over his ears, stares at the ice in the cracks of the pavement. When he hears the crunch of gravel underfoot, he straightens.

The man approaching looks nervously over his shoulder, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his flimsy sweatshirt. Dave, a customer of his for some time.

“You’re late,” Joel doesn’t bother with a proper greeting.

“I know, I know, I got held up on my way here,” Dave answers, immediately beginning his excuse. “They cleared out the hospital because of an outbreak, that whole area was locked down so I had to take the long way.”

“Outbreak?” Joel tilts his head.

“Infected. I guess a bunch of hospital staff got bit. FEDRA had to go in and put them all down.”

Joel feels a distant pang of concern somewhere in the back of his head. “How many?”

Dave shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man, that’s all I know. It’s not like they’ll ever tell anyone what actually happened.”

Joel can’t help but think of you. He knows a couple people who work at the hospital, most of them through smuggling, but you’re the only one who he’s really able to bring to mind at the moment.

“So, can we, uh…”

Joel pulls the plastic baggie out from his pockets, fishing out the pills. On his end, Dave produces a wad of credits, his shoulders sagging in relief once they’ve made the trade and the drugs are in his hand. He takes one immediately, shoves the rest in his pocket. “Thanks man, I’ll see you next week?”

Leaning back against the wall, he nods, and watches his customer disappear down the alleyway.

The second Dave is out of sight, Joel’s chest tightens, and he takes a deep breath. There’s no reason why news of Infected at the hospital should concern him. If FEDRA had been called in – they would’ve gunned down anything that moved until it was under control. He knew, better than anyone, that they would do unspeakable things in the name of keeping order. Innocent people probably died, but the dead can’t get infected.

It had been about a month since Joel had last seen you, after he’d gotten beaten within an inch of his life and ended up on your doorstep, and you were the only person that could help. It hadn’t gone at all how he expected it would – at the end of the day, he had been surprised by your tenderness.

Still, despite that you’d let him take you on the edge of your bed, legs wrapped around him, bouncing on his cock, he wouldn’t really say that it changed anything about your relationship. He had actually been kind of afraid that it would, that your attitude towards him would shift to something more amicable.

But you hadn’t spoken to him in a month. Joel had told you he owed you one after you stitched him up, and had anticipated that you’d take him up on his offer pretty quickly. There were so many things he could do for you to make your situation better. Maybe you’d need credits…. Medicine…. Food…. Booze… Pills, something, but you haven’t reached out. You could just be biding your time until you really need the favor.

Still, the radio silence takes him aback. He should be relieved that you aren’t talking to him. But nothing? Even if it’s not about a favor…he wants some kind of confirmation that you’d both made a mistake. After all that, did you really expect nothing from him?

It dawns on him there’s now a chance you’ll never speak to him again, because you’re one of the ones that FEDRA killed. Or worse….you had gotten bit.

Joel passes by the hospital, taking the long way home. Everything is locked down, taped off. There’s a crowd around the place – family members, he assumes, pleading with FEDRA agents for information and getting nothing in return.

“Go home. I’m sure they’ll turn up,” he hears one of them say to a weeping woman. It’s useless to ask for an honest answer, for one of them to actually care.

Joel could go home. He could crush a couple pills, snort them, and quell the burn with a couple drinks. He could fall into restless sleep and wake up the next day as he always did, go about his business as usual. Survive. One day at a time.

Would he ever get confirmation that you’re alive? Because at this rate, he’s not sure he’ll ever know either way.

The feeling is going to linger. He hates it. Were you gone? If you are, he can handle knowing. Its somehow worse not to.

He tries to justify it to himself. You’re one of his solid connections to the hospital, you’d traded with him for medical supplies before. This is business, really, if he thinks about it that way. If you’re dead, he and Tess need to find someone else to work with.

Joel decides to take a detour on the way back to his place.

It’s past curfew when he arrives at your apartment, the sun has long since dipped below the horizon and with that comes an even harsher cold. Boston winters, he thinks to himself. If he is capable of missing anything, he’d say he missed Texas. Before all this, the last place he’d be caught dead was on the East Coast.

Joel raps on your front door. He forgets how shitty your building is, that you sleep here alone every night, listening to your neighbors arguing through the thin walls, shady characters slinking out of shadows in the dimly-lit hallway,

A few seconds pass. When he hears nothing behind your door, he knocks again, a little louder.

More time passes. He knocks again, louder. Maybe you didn’t hear him.

Nothing. He does it again. Could you be asleep? His jaw clenches.

Still nothing, and Joel knocks even louder. Maybe you’re not even here, and you work nights, and he’s just missed you as you head out for another shift. But he knows that’s unlikely. Since he’s known you, you’ve never worked nights. So where the fuck were you?

Joel’s pounds on your door, yells your name into its chipping paint. He listens for something, anything, on the other side, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, but he keeps going The side of his fist starts to hurt, but he can’t stop himself. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he hears one of your neighbors yelling from the end of the hallway.

‘Shut the fuck up!’

Joel doesn’t hear exactly where the voice comes from, but it’s enough to snap him out of it. He halts his movements, his forehead falling against hollow wood, and in the silence, hears his heart pounding in his ears.

“Fuck!” he kicks the wall just outside the frame of your door so hard the drywall gives, leaving a hole behind. “Fuck.”

He stares at the result of his outburst for an undetermined amount of time. You were all alone. To his knowledge, you had no immediate family to inform. Who would be around to remember you? He’d never really know for sure what had happened.

“Joel?”

He looks up, his hands still clenched tightly into fists. When he sees that it’s you, standing at the end of the hallway, they loosen.

You look horrible - haggard, tired, your hair tangled and matted. As you move closer to him, he doesn’t miss the way your shoulders are hunched underneath the weight of your backpack. But once you’re standing in front of him, you straighten, lift your chin.

“What is this?” you ask. “What are you doing here?”

There’s no animosity in your tone, he thinks. You might be trying to put some in there, but you don’t have the energy to do so, so it just comes out sounding very flat.

Joel realizes, suddenly, that he doesn’t have a reason. A real reason that wouldn’t….give him away. He puts his hands on his hips, thinks desperately. You do nothing to help.

When he settles in silence, offers you nothing, you just sigh and shake your head. Your teeth are chattering, lips cracked from the cold, and you seem desperate to get into shelter, twisting your key into your lock and opening the front door. Once you step inside, you flick on the lights. He follows you, closes the door behind you both, and locks it.

“Oh, yeah, come on in, I guess,” you say over your shoulder.

Joel crosses his arms, standing in your kitchen.

“What, am I in trouble or something?” you ask. “Because if I am, you’re gonna have to wait until I’ve showered.”

“It can wait,” Joel says, and sits at one of your kitchen chairs.

You shrug off of your backpack and leave it on a chair, then unbutton your coat, tossing it on top. Joel swallows hard when he sees the damage it’s been hiding. Your scrubs are dirty, tattered in some places, one of the sleeves hanging, partially ripped off. And they’re covered in dried blood. It’s smeared on your arms, on the back of your neck. Not yours, he hopes.

What the fuck happened to you? You don’t turn to see his reaction, don’t look over your shoulder to see if he’s going to ask about it. It’s almost like he’s not even there, and you clearly wish he isn’t.

He realizes then, that he has the confirmation he’s looking for. You made it out alive. He doesn’t actually need anything else from you. And you’ve given him a perfect out. He can leave while you’re in the shower.

But he doesn’t. Not when he hears the shower start, or the screech of the curtain across the metal rod, the sound of water hitting the basin. He stays there, motionless, until you duck out of the bathroom with your arms wrapped around yourself, wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, hair damp and teeth chattering.

You pad with bare feet onto the tiled area of the kitchen, brushing past him.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he asks.

You finally look at him, like you’re surprised he spoke up, or even asked the question. A choked, bitter laugh leaves you, and you shift your attention away from him, reaching into your cabinet for a bottle of bourbon. “Pass.”

You pour yourself a whiskey, and Joel watches you throw it back in one go, your nose scrunching up, your hand clasping into a fist as you take the shot. The taste doesn’t stop you from pouring another drink and gulping that one down, too, without as much of a reaction as the first. It’s only when you start pouring the third that he intervenes, standing and crossing the room to cover the glass with his hand before you can grab it.

“Slow down,” he says.

“I know you’re not telling me what to do in my own home.” Your mouth opens as you look up at him, incredulous.

Joel looks past you, shakes his head. He supposes your right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch the self-destructive behavior, which is funny considering how often he engages in it himself. He gives in, removes his hand from your glass. “At least…pour me one. You shouldn’t drink alone.”

Your expression softens slightly, and he’s able to see all the pain you’re hiding, just for a flash, before you turn to retrieve a second glass from your cabinet.

Once you hand him the whiskey, he sits in the middle of the tiny loveseat you’ve got in your front room, expecting you to sit in the armchair across from it. Instead, you approach with your own drink, nudge his knee with your own, and Joel slides over to make room so you can fall onto the couch beside him. Much closer than he’d expected.

It’s surprisingly good bourbon, and he wonders how many times you’d wasted it by downing it like you just had, instead of taking your time, savoring. He waits for you to get settled before he speaks again.

“What happened to you?” he tries once more, a little softer this time.

There’s some contemplation on your end, you look at him for a moment, then at your glass, then back up at him again. He can almost see you trying to figure out how much you’re going to share, but he wants to know everything.

“There was an accident at the hospital,” you answer, finally.

Joel slings his arm over the back of the couch, angles his body towards where you’re curled up, legs tucked underneath you. I’m listening.

Your voice stays even, blase. “A guard at the border broke protocol…and someone who was infected was brought in. By the time we realized, it was too late….”

“Were you hurt?”

“Almost.” you say. “I mean, yes, actually, I’m a little scratched up, but…it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.”

Your teeth start chattering again. Joel wonders if it’s because of the cold, or your nerves. Figures it’s probably both.

“My coworker turned and I uhm….I had to…” you say into your glass, your free hand flexing like it’s trying to shake off some unpleasant muscle memory. “I had no choice.”

“I understand,” For whatever reason, he spares you from telling the story. To him, taking down Infected was nothing. But to you…“What else?” he presses.

You shrug, avoiding his eyes, one of your arms coming to grip at your opposite shoulder. “I can’t really remember. A bunch of people died. FEDRA came in and just started gunning everything down….” you shook your head, and straightened up.

“I heard about that,” Joel offers.

“Wait…you knew about this?”

“Yeah.”

“So then why are you here, asking m-” the rest of your sentence drops off, your lips parted slightly. The look on your face shifts, slowly. Your eyes narrow. Remorse turns into something more neutral, then into curiosity. “Oh my god….you were worried about me.”

“No.”

“Yes, you fucking were,” your lips curl slightly, it’s not quite a smile, but it’s something close to amusement.

“No,” Joel defends himself. “I wanted to hear what happened from someone–”

“No you didn’t,” you interject, but he raises his voice to finish his thought.

“–who actually works there, not FEDRA’s propaganda.”

“No you did not. You’re checking up on me. You came over here after curfew to see if I was–”

“Enough,” Joel growls with enough conviction that it shuts you up, and he’s grateful, but its not enough to wipe the self-satisfied look on your face, because it doesn’t.

“What are we, like, friends now?”

He doesn’t answer, and slugs back the rest of his whiskey.

“Or would that be too much for you?” You don’t wait long for him to give you an answer, probably because you know he won’t respond. “I mean, if we’re both being honest–” He definitely wasn’t being honest. “–Today was really fucked up.”

You’re leaning forward now, some of the space between you is gone. And though you’re trying to give the impression that you’re unphased by everything, your hand is clenched tightly around your glass, and you avoid his eyes. It’s painful to watch you resist the urge to trust him. Not that he’s ever given you a good enough reason to – he knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he wants it anyways.

“It’s funny…” you say after a while. “I remember thinking that I didn’t want to die. At least… not like that. I’ve never felt that before…That’s something, isn’t it?” you ask him.

Joel looks at you, and is surprised at the vulnerability in your expression, sees you looking for some kind of validation from him. “....It is.”

You finish off your drink, and put the empty glass on the coffee table, shift closer to him.

“It looks like you healed up okay,” you say, after a spell. “How’s your shoulder?”

“A little sore, nothing I can’t handle.”

“Did you take those antibiotics?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And I can’t even tell you had a black eye.”

“I’m fine,” Joel asserts.

Another shiver wracks your body, and he can tell this one is actually from the chill – your apartment is cold as fuck, it even is starting to bother him.

“Don’t you have a heater?”

“Kinda,” you glance over at the radiator in the corner. “Sometimes it works.”

“What do you do when it’s colder than this?” It was only November, things would only get worse.

You shrug. “I don’t know….just be colder, I guess.”

Joel imagines you curled up in your bed alone, wrapped in a thin comforter, shaking in front of him like you are now. He winces.

“How long are you going to stay?” you ask, changing the subject.

“I should probably go now.”

You nod, scoot closer. “But maybe…” you trail off, contemplating.

Joel sits up straighter, prompting you when you don’t speak again. “Maybe what?”

“Maybe you could stick around for a little while longer.” There’s a warm hand, yours, that lands on his thigh, and he recoils like you’ve touched him with a fire iron. He rises to his feet.

“Hey,” you stand along with him, step in front of him to block the pathway to the door. He could easily get past you, obviously, but it’s not as simple as that.

Of course he’s fucking thought about what happened the last time he was here – his arms around your waist, his mouth on your neck, your chest, your hands on his shoulders, whining his name. A freak accident, a glitch in the matrix, a statistically improbable thing.

“What?” he asks as you step forward, the fingers on your free hand sliding into the belt loops of his pants. He feels blood rush to his cheeks, to other places. And you’re still fucking shivering. You look so fucking miserable, he wants to yell at you to put on a coat, to wrap yourself in a blanket, in his arms.

“Joel,” you say his name softly, tilting your head up, leaning close. And then your hand is on the side of his face, and he realizes you’re fucking pleading with him. He knows what you want, but he has a feeling this isn’t just about sex. You’re looking for comfort, as if he’s capable of giving it.

“We made a mistake…once,” he tells you. “We’re not going to make it again.”

He says it to hurt you, but it doesn’t work. It’s like you knew it was coming all along. “I knew what I was doing,” you answer, earnest. “Didn’t you?”

Yes. You glance down at his hands, which are squeezed into fists so tightly, his knuckles are white. If he’s not rigid, he’s not sure how he’ll be able to resist. He wants you. God, he wants you. He never thought he’d be able to have you again.

“I could help you loosen up.”

Joel’s walking on the edge of a one-thousand foot cliff and hoping his foot slips. He wants to surrender. The only thing he thinks might save him is to say the meanest thing he can. Maybe you’d get turned off.

“Listen to yourself,” he says, finding the strength to meet your eyes. “You want me so bad, you sound pathetic.”

“Asshole,” you step closer, your mouth twitches, your lips are inches apart. “Do you think I care what you think about me?”

Joel realizes his plan has backfired. But he really only has himself to blame, he should’ve known better. With you, he’s never in as much control as he wants to be, and deep down, he likes it.

“Go lie down on the bed.”

It’s the only thing that seems to shock you. “What?”

“I won’t ask you again,” Joel steps backwards, crosses his arms. “Go lie down.”

──────

If you told yourself a couple months ago that one day you’d find yourself pinned down by Joel Miller, you’d think it’d be because he was about to kill you. Maybe because you cheated him out of something, maybe because you did something else to piss him off – it didn’t really matter. Regardless of how fucked up it was, that idea would seem more dignified than what was happening now.

Your back is being pressed deeper into the lumpy old mattress, and he’s on you. His mouth is warm, hot, wet, and dragging down your neck, nipping, sucking, licking. Your hands are itching to reach out, to skate down his torso, trace along his jawline, tug at his hair, but you can’t because he’s got them pinned above you with only one of his own. Anytime you try to fight him, his grip only grows stronger.

It was shameful, really, but you had asked for this – begged for it, basically. There were a number of reasons why – one of which was to blow off some steam after a near death experience, the other because you’d fucked him before and it had been good, much to your dismay. There was also a third reason that you weren’t interested in acknowledging now.

After the night Joel had gotten jumped, and you’d taken care of him, everything has changed. It’s a cliche, but true. You’d known what you were doing when it happened, and had no regrets. But it was probably not supposed to happen again, and you tried to keep it that way, more for his sake than anyone else’s. But….he was the one who showed up tonight after he’d heard what had happened. It wasn’t nothing.

Joel pulls away from you so abruptly that you gasp, shivering in the wake of his impossible warmth.

“Sit up,” he instructs, and you turn to find him at the end of the bed, arms crossed.

You obey, mostly just for the view. You hope to admire him, fresh from kissing you – flush skin, wet lips, tousled hair. Only he’s frustratingly stoic, unsullied – like he hadn’t been touching you at all.

“Look at me,” he says, and you do.

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

“It’s nothing,” you agree.

“I won’t be gentle.”

“I don’t want you to be gentle.”

“Good,” you watch his shoulders loosen, just a little, and he takes one step backwards, his eyes tracing down your body and then back up. “Strip for me….”

You aren’t dressed sexy at all, you remember, a sweatshirt and sweatpants. If you had thought this through a little more, you might’ve tried to make it nicer for him. “....Okay.”

“Start with your shirt,” he says, and you grab at the hem, but he snaps at you. “Ah-ah….slower.”

You swallow, nod, and carefully lift the fabric, dragging it up over your stomach, over the swell of your breasts, revealing your tight, thin white tank top.

“That’s it, nice and slow.”

Joel’s voice is soft but stern, a low rasp that makes your cunt clench around nothing, and he’s not even touching you. The sweatshirt is pulled over your head, falling somewhere on the crumpled bedspread.

Languidly, you lean back, shifting your weight to get off the mattress, and Joel palms himself through his jeans. You can see where he’s straining against the denim, and you find it hard to tear your gaze away as you go to pull off your sweatpants. Joel stops you again.

“Turn around.”

You do, and you’re sure he has a nice view of your ass as you slide them over your hips, bending over to let the fleece pool around your ankles. Slowly, you rise back up, looking at him over your shoulder for approval.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. Your stomach flips. A month ago, you would’ve done anything to get him to stay away from you, and now, you’re terrified to disappoint him.

That’s the problem. You’d spent most of the day fighting for your life — literally. But even after standing behind a barricade of heavily-armed FEDRA soldiers outside the hospital, you didn’t feel as safe as you did when you saw Joel at your door. You need him. For now, at least.

“Now the shirt,” he tilts his head towards the mattress, nodding encouragingly.

You get back on the bed, sitting back on your heels, and begin to pull the tank top up. It’s your last layer up top, you’re not wearing a bra, and you’re feeling a little vulnerable with him just watching you, fully clothed and composed, your gaze falling down to look at the threadbare linens.

“Eyes up,” he instructs. “Look at me.”

Taking in a shaky inhale, you do. It’s not easy. Everything about him looks dark, animalistic. A coiled ball of energy, waiting to pounce.

But, even when you’re bare before him, he doesn’t.

“Lie back, close your eyes.”

Of course, you don’t refuse, settling your head against the pillows.

There’s a sound of a belt – his belt, unbuckling, the snap of a button, the dip of the bed where he kneels when he comes to hover over you. Two hands land on top of your thighs, pressing the backs against his denim-clad knees, thumbs pushing your legs further apart.

And then…nothing. He’s still. He’s still for so long, that you actually think that something’s wrong. When you open your eyes, you’re met with a view of the underside of his jaw. You can just make out the pinched expression he’s wearing as he looks down upon you. Disdain, maybe…but it’s not meant for you, it’s for someone else….him.

“Joel,” you murmur. Instinctually, you reach for his hand.

The second it makes contact, he smacks your hand away so hard your whole body jolts. “I told you to close your eyes.”

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, closing them again.

You are well aware that he’s actively working through shit, probably doing some kind of mental gymnastics to rationalize why it’s okay to fuck you again, which, when you really think about it is kind of….pathetic. It’s the only thing that makes you feel any sort of power in a situation where you’ll surrender everything else. It’s a fair exchange.

Maybe, on a different day, you would want it softer. You’d like to think he’s capable of that, even though he seems determined he isn’t. Luckily, you don’t want it softer. After today, you want to be so far gone you can’t think.

Joel answers by leaning down and catching you in a bruising kiss. Finally. You press yourself against him cause you’re freezing and he’s so warm, and you frantically begin to unbutton the flannel he’s wearing, making it about halfway down before he pins your hands above you again.

“Slow down.”

You whine, a little frustrated because all you want to do is touch him. The fingers on his free hand hook around the elastic of your underwear, and he starts to drag them over the curve of your ass.

He’s got to be joking with how deliberately he’s moving, anticipation only building underneath his featherlight touches.

When he’s got your panties around your ankles, you slide your legs together so he can pull them off entirely, keeping them closed as his weight shifts, and your thighs are pulled back apart.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he doesn’t need to feel you to see it clear as day, with you spread open in front of him. “So fucking desperate.”

He’s all-but glaring at you, like you’ve done something wrong, and for a minute, your eyes flick away, just for a second of relief from the tension.

“What, are you embarrassed?” he asks.

“N-no,” you stammer, though it was supposed to sound confident.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press you, his head dipping down to press his lips to your knee, then an inch higher, then an inch higher, then higher – keeping his eyes locked on yours the whole time, an arm winding around your thigh.

“I wanted to do this last time.” A confession.

“Yeah?” you sigh, trembling. It’s maybe the nicest thing he’s said to you, but you can’t even acknowledge it, because you’re buzzing.

He turns his face, his beard scraping along sensitive skin. “Mhm,” his deep rasp vibrates directly to your cunt, and when his head dips down, you close your eyes – it might just be better to focus on only one sensation at a time, you’re not sure you can handle seeing what he’s about to do.

Joel’s mouth is on you the second you do, and you gasp. He licks up the seam of your lips, mouth latching around your clit, swirling with his tongue, and back down – firm, determined, practiced. You try to buck up, but he has an arm locked around your hips.

He removes himself from you just enough to utter two words. “Stay still.”

You want to protest, but you realize that he’s let go of your hands, and it gives you the opportunity to thread your fingers into his hair, while you dig your heels into the broad expanse of his back, and he groans, tongue curling into you.

“I’ve thought about this,” you gasp, answering his earlier admission.

“When?”

“At night. More than once.”

“Fuck,” Joel growls, and you wheeze when he works one finger into you, forcing you to take it along with his next words. “You know how fuckin’ bad that is? Dreamin’ about a man nearly twice your age?”

“I d-don’t care, I want you anyway. Y-you can do whatever you want to me,” It’s too early to be past the point of speaking coherently, it really is, but you’re already there.

“F-fuck,” Joel repeats himself, and pushes another finger inside you next to the first, the stretch almost uncomfortable, but quickly fading to pleasure. “I’m going to.”

You’re not the going to tell him, though, that he’s the first man whose ever gone down on you, because you’re a little fucking scared for some reason. It’s intimate, very intimate, more than you expected.

The truth is, you weren’t actually very experienced at all. You could count on one hand the number of partners you’d had, and still not use all of your fingers. While some of them were good enough, they all paled in comparison to Joel. There had never been anyone like Joel.

His fingers curl as his tongue swirls around your clit and you cry out, inhale sharply. Minute by minute, you’re getting wetter and wetter – can hear yourself with each twist of his fingers inside you, bearing down on him.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he grunts, and your eyes flutter open just for a second, just to see his forehead, dark eyes staring back at you, and his hips dipping, rutting against the mattress. God he’s getting himself off to this. As hot as it is, the thought of not getting to feel him inside you causes a rush of anger.

“F-feels so good,” you’re right there, already, and it’s pitiful.

“I know, baby, I know,” he says. “You’re already so close, aren’t you?”

Instead of answering, you just nod, gasping. Joel works you right up to the precipice, hands tightening in his hair, hips lifting off the bed – and then he slows a little – just enough – to pull you back off the edge, and you let out a humiliating sob.

“Shhh!” he hisses with his mouth still on you, resuming the steady pace he had going. A little sigh of relief when you feel your release approaching again. He just lost his rhythm for a moment, it was nothing.

Again, he’s got you right there, you’re so close, hips jerking, breathing in short, sharp pants, something molten working its way up your spine. “Joel, that’s it, please I-”

He falters again – just enough. And it’s gone again.

You realize, with dismay, that he knows exactly what he’s doing. He hadn’t lost his rhythm. He’s doing this on purpose.

If someone asked – not that anyone would – you wouldn’t be able to recall how long he keeps you in that state, being dragged and dangled, but denied the privilege of falling. It’s torture.

And at first, you try to be patient. You figure he’ll grow tired, desperate, and eventually want to move on. But apparently, he doesn’t want to move on. He’s content to keep you this way for as long as he sees fit, and you can’t handle it any longer. It’s starting to hurt.

“Please, Joel, let me-” you gasp.

“Let you what?” he pulls back from you, frustratingly too soon, once again.

“Let me come, please, I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please, please-”

“Just a little longer,” he dismisses you.

All you can do is pant and writhe, completely at his mercy. He keeps going like that, and you’ve stopped trying to filter yourself, the sounds he makes as he laves at you are obscene, you can see yourself glistening on his chin, and can feel the sheets damp beneath you. At this point, he’s enjoying this more than you are.

“Joel,” you plead with him again. “It’s too much, I c-can’t. Just, please I really need-”

“You wanna come for me, baby?” he asks. You nod ferociously.

“Yes, please, please,”

“You’re so fucking sweet when you beg, you know that? ” he murmurs. “Wish you were like this all the time.”

“Fuck off,” you manage, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You should do this to me more often.

Joel chuckles, and it vibrates just right, his fingers curling again and you moan, hands tightening in his hair. He’s focused now, you can tell because the constant stream of filth he’s been whispering has finally stopped. He’s persistent.

You’re unable to stay quiet, continuing to whimper just like that and please don’t stop over and over. And then all at once, every muscle in your body grows tense and you cry out, cunt pulsing around him so tightly that his fingers slow. “There you go, pretty girl, that’s it.”

You whisper his name as he continues to fuck his fingers into you, riding you through your orgasm and licking up the mess you’ve made.

At some point in the aftermath, Joel withdraws from you, and you hear the sting of his zipper. It takes a moment, but you’re able to see him through heavily lidded eyes, kneeling in front of you with his shirt unbuttoned all the way, pants around his ankles, jerking himself slowly in his hand. God he’s fucking huge, how had you forgotten about that? He’s a vision, beard still wet with you, looking down, watching your chest rise and fall. In that moment you realize two things. One, even though you’ve already come, you somehow want him even more than you had before, and two, you’ve never wanted to suck a dick so bad in your life.

So you sit up, crawl towards him, and reach out with one hand to take him in your palm. He lets you, sighing, closing down his eyes. First, you have to kiss him, so you rise to your knees, and he pulls you into his arms, one of them winding around your waist, the other coming to rest at the small of your back. “You take such good care of me,” you whisper.

He grimaces at the words like they’re an insult. You expect him to retaliate, to tell you that you shouldn’t say that sort of thing, but he never does. So you kiss him, gently, bringing your free hand to the side of his face. Once again, he lets you, and you taste yourself when his tongue presses into you mouth. You run your thumb over the head of his cock, and he hums against your touch, almost contentedly.

You’re doing whatever you want to him, and you’re shocked he hasn’t put a stop to it. It could be satisfying enough, you think, just to keep kissing him like this. Still, you sink back towards the bed to test things further. You’re about to wrap your mouth around him, but he pulls you off by your hair, so quickly, so hard that you yelp.

“No.” he says firmly. “Lie back.”

“But I just wanted to-”

“No.”

You consider trying to reason with him, but decide it won’t be worth whatever he’d do if you continue to argue.

Joel braces himself with one hand above your shoulder, the other wrapped around his cock, slowly teasing you by rubbing himself up and down a few times, before he gives in, finally pushing into you.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp at the stretch, reaching out grasp at his bicep, arching your back. He’d prepped you, and it was still too much.

“You can take it,” he says, pressing deeper into you. His hips are all the way flush with yours, he’s to the hilt, and he still snaps them even further, once, holding you there, so deep, you feel like you’re choking on him. “See? There you go.”

It seems like you can’t quite catch your breath, and you squirm underneath him for some kind of friction, some kind of relief from how intense it all is. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel how badly his own body is begging him to move, but he doesn’t.

“Joel,” you cradle the back of his head, look him in the eyes. “Move, please.”

He doesn’t answer, he just brings his hand to grip your jaw, his thumb and forefinger pressing into the soft flesh of your cheeks.

“Please?” you murmur again, and his thumb slips into your mouth, silencing you. You suck on it obediently, and after you do, he finally gives you what you want.

──────

Joel told you he wouldn’t be gentle, and he isn’t.

He hadn’t been able to do this last time. Taste you, spread you open, fuck you properly. His hips snap against yours – ferociously, unrelenting, over and over. You’ve been going at it for awhile now, and he actually wants you to break. He wants you to tell him to slow down, to be a little more tender, not press into you so deep, so hard, so that if he listens, it wouldn’t mean he’s breaking his own promise. He’s got to be rough with you, because he’s afraid of what could happen if he’s not.

But you don’t break. You fucking take it, take him, each time, again and again, your nails digging into arms, your legs locked around his hips. Each time he delves into you, you’re getting wetter and wetter, and yet, you’re still so fucking tight. He doesn’t understand it. It’s been a long fucking time since he’s been with a woman like you – and you might be the best he’s ever had.

You’re not even making any noise – you’re just panting, gasping in Joel’s ear as you cling to him, and that’s all. He can’t even look you in the eyes. If he does, he knows you’ll see everything that’s wrong with him, and still beg for him to give you more.

Two hands land on either side of his face, turning his head so you can kiss him. Despite how he’s treating you, you keep trying to connect, to ground yourself. For as much as he wants to refuse, it feels too cruel to deny you. He lets you lock your lips with his own, feels your cunt clutch him even tighter. It’s impossible for you to kiss for more than a few seconds at a time without it getting broken up by a whimper here and there. You’re getting close again, he’s started to get better at recognizing it.

“You’re fucking so perfect on me, baby, you feel that?” he asks, and you nod, breathless. “Taking me so well, such a good fucking girl-”

A gasp from you cuts him off, your eyes squeezing shut as you are taken over by your climax. Joel groans and does everything he can not to come when you start pulsing around him, holding him closer, since there’s nothing else to do. It’s way too intimate…because it’s missionary, and he should’ve known better than to start off like this.

Pulling out of you is the hardest thing he’s had to do in a while, and he ignores your noises of protest now that he’s left you empty. Then, he flips you onto your stomach. He takes a moment to admire the curve of your ass, how it dips into your waist….to him, your body is perfect, and you’re young, your skin still supple and smooth. There are still places he hasn’t gotten his mouth on, and it’s a shame, he thinks, but tonight his patience is wearing thin. Joel pulls you back until you’re on your knees, and slides back inside. There’s a little resistance, you whimper, but it’s easier than the first time. He wraps an arm around your waist, the other across your chest, and starts to jerk his hips upwards, into you.

“Oh fuck, Joel,” you sigh in relief.

“I know, I know.”

You drop your head back until it falls against his shoulder, winding your arm back so you can pull at his hair, which kind of fucking hurts, but he likes it.

Ultimately, you’re pretty easy to please, and it’s not long before he feels the telltale flutter of your walls as you drip down over him, soaking his lap.

“You’re making a fucking mess, baby. You gonna come for me again?”

All you can do is plead with him. “I can’t, Joel. I can’t do it again, please just-”

“Yes, you can,” he interjects. “I know you can, baby, don’t worry…I’ll help you.”

“O-okay.’

He slows the roll of his hips just a little, focuses on deeper, longer strokes, and lets the hand that’s currently squeezing one of your tits fall to where your bodies are joined, finding your clit immediately.

You whine, arching back against him, the swell of your ass packed against his lower stomach. He sees a single tear leaking from the corner of your eye and feels a little guilty for what he’s doing to you. Only a little, though.

Without any warning, for the third time, you’re coming around him – easier than the last time, like always – and he uses the feeling of you throbbing around him to chase his own release, his hand clapping over your mouth to muffle your moans as he becomes increasingly frantic.

He turns his head, rakes his teeth along your exposed neck, and sinks them into your pulse point with a groan. Your breath is hot against him when you whimper in response.

“Just a little more, honey.” He’s so close. You bob your head, though you’ve nearly gone limp in his arms.

Like last time, Joel knows it’s a bad idea, but he’s not going to pull out. The thought of deliberately coming inside you is actually what sends him over the edge, and he’s cursing and moaning your name. You whine at the feeling of him pulsing inside of you, arching back for more, even though he can tell you’re exhausted.

It’s fucking freezing in your apartment, and yet, his skin is damp with sweat when he finally regains some awareness of his surroundings. He’s panting, you’re sniffling, a weak smile on your face as you catch your breath. Before he can stop himself, he presses his lips to your cheek.

Joel tilts you both forward – very tentatively, keeping an arm wrapped around your waist. At some point, your hand settled over top of his, and you threaded your fingers between his own, holding his hand across your stomach. You keep it there, even after you’ve settled onto the bed.

It takes a few minutes before either of you move, but it’s you who gives in first, wriggling out from where he’s got you trapped partially underneath him.

You retreat to the bathroom, like you did last time. Somewhere during your coupling the linens have slid down the bed, and Joel settles back against the pillows, throwing an arm behind his head. Now that he’s stopped sweating, he’s just cold, and he reaches to pull the bedspread over him. He should leave, he thinks, before you come out and ask him to. Beat you to the punch. Maybe while you’re still in the bathroom.

A few minutes later, and you return from the bathroom, dressed again in sweats. He hears you pour yourself a glass of water, gulping it down. You flick off the lamp on your bedside table, and fall into bed next to him, lying rigidly on your back. He should reach out, pull you against him, let you settle in his arms. Instead, Joel rolls over on his side.

It’s terrible how beautiful you are, he thinks, watching you stare up at the ceiling, hugging yourself. So beautiful, and fucking smart. You’re strong, too, but not as strong as he wishes you were. Of course, no one could ever be that strong.

He whispers your name. You turn your head, pupils still blown wide with lingering lust.

“You need to learn to defend yourself, to shoot a gun, to fight,” he says. “After today.”

“What?” you roll to face him.

“You said you didn’t want to die,” Joel continues. “So you need to learn. ‘Case something like that happens again.”

“Oh yeah? Lemme guess, you’re gonna teach me?” your voice is a little hoarse after what he’d done to you, and you smirk at him.

“Yes.” It sobers you up, that he’s not fucking with you, or giving you a hard time. “I owe you, remember?”

“You do.”

“So…. I’ll teach you.”

“....Okay.”

“Alright.”

Joel rolls over to his opposite side, and you’re left staring at his back. Arms wrapped around

himself in a tight hug, he waits for you to tell him to go.

You never do.

Instead, he feels the heat of your body as you curl up against him, slotting one of your legs between his own. Your hand grazes up his ribs, over his bicep – a gentle, quick massage – before you tuck your arm underneath his own, your palm flat against his heart.

“What are you doing?” he asks, frozen at how tender the embrace is. It’s a foreign feeling, he can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this.

The tip of your nose hits the nape of his neck, and he can feel your shuddery exhale.

“I’m cold,” you say, like it’s obvious, lips brushing featherlight against his skin. “And if you’re staying, you might as well make yourself useful.”

He can’t roll over and wrap his arms around you. He can’t kiss your forehead or play with your hair or murmur into your ear. He can’t offer you anything in return. Joel decides, though, if he’s going to accept comfort from anyone, it’s going to be from you.

──────

taglist (basically if you asked for a pt 2 on the last part i tagged you): @bbyanarchist @dlwrish @imaginewrites24 @captain-yellow-96 @daisyintheskyewithdiamonds @sludgec0r33 @c0wb0ym3nace

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #the last of us #the last of us writing #the last of us fanfiction #tlou #tlou hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #writing

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obey-me-disaster · 1 year

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Ohoho, I've come up with a fluffy idea and figured I'd come dump it on you because I am too lazy to write it myself. >:)

Various brothers have a tendency to fall asleep in MC's room or within their vicinity. One day MC manages to take off their shirt while they're alseep and draws all over their chest / shoulders/ stomach, this way its not so everyone can see and they dont get embarrassed. They write little poems + hearts + compliments + words of encouragement and "I love you!!" + "MC was here" written everywhere. After MC drew on them they put their shirt back on and went back to bed like nothing happened. Later the brother of MC's choice takes a shower / changes their clothes and finds MC's "artwork". How would they react?

This is so cute??! With the way some of them act like MC's room is their room this can very well happen.

This ask really got me out of the writer's block so I think I ended doing just a little bit more than you asked, hope you'll still enjoy it ^-^

Demon brothers x gn!MC

MC who writes cute messages on their body while they sleep

Lucifer

A/N: This was inspired by a chat with drunk Lucifer.

The likelihood of normal Lucifer falling asleep in MC's room is low. The chances of MC writing on his body are even lower. Drunk Lucifer on the other hand...

MC was just chilling in their room when Lucifer stumbled in. They knew he was drunk due to all the affectionate messages he has been sending them throughout the night but they were not expecting him to show up in their room.

MC rushed to check if he was alright but he merely brushed off their concerns saying he just wanted to see them before going to rest.

There was not much going through his head at the moment besides regretting the 'who can drink the most' bet with Diavolo and wanting to see MC before going to sleep. Between wanting to check up on them and trying to leave the room he wasn't sure when he ended up in their bed.

Maybe it was when MC insisted that they should give him some water before going to him, or it was when he decided to wait for them and ended up falling asleep.

By the time MC came back with a glass of water and a light snack he was fast asleep in their bed. Sighing MC put down the water and snack and went to cover him with a blanket. It wasn't everyday he got to rest and MC was sure as hell not going to wake him up.

As they approached they couldn't help but admire his features. He had a slight flush across his face, probably from the demonus he drank earlier, that made him look quite cute. Paired with the serene look on his face MC couldn't help but take a picture, it was not everyday the avatar of pride looked so relaxed, let alone sleep in their bed.

They wanted to let Lucifer know how much they loved him, how they wanted him to sleep in their room on other occasions, not only when he was drunk and of course, how cute he looked. At that moment, it was not possible, in the morning he may be hangover. If they leave a note about it he may not see it and sending him a text about it may have the same outcome so they settled on the only rational decision their brain could come up with at 3 am, writing on his body.

At first MC wanted to write on his hand, it would not fit all the things they wanted to write so they slowly pulled his shirt up. They looked over at him to be sure he won't wake up, they didn't want to explain why they were lifting up his shirt while sleeping.

Once they were sure he wouldn't wake up they begun to write various messages with little hearts along his torso. Once they were satisfied MC decided to climb in bed and go to sleep cuddled up to Lucifer.

By the time they woke up Lucifer was already gone, probably to avoid his brothers finding him in their room. Checking their phone they saw they got a message from Lucifer. He apologized for the trouble he caused so late into the night and told them to come into his room in order to thank them properly. MC started to wander if Lucifer will ignore the messages on his body or not. Even if he did, this whole incident started to become a habit for MC every time one of the brothers fell asleep in their room.

Meanwhile in Lucifer's room

He woke up not long after MC fell asleep besides him. It didn't take long for him to put two and two together and decided to leave before any of his brothers would barge in and start a ruckus.

In his room he started to undress so he could change into his pijamas when he saw something written on his torso. Going in front of the mirror he started to read all the sweet messages MC left on his body. He couldn't help but smile at the gesture. He snapped a quick photo of all the messages before deciding he should really make it up to them the next day. Who knows, he may end up sleeping in their room again just as they wished.

Mammon

When is he not in MC's room? He might as well move there with how much he stays there. His phone charger, some of clothes and other junk can be found in MC's room.

Tonight was no different. He was sitting in his bed complaining about Lucifer while MC was finishing up a project for school. He tried to convince them to stop doing homework and spend time with him but to no avail. Frustrated he tried to give them the silence treatment. In his mind MC would come and beg for him to talk with them and stop doing all the school work, it was a full proof plan in his head.

What he didn't take into account was the fact that he would fall asleep in MC's bed and how could he not. The bed was so warm and soft and had MC's scent all over it. Add the fact that he was not being entertained by MC and they get a Mammon fast asleep, holding one of their pillows.

After 5 minutes of silence MC went to check on him and sure enough, he was fast asleep. The scene was all too similar to the one time Lucifer fell asleep, fact that gave them an idea.

They grabbed a pencil and went to pull his shirt up. He moved in his sleep a few times and tried to grab at MC but they managed to get away. No need to get beaten by a sleeping Mammon the way Levi did in the past.

With enough space for writing MC went to work. Small doodles of money and hearts and a few messages about how much they love him. They also snuck the words 'great Mammon' and 'first' here and there but they were not very noticeable.

Being satisfied with their work, MC pulled down his shirt and went back to finish their school project. It would take a while for Mammon to wake, late alone to discover MC's little surprise.

When Mammon woke up in the morning he realized that his plan to make MC beg for attention failed miserably but even with the failed plan he couldn't get mad. MC was holding tightly onto him.

He stayed like that for a while, trying to savour the moment for as long as he could. He didn't think to get up until he could hear his stomach growl, at which point he decided it's time to get up.

He slowly got out of bed and went to the bathroom attached to MC room to change his clothes and wash his face in order to freshen up.

When he took of his shirt he noticed something written all over his chest and stomach. At first he thought that some witch did something to him and was on the verge to go wake up MC when he noticed some little hearts from the corner of his eyes.

He pulled out his phones and took a photo of all the writing so he could finally take a proper look at the writing. When he started to slowly read all the cutesy messages written in gold from his chest and stomach he nearly dropped him phone right there and then.

He didn't know whatever to go wake up MC or not so he decided to do the most logical thing in his mind. Go to his room and start spaming their phone with messages. He tried to put on his usual tsundure attitude during their texts but it was clear he was over the moon about the whole thing.

He made sure not only to take a few more photos of himself with the stuff written by MC but to fall asleep in their room more often with a golden marker right next to him. he couldn't be more obvious

Leviathan

Levi is an introvert through and through. Being around crowds drains his energy and he has to spend some time alone in order to bounce back to his old self. But just because he likes to be alone from time to time in order to recharge his social battery it doesn't mean he likes being lonely.

He often goes to MC room and plays or watches something on his phone while MC does something else entirely. Just being in their presence was enough for him to not feel lonely anymore.

It was one of those night where his social battery was below zero but he really didn't want to be alone when he entered MC's room and went to sit on their bed. MC merely waved at him and went back to whatever they were doing.

They knew Levi would come into their room. Earlier that day Diavolo hosted a party which exhausted Levi to the core. They prepared for him some of their softest plushies they got from various brothers for him to hold.

When they first begun to do this Levi was afraid it would get awkward. Sitting in silence and doing different things seemed like a recipe for disaster but it turned out completely fine. It made their bond stronger, Levi could swear his intimacy level for MC went up.

Levi made himself comfortable and started to collect all his daily logins from numerous gacha games from his phone. The only time anyone spoke was when MC asked if he wanted some snacks but they were met with silence. They softly asked again in case Levi didn't hear them but they got the same response.

They went to check on him only to discover that he has fallen asleep while holding his phone. MC couldn't help but go grab their phone so they could take a picture. It was the first time Leviathan felt comfortable enough to fall asleep in their room. Once they were satisfied with the number of photos they took they went to grab a dark purple pen to start writing on him. They already did that to his older brothers, it might as well become a tradition of sorts.

Pulling his shirt up was definitely way easier of a task to do than they thought. The hard part came when they started to write. Apparently Levi was quite ticklish so he would squirm every time MC's been would be tracing anything on his chest, torso and shoulders. They wrote various references to romance anime that they have watched and the inside jokes between them. They tried to draw a small ruri chan too but didn't come out too well. Once they were satisfied they pulled his shirt down and let him continue his nap.

By the time he woke MC was no longer in the room but they did leave him a note saying that they went to out to buy something. Seeing as he was alone he took it as his chance to leave since he felt pretty embarrassed for falling asleep like that.

It wasn't until later that night, when he was preparing to take a bath that he noticed all the writing. He quickly went to a mirror and when he saw all the messages left by MC he nearly fainted right there and then. He felt like the protagonist of some romantic anime, or even beyond that since he has never seen a scene like that in anything that he has watched.

Even when he would try to deny that MC felt like that about him, those thoughts would quickly go away as he would stare down at the proof that MC truly love him.

He stood for quite a few minutes, thinking on the best way to preserve all of this when he realized that MC, in order to leave all the cute notes and doodles, would have had to lift up his shirt . That was the last thing he thought about before his brain started to malfunction.

Satan

Whenever Satan would feel angry at something and needed a way to calm down he would either go read a book, pet some cats, take his anger out on something in the forest or go stay in MC's presence. This situation was quite similar to Levi's, where he would go to MC's room just to spend time together in silence, while they would do different things.

And in the same way MC would prepare some plushies or snacks for Levi, they would prepare tea or sneak a cat in the HOL. While Satan reading in the presence of MC wasn't a rare thing, him coming into their room to read in order to calm down didn't happen too often. As much as Satan appreciates MC looking out for him and enjoys the small things they do for him, he wouldn't want to be angry in their presence too often. Especially during the times when he feels he doesn't have that much control over his emotions.

This time tho, it wasn't that bad. He couldn't say he felt truly angered, just annoyed at how badly the day went for him. When he entered MC's room they immediately could tell why he came, so they welcomed him in and excused themself to go bring some tea for him and something to drink for themself.

He really couldn't thank then enough for all the things they do for him, so he just figured he would think of a way to surprise them once he is fully calm.

After MC came back with their drinks, both of them settled in a comfortable silence, doing their own thing. This went on for a while and before he could even realize, he fell asleep while hugging the book.

Being used to this by now, the gently took the book from his hands and put it on their, making sure to put a bookmark on whatever page Satan was on. After making sure everything was out of the way they grabbed their phone to snap a few pictuers of him and a marker and went to work.

While lightly lifting up his shirt wasn't that hard, MC got stuck on what to write for him. They made sure to write something unique for each brother and they wanted to do something like that for Satan too. Sure, they could draw a cat and make some cat puns, but Satan's range of interests went way beyond his love for felines.

A shiver from Satan snapped MC out of their throughts. If they kept his shirt up for too long he would wake up from feeling cold, so they had to act quickly. They started to think of all the love poems they heard Satan talk about and quickly searched for them on their DDD. While these wouldn't exactly be MC's words they would still carry the same sentiment.

As they start writing down various small love poems, MC made a mental note to actually think of one for the next time this happens. After thet made sure everything was written down, they made a small drawing of a kitten and pulled down his shirt.

When Satan woke up he was none the wiser about the surprise MC prepared for him under his shirt. He apologized for falling asleep like that and excused himself to go back to his room. All of his brothers could tell that he left MC's bedroom so much calmer than when he went in.

He went straight into his room to take a shower so he could properly go to bed after as he still felt quite tired despite the nap that he took. As he was about to step in the shower he noticed the writing across his chest and stomach.

As he went in front of a mirror to read he quickly recognized both the writing and the poems across his body. Those were all poems that Satan has talked about or from poets he has showed to MC. Across his chest there was a small message that said 'Despite them not being my words they carry the same sentiment. Next time I will come up with something just for you.'

If he, by some slim chance was still angry, this would have gotten rid of any and all negative emotions. He made sure to carefully read all the poems. He already knew them by heart, but since this was MC's hard work, it would be a shame to not appreciate it. He really had to come up with something to express his gratitude to MC as fast as he could.

Asmodeus

Sleep overs between MC and Asmodeus happened quite often. Sometimes they were planned well ahead, sometimes they were on the spur of the and this one was of the latter kind. Both of them came back from a party and since neither of them felt like going on their seprate ways, they decided to have a sleep over in MC's room.

The first part of their sleep over was just taking of any make up and accessories they bad followed by changing into their pijamas. While in theory it may sound like this would be done in 10 minutes, it took them an hour, or at least it took Asmo an hour to officialy be done.

He would have been done way faster but he kept on stopping to tell MC about the latest gossip he heard. By the time he was finished getting into his pijamas he was beyond exhausted. All the hype from that party that kept him awake was gone and replaced with need to cuddle up to MC and fall asleep.

He wanted to stay awake and talk with MC a little bit more but he knew all too well that his body was drained from all the partying. Despite slowly falling asleep, he continued to tell MC about the latest drama his fans caused while holding their hand.

When his breathing became even and he stopped from talking, MC saw it as their chance to get up from bed and get a pen ready. They made sure to pick a glitter pink pen just for him. MC made quick work of his shirt, it was honestly shocking he was wearing clothes at all since he likes to sleep all natural. They started to write as many cutesy messages and draw hearts all over him. Asmo would softly laugh in his sleep here in there, probably being tickled by MC writing on his skin.

Once they have deemed that they wrote enough messages MC put the glitter pen away and went back to sleep, this time cuddling Asmo properly.

When morning came Asmo got out of bed way earlier than MC and went back to his bedroom so he could start his skin care routine which would take a while. Before all of that, he wanted to take a bath first in order to relax, but as he undressed he noticed something across his body.

He went to one of his many mirrors and started to admire MC's handiwork. He tried to recall to any time MC showed signs of being into body writing but he couldn't recall any specific moment. He couldn't wait to show MC his appreciation for their little surprise but before that he had to make sure to take a ton of pictures of himself with the writing on him to share on Devilgram. he lowkey started a new trend

Beelzebub

Since MC's room was right next to the kitchen, Beel would often end up in their bedroom in the middle of the night after one of his late snacks and this time was no exception.

After having his fill more like emptying the fridge he decided to pass by MC's room since he felt like seeing them. He slowly opened the door,as to not wake them only to find out they were wide awake, watching a movie. Since he was already there MC invited him over to watch the movie with them and share some of their snacks.

Beel didn't need to be told twice and immediately crossed the room and went to sit next to them on the bed. As the movie went on and the snacks started to disappear, he could feel himself starting to fall asleep. With MC right next to him and with the room being mostly dark, it made it easy for him to fall asleep.

The only reason MC noticed that the demon besides fell asleep was from hearing him snoring. It made for quite the cute and MC decided to play with his hair. As their hand reached his head, Beel grabbed their hand and started to lightly nibble at it.

Quickly MC retracted their hand and got up to pick on of their pens. They were no longer in the mood to finish the movie so they figured it was just the right moment to write something on Beel.

MC gently lifted up Beel's shirt and tried to avoid being grabbed by the sleeping demon. They took a moment to admire his body. It was far from being the first time seeing him like but MC still couldn't help but take a moment to appreciate his body. Since he was the biggest out of all the brothers ment that MC had more space to write all sorts of compliments and words of encouragement. After making sure that his chest and abs were covered in all sorts of messages and small doodles, MC pulled down his shirt and went to sleep like nothing happened.

In morning Beel woke up and left the room while MC was still soundly asleep. He felt bad for falling asleep during the movie, but decided to think of a way to make it up to MC after his morning work out.

When he entered his bedroom he went straight into changing himself into some clothes ment for working out. As he took his shirt off he noticed there was something not only across his chest but across his stomach too. At first he thought he got some food on him from raiding the fridge but when he looked closer he realized there were words written on him.

He took a picture of them and started to read. It didn't take him long to realize it was MC's doing so he didn't waste any second and went back to in their room so he could express how happy he was to wake up with all those compliments on him. He didn't bother to put his shirt back on, there was no need to cover up MC's little surprise for him. imagine waking up by a shirtless beel picking you up in order to hug

Belphegor

MC's room is one, if not his favourite places to sleep in. Not only did he get to sleep surrounded by their scent, but if he got lucky he would get to sleep all cuddled up to MC. It was a win in his book no matter what.

To MC's dismay, he doesn't always announce his presence, so there were quite a few times where MC sat right on top of him without meaning to. To make matters even more difficult for MC, the bastard would require them to cuddle him in order to make up for the hurt that they have caused. If MC didn't know any better, they would think he was doing it on purpose.

Because of that, MC got in the habit to check if there was anyone in their bed before even thinking of trying to get on it. While the habit was a bit weird it finally payed off. There he was, the avatar of sloth in all of his beauty, sleeping and hugging close to his chest one of MC's plushies.

He looked quite adorable in his sleep. you wouldn't believe he was capable of murdering you MC tried to gently shake him awake but he wouldn't budge so they just gave up on the idea all together.

Since it looked he was not going to wake up MC went to pick one of their pens. In a way it was quite ironic that the person that sleeps the most in their room was the last one to get compliments written on him.

MC moved his body so that he would lie on his back. It turned out to be way easier than they would have expected. It honestly felt like Belphie himself moved so MC would have an easier time writing on him.

Lifting his shirt they started by drawing small constellations here and there, followed by some compliments and other cute messages they could think of.

Once satisfied with their work MC tried to get up from the bed when a hand suddenly grabbed. When they looked down they saw Belphie having one of his most insufferable smirks on his face.

At that moment the realization finally hit MC and made them feel quite silly for forgeting such an important detail. Belphie is often aware of what is happening around him while he is sleeping. That's the only reason he has grades high enough to rivale Satan despite doing nothing but sleep during classes. That also explains why he was so easy to move around a few minutes prior.

It was too late to be having regrets tho. MC was being held thightly by Belphegor and they just knew they are about to be teased relentlessly by him.

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tragedybunny · 4 months

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Absolution

༺Summary༻

Astarion and Serafina have an argument and Astarion does what he thinks is necessary to keep her with him. Set before his Act 2 confession.

༺Pairing༻ Astarion x Serafina (Female Tav/OC)

༺Warnings༻ PiV sex, oral sex, all occurring while Astarion disassociates.

༺Word Count༻ 2441

༺A/N༻ Although most of my reader fics are based my Tav, Serafina, and my experience playing the game as her, this is the first fic I've written featuring her as a named character. And it's my first BG3 fic in 3rd person. I hope you all enjoy it. Thanks to @satanicspinosaurus for the wonderful beta.

The scene from earlier plays over and over in his mind.

“You don't know anything about me, Astarion! So just leave it be.” Sera, sweet, kind, gentle, patient Serafina, had yelled at him. Not once since they'd met on that beach had their erstwhile leader even raised her voice slightly at him. And today she shouted at him. All because she couldn't read Elvish and he'd reacted with the same humor she’d claimed to enjoy. Turning it on him as though he’d been the one in the wrong.

They'd been seated around the fire while Wyll took his turn “cooking”, going through some papers and books they'd found in the wake of a goblin attack. They were looking for any clues into the cult's movements or plans. Sera had plucked a small, neatly bound journal from the pile and turned it over in her hands. It was a thing clearly well-made and cared for. She'd opened it gently, respectful of the fine binding holding it all together.

Her brilliant blue eyes had scanned a few pages before she gave out a frustrated sigh. “Elvish,” she muttered, snapping it shut violently and thrusting it at Astarion. “You'll probably have better luck with that.”

He wasn't sure why he did it. The half-elf’s reaction was disproportionate to simply encountering a foreign language, that was obvious. Maybe it was because he’d become too used to teasing her since they’d started their “relationship.” Their easy back and forth banter giving him the foreign feeling of acceptance.

Or maybe it was his own way of trying to deny those irritatingly tender feelings that had started to creep in whenever he caught her glancing his way or their hands touched, or she laughed at one of his jokes. The need to push back against them, sharpening his tongue and drawing out ancient bias.

Whatever caused it, he should’ve thought before opening his mouth. “Can’t read Espruar? Someone got forgotten by one parent. Is that why you threw a tantrum and ran-”

“Shut up!” Sera leapt up from the log she’d been seated on and glared at him. “You don’t know anything about me, Astarion! So just leave it be.”

With that, she’d stormed off and left him silently stunned, as though awaiting a reprisal that didn’t come. Around him, their companions pretended to look away and he caught a few whispers on the air. “What are you all looking at? It’s not my fault she suddenly can’t take a joke.” He’d sulked off to his own tent, waiting until her tantrum had passed and everyone forgot his misstep. He’d assumed Sera would cool down and come out for dinner, but instead she’d remained stubbornly locked away. Karlach had brought her a bowl of what they were generously calling stew.

Everyone had eaten and retired for the evening and she was still pouting. Which brought him to now, slinking his way across camp toward her tent. He had to do something, he couldn't watch his hard won protection slip away. It absolutely had nothing to do with the fact that Sera gave him a little kiss and wished him goodnight every other night lately and it had been noticeably withheld tonight.

The way the moonlight filtered through the trees, one solid beam pointing down on her tent, a poet might say that Selune was guiding him. Poets were idiots. Parting the flap just the smallest amount, he starts to slip inside, intent on waking her to settle things if he needed to, when a sound stopped him. A strangled cry, was it directed at him? He froze, half inside, the errant moonbeam that slipped around him haloing her with soft illumination.

Another wordless cry. Only a nightmare, nothing to be concerned with. Stepping in, he lets the tent shut, plunging them both back into darkness. With a predator’s stealth, he approaches her bedroll, kneeling down, eyes subconsciously glancing at the healing puncture wounds on her neck.

“Let me out.” Her sudden words startle him.

Stumbling backwards, he nearly loses his balance to go sprawling across the floor. His skin suddenly heated, as though the breath that carried those words could burn him.

Another sob comes as she thrashes around a bit. “Please, I won't run,” unintelligible sounds follow the small plea. “Let me out.”

Locked up. She'd been locked up too. Regaining himself, he crept toward her again, as she shook and cried. Someone had hurt her. But who would want to do that?

She was Sera, unfailingly kind; who aided refugees, saved children, fought monsters, and foolishly fed manipulative vampires.

The sobbing becomes frantic and without thinking he reaches out to gently grasp her shoulder. “Sera,” she struggles against his touch with a whimper. Growling in frustration, he shakes her a little more roughly. “Serafina!”

Eyes snap open to behold him with wide pupils as her chest heaves. “A-Astarion?” Sitting quickly, she pulls away from him, and he feels a sudden sting in his chest. “What are you doing here?” She hisses, apparently still angry with him.

“You were having a nightmare.” He replies, trying to soften his voice, to be the lover she had come to expect.

“Hmm,” her eyes focus across the tent to an empty lantern, “fiat lux.” Small little motes of light appear in the lantern, swirling gently in their prison, as Sera draws her knees up to her chest. “Well, I'm awake now, you can go.”

The forlorn gaze and empty voice were nothing like the Serafina he'd come to know and the unsettled sensation in the back of his mind grows. He cleares his throat, trying to get the words moving. “I didn’t come just to wake you up, I wanted to…apologize. For earlier. I’m sorry, the joke was in poor taste.”

Turning her head, she glances his way from where it rested on her knees. She looks so small like this, so far from the fierce woman who’d led them from the moment of the crash. “Apology accepted, I probably took it too personally.”

It didn’t quite ring true, but he plows on anyway, hoping maybe those blue eyes would light back up for him. “The truth is, I’m actually a bit rusty with Espruar myself. But maybe I could teach you and it would be good practice for me.” He affects the warmest smile he could, sure the gesture would win her over.

Instead, she shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t actually matter all that much. Thanks for the thought though. You can go, I’m not still mad at you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

That was not his Serafina. He has to do something, to fix this. To keep her on his side. Reaching out, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her into his lap, lips closing over hers. “What’s this about?” She huffs as her skin began to flush a pretty pink.

“Pleading my apology some more,” his voice drops to the low sultry tone that made her pulse jump in a way he could hear.

“I said you were forgiven.” Despite her protest, her arms encircle his neck, pulling him closer.

“Your words said that, but your eyes spoke differently.” His lips trace a line of kisses from her lips to the lobe of her ear, making her sigh.

This was what he could do for her, what he did best. It was a skill honed by two hundred years of unwilling practice, and like so many before, a skill she was willing to make use of. At least it was easy enough with Sera, she was sweet and gentle, and he knew she'd never harm him. And it wasn't as though a part of him didn't want her, she was a pretty little thing. That part was just bound up with all the other parts that hated what his body had been used for. If he had to open his pants for anyone, he supposes he was glad it was her.

“I meant it, but- gods Astarion!” He runs his tongue along the point of her ear, less sensitive than his, but still enough to start driving her mad.

“In that case, we'll call it making up for my behavior earlier.” Guiding her to face him, legs straddling his, her warm core settles against his hips. He kisses his way back down to her throat, already feeling his mind growing distant from his actions.

Lips linger near the marks on her neck, and she squirms in his lap. “Do you want to?”

He could never say no to that offer. Without hesitation, his fangs sink into her flesh, and succulent liquid pours into his throat. It adds to what little pleasure he’s able to wring from what he was about to do. Sera whimpers and writhes in his lap, grinding down on his growing erection. She hadn’t started out allowing him to feed on her as some form of pleasure, but she had given him her neck as often as the rest of her body, and the two had become inextricably tied together.

Just a sip for tonight, after everything that had happened, he couldn’t ask too much. Too soon he pulls his fangs away to lap at the remainders and kiss the wounds. Blood and a distant mind, this was good as it would be for him. “Let's get this out of the way.” Fingers grip the hem of her shirt and guide it over her head.

She shivers as the night air caresses her skin and leans into him. It was almost enough to make him laugh, there was nothing about him that could provide any warmth. Instead he continues kissing his way down her chest, nipping lightly until her back arches into him and she makes a needy noise.

“Patience,” he chides her, releasing his grip on her to remove his own shirt.

Hands encircle her waist in an iron grip, holding her firmly in place while tongue and teeth tease her rosebud nipples. Fingers trace his back as she pants, trying to contain all the noises that could wake the camp. Her nails ghost along his flesh, and he senses she longs to dig them in.. She hadn’t even attempted to ask about it. Why did she afford him such gentleness, was she wary that it would be too much on his scarred flesh?

Lips leave off her hardened peaks to capture hers again, and she grinds against him even harder. No doubt her small clothes were soaked. “You drive me mad,” she whispers, lost in desire.

Just as he’d wanted, Serafina, hurt feelings and nightmares forgotten. “You enjoy it.” He captured her lip between his teeth for a second and nibbles. “Stand up, take your pants off for me.” He awaits her on his knees, as a penitent seeking their absolution.

She’s so occupied, she doesn’t notice as his gaze finds the dancing lights in the lantern, and watches them swirl aimlessly until she’s naked before him. Gripping her thighs, he pulls her in, holding them apart so his tongue can swipe along her sex, as soaked as he predicted. Sera’s not a bard, but she sings for him anyway. Fingers grip into his curls, not too tightly. Sometimes he wishes she wouldn’t be so damn gentle, that she'd be like everyone else, someone easy to use, instead of, whatever all this was.

“Astarion,” she keens as he slips two fingers inside her, tongue running over her clit.

He laps and suckles at it almost as fiercely as he does the wounds he leaves in her neck. The fingers inside her find the spot that causes her knees to buckle and another cry to leave her. She’s close, just a little more, and he could leave it for the night.

“I want you inside me.” He stiffens, inhaling deeply.

“Do you now, my sweet?” He nips her thigh playfully with his fangs while his stomach drops. “Then come down here.”

As soon she hits her knees, he's positioning her on all fours, he can’t look her in the eyes right now. He tears his pants open, eyes finding the lights again, concentrating on them as he pushes inside her. She’s warm and wet as she pushes back against him, eager to have all of him. Because she chooses him. No matter how many of his rough edges and dark corners she finds, she wants him. Would she still want him if she saw it all?

Forget it, he tells himself, pushing that thought away. He clears his mind until there’s only the moment, the sensation left, hips slapping against hers, the way her body clenches around his cock, how she eagerly sucks the fingers he puts in her mouth so she has something to absorb the moans.

It’s almost enough to completely lose himself, his cock twitches. It’s spectacular, the way she meets every thrust and takes everything he has to give. “Touch yourself,” he urges, eager for her to come undone.

Her own fingers slide between her folds, working feverishly. It’s not long before the noises muffled by his fingers become frantic and she tightens around him.

“That’s it, my darling, let go.” With another deep thrust, he allows himself a release. “Sera,” he gasps, knowing it will please her to hear her name on his lips.

They collapse next to one another on the bedroll, Sera quick to snuggle up in his arms. It takes longer than it should to embrace her, his body wanting to run. “Is everything alright?” She asks, innocently, from where she lays, head on his chest. Maybe there are merciful gods, she can’t see his face.

“Of course, love. I think I may have worn myself out after all the walking today.” Softly, he kisses her head, he can’t let her suspect.

“Well don’t complain tomorrow, Lae’zel will blame me for sure. I don’t think I was very discreet.” She laughs, sounding like sleep is already returning to her.

“But you are to blame. If you weren’t so irresistible.” He tries to laugh as well. This stupid, sweet girl, why does she lay in a monster’s arms and giggle?

With a yawn, she gives him an out. “You should probably go, I’m going to fall asleep soon and don’t want to trap you here.”

One more kiss, even as his mind insists on fleeing. “Goodnight my love, rest well, and I’m sorry again.”

“For what?”

“For earlier.” For everything.

Tag list:

@micropoe10 @writingmysanity @mxxny-lupin @azu21

@tallymonster @dependsonthedream @sunfire-ancunin

@bambamwolf87 @fayeriess @lumienyx @lisrelly

@elora-the-slutty-songstress @bhaalbaaby @spacebarbarianweird

@darlingxdragon @wanderingisobel @astarionsbeloved

@vixstarria @claryvoyantfray @volotramp @misscrissfemmefatale @bg3obsessedsideblog @captainaceofspades @wickedwitchofthewilds @asterordinary

#bg3 #astarion #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #astarion x tav #bg3 tav #bg3 tav: Serafina #my fanfic #my writing #astarion x oc

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theerurishipper · 1 year

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Zuko Did Not Abuse Azula in the Comics.

I'm gonna do it. After a lifetime of never posting any of my own posts in the ATLA fandom, I am gonna talk about this. "This" is the arguments sprung forth that Zuko abused Azula in the comics, more specifically The Search. Now, I don't think the comics are well-written, but what they don't do in any capacity is paint a picture of Zuko abusing Azula. And despite this, I've seen several claims about how Zuko did in fact, treat Azula cruelly and horribly and let the Gaang abuse her happily. And I might not like the comics, but that's just flat out wrong. So, I'm writing a rebuttal to all the arguments I've seen on the topic, at least, as many as I can remember. What I'll do is quote an argument and use evidence from the comic to rebut it, and hopefully people will stop claiming that the abuse victim treated his abusive sister the way she treated him all their lives. So yeah.

To be clear, I'm not making this post to hate on Azula's character or something. I'm not making this to start a fight, or to make people angry. I mostly made this to express my own frustrations about some things I've seen.

And it's probably a bit too late for this, but if you think Zuko did abuse Azula or whatever, you're entitled to your opinion, but please don't interact with this post. I've tagged the anti tags and placed my text under a read more, so y'all don't have to read it.

This gets long, so under the cut it is. Let's go.

Argument: "Azula is protesting being treated cruelly and Ty Lee chi-blocks her for no reason at all! And Zuko doesn't protest this cruel treatment of his sister! He's abusing her!"

Ty Lee chi-blocked Azula after Azula attacked Zuko and displayed violent behavior. On top of being Zuko's bodyguard and therefor responsible for protecting him, Ty Lee also has a great fear of Azula because of how Azula treated her in their past. Zuko tries to be kind to his sister by bringing her tea and she attacks him. Furthermore, Zuko also protests her being chi-blocked even after she does so. He tries to treat her with dignity and be kind to her but Azula herself is the one to sneer at his efforts.

Argument: "Zuko is awful for leaving Azula alone with her abuser! He doesn't care about her well-being!"

I agree that Azula shouldn't be allowed to talk to Ozai. Ozai abused Azula as well, and contact with him would only cause her more problems. However, Zuko doesn't know this. He himself is an abuse victim, and all he's seen his whole life is that Ozai favored Azula over him. And Azula used this to place herself in a position of power over him. She's always tried to drive it into his head that their father liked her better than him and that he was worthless in Ozai's eyes. Naturally, Zuko assumes (incorrectly) that Azula has some kind of special relationship with Ozai that he doesn't. He knows Azula has not had a perfect and healthy life, but he is not privy to the details. He doesn't know what's going on in her head. This is because he is not a mind reader, and she refuses to let herself be vulnerable in front of him because she believes she is better than him and that vulnerability is a weakness.

Even in the comic, she expresses no hatred or fear of her father, and doesn't indicate to Zuko that she does not want to be alone with him. She shouldn't have contact with him, of course, but she refuses to admit that her father is responsible for how she is now and that he has hurt her. She blames her mother, she blames Zuko and his friends, she blames Mai and Ty Lee, but she refuses to blame herself and most importantly, she refuses to blame Ozai. She's still behaving the way he wants, attacking Zuko and, if I may bring up Smoke and Shadow even if it pains me, she's trying to get Zuko to be like Ozai. She herself expresses the desire to speak with Ozai in the panels above, so if she herself hasn't acknowledged the way Ozai has hurt her or how he has abused her, and if she is still under the belief that he loves her, how is Zuko supposed to know any better? He's not doing anything he thinks might hurt her because she hasn't expressed that it hurts her, because she herself doesn't believe it does. And yes, it does hurt her, but it's not Zuko's fault for not being able to magically comprehend that, especially since she has spent her life driving the opposite message into his head, that Ozai favors her and not him.

Argument: "Zuko threw his little sister in an institution! He didn't care for her or for what became of her! He just left her in there to rot!"

What should he have done then? How should he have dealt with her? Azula may be traumatized and in need of help, but Zuko isn't the one to give that to her. He doesn't owe that to her after everything she's done to him, and he doesn't have the capability to help her himself. Azula has always expressed hatred for her brother and has been very clear about the fact that she considers him weak. He tries to help her and she rebuffs him continuously, choosing to attack him instead. She still wants him dead, and she has still not expressed any opposition to the things she learnt from Ozai. She still considers her brother a failure, she still hasn't mentioned that she thinks genocide is wrong, and she certainly doesn't think she's to blame for anything.

Given free reign, she attacks Zuko and manipulates him, and she is obviously too dangerous to let loose. The most Zuko can do is get her the help she needs, which is what he tried to do. I find the whole way these comics deal with mental health distasteful, especially with regard to Azula, but that's a flaw in the writing, not the characters. Zuko could have thrown her in prison like Ozai, since she was complicit in his war efforts. But he recognized that she needed help and tried to provide it for her. I wonder what anyone who criticizes Zuko for this would suggest he should do instead. Keep in mind that Azula is an imperialist and staunch supporter of Ozai's quest to take over the world. She also attempted to kill Zuko multiple times and has expressed no remorse for it.

And also, there is the argument that the institution is abusive and that Azula was mistreated in there. And where is the evidence of that? No, seriously, I went and looked through the comics, and I didn't see any evidence that Azula was abused in there. It seems to be a headcanon. Of course Azula resents being put in an institution, especially when she believes nothing is wrong with her and since she so adamantly refuses to let anyone help her. But nowhere does she mention that she hates it because the people there hurt her or something. And where else could she get help for her problems? Should Zuko take on a second job as her therapist? Should Iroh leave his life in Ba Sing Se behind to come and help a niece who has only ever hated him and wanted him dead? People say that the straitjacket is proof of her being abused, and I don't really like it either, but considering that she is eagerly awaiting the opportunity to attack Zuko, the straitjacket is probably a precaution to make sure she doesn't hurt anyone. Not that it stops her.

And when Zuko does try to help her some other way by offering for her to stay in the palace instead to make her more comfortable, she attacks him. So.

Also, these comics totally forgot how lightning-bending works.

Argument: "Zuko violently coerced his mentally ill sister to come with him on a mission to find his mother!"

She's also Azula's mother, actually. And he didn't coerce her. She blackmailed him and forced herself onto the trip. It was entirely her own decision to come with them and it was not Zuko who forced her to do anything.

Argument: "The Gaang attack Azula for no reason! They're threatening her violently!"

I mean, considering everything she's done to them and still hasn't given up on wanting to do, it's expected that they would be wary of her and perceive her as a threat. Remember when the Gaang pulled their weapons on Zuko, and only didn't attack him because he tried talking to them? Azula here is still antagonizing them and is still calling them derogatory terms like "peasant," so she still hasn't given up her beliefs of superiority. Which obviously doesn't give them a very positive impression.

Argument: "Iroh always expresses ill will and hatred towards Azula and thinks she's a lost cause! He encourages Zuko to hurt her because he thinks she's irredeemable!"

Iroh expresses the wish for Azula to find peace the way he believes Zuko will.

Argument: "The Gaang treated Azula cruelly and threatened her for no reason! They started abusing her the moment they got the chance to, when Azula was defenseless and unable to protect herself at all!"

Here we have exhibit A, where Aang cruelly laughs in Azula's face and greets her mockingly, while Azula is respectful of the people she has hurt many times over.

Oh wait. He greets her cheerfully and kindly, and she starts ordering the Gaang around like they're her servants.

Argument: "Sokka threatened Azula violently for no reason and Azula was just defending herself!"

Sokka didn't even do anything to her. He waves his boomerang near her and tells her not to try anything. And yet the way some people will use this scene is to suggest that he was outright attacking her when she was vulnerable or something. And yet she is well off enough to shoot lightning at him unprovoked. Considering all of Azula's actions, they are well within their rights to keep her in control. Would you say Katara was unjustified for threatening Zuko with death right after he joined them? Was she abusing Zuko then? The answer is no.

Azula has been well known for committing many acts of violence against them, including but not limited to pursuing them relentlessly, attacking them, taking over Ba Sing Se, trying to kill them, actually killing Aang, almost killing Zuko, and she is complicit in the crimes of the Fire Nation. She has done nothing to prove that she's changed her ways and that she is now not interested in killing them, and we later learn that she still does want to attack them. Sokka is well within his rights to threaten her since she has inflicted so much harm on his friends and might still do so. But Azula has no such right. The only reason she has so much free reign is because of Zuko's compassion. The Gaang are right to be suspicious and wary of her after everything she's done and she has no right to be disdainful about that. Do you think if Zuko showed up to join the Gaang and shot sparks at them when he got irritated, that they would not be in the right for perceiving it as a threat? Would you say that Zuko should be allowed to act violently with the Gaang in that situation?

She is here because she manipulated her brother and the fact that she is being allowed on this trip unbound is much more than what she realistically deserves. And she proves Sokka right by attacking him. Sokka merely waved a boomerang in her face (he wasn't even that close to her, actually, and he certainly wasn't in her face) and warned her not to try anything, and she tried something instantly. Just before this when Zuko was with her, she attacked him. No matter her mental state or her age, Azula is dangerous and deadly, and she has not changed. They have no reason to trust her. They have the right to be distrustful of her and to warn her not to step out of line. I know people like to ignore the fact that Azula is still an Ozai sympathizer and an imperialist who partook gleefully in the war efforts and like to only see her as a mentally ill 14-year-old girl, but that's not what the show says, and neither do the comics, so.

I'm guessing it's wrong of the Gaang to react when someone who has previously proved to be more than ready to hurt them and kill them tries to hurt one of their friends. Sure, Azula wasn't going to hurt him severely, but she sure did hurt him enough for him to yell out and fall down. And considering everything else, the Gaang are right to try to protect themselves from someone they perceive as a threat. Sokka wasn't even close to her, damn it. Azula has no right at all to be making demands of the Gaang, and they don't have an obligation to treat her the way she wants to be, like they are her servants and like they are inferior to her.

Argument: "Zuko threatens Azula for no reason and abuses her!"

Azula is someone who has proven to be a threat time and again, and here she is yelling strange things and inching closer with an angry look in her eye. For people like Zuko, it is understandable that this looks like a threatening situation. We know what Azula is talking about, but all they can see is her behaving in a way that could be threatening.

She yells accusatory things and looks angry, and she is moving closer to the rest of the Gaang, almost like she is ready to attack them for something. And so Zuko tells her that that's enough. And he releases some... steam, I guess? He doesn't even bend a flame. And yet he's abusing her somehow. And then she makes it sound like he's overreacting. If someone you knew was dangerous started coming closer to you while yelling with a strange look in their eyes, would you try to wonder why exactly they're behaving like this and if they're alright, or would you prepare to defend yourself?

And here we also see Azula blaming the Gaang for ruining her life and not, you know, her abuser Ozai. So sure, of course she'd accept Zuko's help when she thinks he's to blame for her misfortune and not her own actions and Ozai's abuse.

I too wish Toph was here.

Argument: "The Gaang abused a defenseless Azula, Part 2."

Defenseless Azula breaks the deal she forced Zuko to make with her and jumps off Appa when they're too high.

Aang saves her and she blasts him.

Now, we know in this scene that Azula is having visions of her mother and that she's hearing things. We know that she's not exactly of sound mind when she goes on rampages. But the Gaang doesn't know that. Zuko doesn't know that, and he has no way of knowing because she won't tell him. Even when he asks her who she is talking to, she just yells at him and rebuffs him.

Look at Zuko, saying that he doesn't want to fight Azula with a sad expression. How abusive!

Azula throws the first blow here. She isn't seeing things when she attacks Zuko, she just used him to get here and now she wants to get rid of him. And Zuko is doing what he said he'd do, keeping her in line. And don't say he should have just let Azula go. He wouldn't be a very good Fire Lord if he let the lightning bending imperialist go off on her own.

And then the Gaang takes her down after she attacked them first. So if that's abuse, then I don't know what to say.

Argument: "Zuko abusing his sister, Part 3."

Very abusive, yes.

Oh, and he finds a secret she's been keeping from him! That's so abusive!

Argument: "Zuko abusing his mentally ill sister, Part 4."

She attacks him first. You could make the argument that it's because she's having visions of her mother, and yeah, she is. But Zuko doesn't know all this because she won't tell him. And also, as it should be obvious to everyone, that's not an excuse.

Then there's a fight scene.

Argument: "Zuko cruelly held Azula off a cliff to threaten her and hurt her! He's abusing her while she is clearly not well!"

Ah, this infamous scene. Where Zuko holds his weak and defenseless sister off a cliff and laughs maniacally at her suffering while she pleads with him to spare her- oh wait.

Obviously, he dragged her to a cliff just so he could hold her off it. It's not like they were fighting in that environment. It's not like she just fell near the cliff's edge and he picked her up.

I honestly don't see anything wrong with what he did. He's clearly defending himself from her, and holds her over the cliff so that she won't attack him again, and so that he can make her listen to him after she has acted out again and again in a violent and dangerous way. She was attacking him, and this was the only way he could get her to listen to him. If you think he was considering dropping her, you don't know Zuko at all.

Anyway, this is actually one of the few scenes from any of these comics that actually made me feel something. It's an expression of the tragedy of their relationship from Zuko, and also him standing up to another abuser in his life. Yes, Azula abused Zuko, that much is not up for debate. Here, Zuko is finally confronting Azula on the horrible was she's treated him their whole life. I don't begrudge him that. And him saying "since the day you were born," is obviously not literal. Like, I can't believe I have to say this unironically. If people say "I must have walked a thousand miles," do we take it literally or do we understand that it is an exaggerated way of expressing that someone has walked a long way? It's the same thing here. Just because Zuko exaggerates his speech does not mean that the sentiment he is expressing is untrue. This is such a stupid line to get hung up over, but gotta take every inch you get when the whole text is against you, I guess.

Argument: "The Gaang abusing Azula, Part 5."

Where the Gaang verbally abuse Azula who is clearly hurt by their cruel words- hold on.

Ah, yes. Call the people who are somehow still putting up with you "louts," Azula. I am sure that is a very good and proper way to treat people who have every right to throw you back in jail and be on their way. They don't even say anything back to her. The Gaang has the patience of saints, honestly.

Thank you Sokka for being the one with common sense. I suppose he's also a villain now for saying "she's tried to kill us twelve times" when that's not true, it was only about two times. Which clearly makes it better.

Argument: "Zuko abusing Azula, Part 6."

Azula antagonizes a child, Zuko tells her to knock it off.

He's being so cruel to her.

Argument: "The Gaang abusing Azula, Part 7."

She attacked them. They defended themselves. It doesn't matter if she saw her mother in a vision. That's not an excuse and it's not the Gaang's problem. It's not Zuko's obligation to help his abuser, especially since she doesn't want his help anyway.

Gee, all these arguments are starting to sound awfully similar. It's almost like Azula always instigates fights and the Gaang defend themselves. Hmm.

Argument: "Zuko abusing Azula, Part 8."

She attacked first. Again.

This time she even attacked two actually defenseless people.

Argument: "Zuko gave the Gaang permission to attack Azula for no reason at all! The used their position to abuse her!"

No, he gave them permission to take her down because she went too far and attacked innocent people who did nothing to her.

Honestly, Zuko should have done this a lot sooner. She's tried to kill them four times already. She hasn't listened to them when they tell her not to do something and she's endangered all of them many times. She's being granted more than she deserves by the Gaang, and yet she goes on to do things they explicitly tell her not to do because it might hurt the forest or other people. She's proven that she is not concerned about who she hurts as long as she gets what she wants, and it took until she attacked people who weren't the Gaang for Zuko to suggest taking her down. The fact that he didn't give the okay for this the first time she tried to kill them is honestly a testament to his character.

Azula had this coming. No amount of the excuse of mental illness is enough to justify her actions. Even if she has a mental illness, it doesn't give her the right to attack others. And Zuko has all the right to defend himself and realize that working with Azula is impossible. He doesn't look happy to be doing this. He looks quite sad, in fact. I joked around a little in this post but seriously, anyone who says Zuko is the one abusing Azula is interpreting the text in very bad faith. I know people like it when Azula is a victim so that they can justify her hurting others, but Zuko and the Gaang had every right to retaliate throughout this comic whenever Azula attacked them or hurt someone else. These two siblings aren't even the last non-Gaang people Azula hurts in this comic.

Argument: "Zuko abusing Azula, Part 9."

Wherein Azula attacks her mother who doesn't remember her and her defenseless family with the intent to kill.

Now I'm not heartless. I feel for Azula here, I really do. That panel of her with tears in her eyes truly makes me feel sad. She definitely didn't deserve what happened to her throughout her life at Ozai's hands. She didn't deserve to feel unloved and feel like her mother thought she was a monster. She didn't deserve to be abused by Ozai. Azula deserves to heal, she deserves to be loved, she deserves to be treated well and she deserves better.

None of this gives her the right to hurt other people. Innocent people. She may feel her mother has wronged her, but it's not true. And she doesn't get to attack her mother, who doesn't even remember her, out of hatred and anger. She doesn't get to kill this innocent woman and attack her family. And Zuko is not in the wrong for stopping her. Zuko is not the wrong for protecting his mother and her family. Zuko is not abusive for defending other people and himself from Azula. Because even if Azula is hurt, she is taking it out on other people who have done nothing to deserve it.

Zuko redirecting her lightning back at her doesn't kill her, and I'm sure Zuko knows that it wouldn't. He doesn't want her dead. He doesn't want to hurt her. He wouldn't have thrown her over the cliff for that very reason. Despite everything, Zuko loves Azula. He cares about her. He wants to have a good relationship with her. He's very affected by the knowledge that their relationship is so bad. He truly wants to help her. But it is Azula who is resistant to that help. It is Azula who thinks her brother is weak and deserves to be hurt. It is Azula who despite wanting love, chooses to push people away and hurt them over and over again.

He's saddened at her running away, he chases her and pleads with her to let him help. But it is Azula who refuses him, who rebuffs him and attacks him at every turn. It is Azula who is always the aggressor, it is Azula who is at fault in their relationship, all because she believes that everyone is to blame for her mistakes but herself. And the only way she can heal is if she realizes who the blame truly lies with, Ozai, and rejects everything he's taught her, that love is weakness and to rule with fear. She needs help, but Zuko is not obligated to provide it to her. And yet he does, out of the kindness and compassion in his heart, and the love he has for his sister.

Argument: "He abused her in the show, then! Since this post only talks about the comics!"

That's because it should be obvious to anyone watching that Zuko didn't abuse Azula. If anyone thinks Zuko abused Azula, I invite them to watch a show called Avatar: The Last Airbender. It's really quite good.

So I feel like I've covered most arguments I've seen. But I do want to talk some more about why exactly I wrote all this, why I wasted two hours of my life on this.

Anyone who goes through the ATLA tag on my blog will probably reach the correct conclusion that Zuko is my favorite character, and that he and his arc mean a lot to me. And so, it's honestly not great to see people undermine all of the suffering Zuko has gone through in his life, all to justify Azula's abusive behaviors. It's not wrong to like Azula and love her character. She's a complex character that many find relatable, and that's not wrong. But to accuse another character, her actual victim in the series and one whom many can relate to as well, of being her abuser and denying her abuse of him... it's not a great look. It reeks of victim blaming and abuse apologism. And it's not true. Azula is an example of how victims of abuse can become abusers themselves. This is what she represents in the show. And it is not wrong for people to call out Azula and not Zuko, because Zuko got called out in universe, called himself out and he changed. Zuko redeemed himself and became a good person.

Azula has not done that. She hasn't changed, she hasn't acknowledged that she is wrong, and therefore people are allowed to criticize her and dislike her, and they are allowed to call out her abuse and her other actions. People call out Zuko for his bad actions as well, but the fact of the matter is that he changed, and people don't feel the need to call him out anymore because he's done it himself. Zuko doesn't need the same criticism Azula does because he grew and she didn't, that's it. So all the talking points about how people don't call out Zuko as much as Azula or that they don't criticize his bad actions are moot because of his very widely acknowledged and celebrated redemption arc. Because he realized his mistakes and worked hard to fix them. So, there is really no point in criticizing him anymore the way there is for Azula, since she hasn't changed. And it is not "hate" for people to understand that despite Azula's abuse at Ozai's hands, she dealt the same thing to her brother for years. And it is not wrong for people to criticize her for it.

All this talk about how Azula is always being hurt and betrayed by everyone, and all this talk about how Zuko is weak unlike Azula is the exact same reasoning Azula uses that enables her to abuse others within the story, the reasoning that Ozai instilled in her. It is quite literally the parroting of Ozai's beliefs, that Zuko is weak and soft, and that Azula is strong and powerful and yet she's a victim of everybody. She believes that others deserve to be hurt because they are too weak or because they are responsible for her suffering, and not her or Ozai. In the end, it wasn't Zuko who drove away her friends Mai and Ty Lee, and Mai and Ty Lee did not "betray" her. It was Azula's cruel treatment of them because she controlled them through fear that drove them away from her, and when push came to shove they stood up for the people the loved and for themselves. It wasn't Zuko who drove away their mother, it was Ozai. It wasn't Iroh who hated Azula and wanted her dead, it was Azula who hated Iroh and wanted him dead, and these are all things she learnt from Ozai. She can only ever grow if she realizes her mistakes and accepts the blame for her own actions, and if she stops blaming her victims for her suffering and starts blaming her abuser.

Blaming Zuko for defending himself from her and calling that abuse is victim blaming. Whether you like it or not, Azula did abuse Zuko. She had power over him, she targeted his insecurities constantly, she lied to him multiple times and made him doubt his own perceptions, she manipulated and gaslit him and made him feel unsafe in his home. She supported Ozai's abuse of Zuko and participated in it and took pleasure in it. Zuko never did anything of the sort to her. He reacted to her abuse in a way he never did with Ozai until the end, but that does not mean he wasn't affected by it or that it didn't happen, because it did, and even though he fought back with her, he was often defeated and Azula always managed to manipulate and terrify him. For fuck's sake, he literally had a chant, "Azula always lies," so that he could comfort himself after she terrorized him, something that he's been saying to himself for years according to Zuko Alone. People will point to Zuko challenging Azula as him abusing her back, but what defines abuse is the power dynamics. There is no such thing as mutual abuse. Abuse is all about one party having power over the other, and in Azula and Zuko's relationship, she had all the power over him because she was the favored child. Of course, this was also damaging for her, very much so, but it means that she had power over him, and he didn't.

Azula is a tragic character and her life is a sad one. But that doesn't make her any less of a bad person, and it doesn't mean she is not a toxic individual. Her actions have hurt other in many ways, and she does not feel remorse. She finds pleasure in the pain of others, especially her brother, at whom she smiled in glee when he was being maimed by their father. She took over a city and killed someone and did it with a smile on her face. She tried to kill her brother and laughed about it. She gleefully suggested genocide, and wanted to take part in it. And she hasn't changed, so people are allowed to dislike her and call her out for it. Personally, I believe that Azula has the capacity to change and to redeem herself. I don't think she's too far gone or is irredeemable. She is not as bad as Ozai, and it's not too late for her.

No one deserves a redemption. It has to be something you actively work for, something you do and it is something that you have to work for. Azula can change if she truly wants to. She has people who are willing to help her if she so chooses, like Zuko for better or worse for him. But that means admitting to her mistakes, acknowledging that she is wrong and has hurt people, and making the effort to change, which so far she has not done. And Zuko is not obligated to forgive her or help her in any way, and neither are the Gaang or Iroh.

You can like a villainous character. You can like a character who is a bad person. It's not wrong. What is wrong is to paint another character in a bad light, in a false light, to justify your love for another character. And especially in this case since Azula is Zuko's abuser, turning the tables and calling him her abuser for defending himself against her all because you want to excuse Azula's actions and want her to be a victim is really not great. Accusing Iroh and Ursa of being responsible for her downfall is not great. All this is directing blame away from the real abuser, Ozai. And it veers into victim blaming and abuse apologism, like I said.

Being a fan of Azula doesn't mean you can handwave away her less than savory traits or cherry-pick the ones you like. She is a victim, but she's also an abuser. And it is not "bashing" or misogyny for people to call her out. Calling out Zuko is also okay and allowed, but it is honestly less productive since he changed himself already. I understand that people don't like when their favorite characters are criticized or hated, but that doesn't mean characters who do bad things are exempt from being called out. And it doesn't give anyone the excuse to start misrepresenting other characters and hating on them to prop up their fave. Fans of characters who are villainous should understand that. And in this case, anyone who is a fan of Azula should understand that.

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suddencolds · 4 months

Text

The Worst Timing | [3/?]

part 3 (6k words)!! you can read [part 1] here! (it gets worse before it gets better). this chapter is more character-centric (sorry again 🙇‍♀️). i wanted to post this before work eats me alive this week T.T

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

It’s fine, until it isn’t.

—

Yves gets home, showers first (only after Vincent insists that he shower first), heads out into the living room, and shuts off the lights. The lights in the bedroom are still on, bleeding in from the doorframe.

His head hurts. Every part of him feels cold. He burrows deep into the covers on the pullout bed, rearranges himself until he finds a sufficiently comfortable position, and shuts his eyes.

Tomorrow, he’ll be away for most of the afternoon—with the wedding rehearsal, and then the rehearsal dinner with the rest of his family—and Vincent will grab dinner and drinks with some of Genevieve’s friends in the meantime. Yves will probably be home late. They won’t see each other for the entire day—at least, until he gets back from dinner some time in the late evening.

Everything for the wedding is ready. His suit jacket is ironed, his shoes polished; his speech has been written for weeks and rehearsed first alone, and then in front of Leon and Victoire, who’d told him how to make it funnier (Leon) and more concise (Victoire). Two days from today, Aimee and Genevieve will be married.

All he has to do, now, is just see it through.

—

Yves wakes up coughing.

He feels distinctly wrong. His head is throbbing. His limbs feel strangely leaden, like they’re weighing him down, like it’d be a considerable inconvenience to move them—he isn’t sure if he’d be able to sit up properly.

He presses a hand to his forehead, in an attempt to gauge whether he’s running a fever. It’s no use—his hand is warm and clammy. He can’t tell.

Fuck. This is not good.

One wrong breath leaves him coughing, harshly enough that the coughs seem to reverberate through his frame. His throat burns. He reaches blindly through the dark in an attempt to find one of the waters he’d bought yesterday night, at the convenience store. Had he left a bottle on the nightstand? Or had he gotten rid of the one he’d drunk from last night? His breath hitches, so sharply that he has practically no hope of holding back.

“Hhehh’YISHh-CHHiew! hhHEHH’iIDTSSHh-iiEW!”

The sneezes tear through him with little warning, leaving him flushed and shivering. It’s not warm enough in the living room. He doesn’t know if it’s the air conditioning in the room, or the relative thinness of the blanket he’s under, or if perhaps the window is open just a crack, or if perhaps he just hasn’t been moving enough to get warm. He’s not sure he could pinpoint the cause if he tried.

The only thing that seems evident to him, now, is that he feels immediately, uncomfortably cold. He could get out of bed and look for something to wear—he hadn’t packed any thick jackets, because Provence in March isn’t especially cold, but even one of the dress jackets would be better than nothing, so long as it’s one of the ones which can withstand getting a little wrinkled.

But when he sits up—or, rather, when he attempts to sit up—he feels the world tilt, uncomfortably. He braces himself on the frame of the couch, propping himself up with one arm up on the armrest.

He definitely has a fever, even if there’s no way for him to verify that right now. Otherwise, it would be strange for him to feel so cold. Even now, only half-vertical, he finds himself shivering so hard he can barely move the blanket back up to sit comfortably around his shoulders.

One wrong breath sends a painful twinge down his throat, and he finds himself coughing, gripping the armrest tightly to keep himself upright. He should get out of bed. He should find water, put on a jacket, make an attempt to get back to sleep.

For now, all he can do is muffle the coughs as best he can into a cupped hand. His chest aches with every cough. Every breath he takes in feels like it only manages to irritate his lungs further.

Through the haze of his exhaustion, he thinks he hears footsteps. The knowledge that he’s keeping Vincent up is the last thing he needs, right now.

Through the crack under the doorframe, he can see the line of light from the hallway, which is lit even at night. Maybe if he’s going to be up anyways, he should spend the night out in the hallway—at the very least, he’ll be a little quieter out there.

Someone presses a bottle of water into his hands.

“Drink,” Vincent says. “It’s uncapped.”

Yves brings the water to his lips and takes a short, tentative sip, and then another. His throat is sorer than it had been yesterday—the water burns against the back of his throat as he swallows.

Vincent steps past him, past the edge of the couch, to do—something. Yves doesn’t know what. He hears a click, and the lamp on the cabinet by the sofa flickers on, floods the living room with dim yellow light. Vincent regards him carefully, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” Yves says. The next breath he takes in exacerbates the tickle at the back of his throat, and he twists away, muffling cough after cough into a tightly cupped hand. “I didn’t mbean to wake you.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. He looks… upset, somehow, though the light is dim enough that his expression is hard to make out. Yves tries to think of what else he should say, but his head feels heavy.

He tries to re-cap the bottle of water, though his hands are shaky enough to make it a little difficult. Vincent takes the bottle from him and screws the cap tight in one fluid motion. Yves tries and fails to think of something to joke about.

Vincent presses a hand to his forehead. His hand is comfortingly warm, and a little calloused. It’s strange, how good it feels to be touched—he knows and knows well that it means nothing, but the gentle press of Vincent’s fingers to his skin—when he’s spent the past few days trying to keep his distance from everyone—is strangely comforting. Yves leans into the contact, despite all logic.

Vincent pulls away, too soon. “You’re—”

“Warm?” Yves finishes for him.

“Feverish,” Vincent clarifies, with a frown. “Did you already know that?”

“I had a hunch,” Yves answers, honestly.

Vincent just stares at him, for a moment, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. Yves repositions the blankets over his shoulders, a little self-conscious. “It’s fide. I’ll take something for it,” Yves says. “You should go back to sleep.”

“We slept early,” Vincent says. “I’m not tired.”

“What time is it?”

Vincent glances at his watch. “5:34.”

“That’s still early enough that you should be asleep.” Yves sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. His head hurts, and there’s a prickle in his nose again. “Sorry. I can be quieter.”

His breath hitches. In a frantic attempt to keep his promise, he lifts the blanket to his face and stifles—or, rather, attempts to stifle—the sneeze into the fabric.

“hh—! hhEHH’NGKTSHCH-iiew!”

It’s still not very quiet, despite his best efforts, and the attempt to stifle leaves him coughing a little. It’s a good thing they’re not sharing a bed, he thinks. He hasn’t exactly been careful about keeping this illness to himself.

“Bless you,” Vincent says, rising to his feet. He ducks into the bedroom, only to be back a moment later with a box of tissues, which he tucks into the crook between the pullout bed and the sofa armrests, conveniently in reach. “Was it like this last night?”

“What?”

“Were you unable to sleep last night?”

It’s not an accusation, but Yves freezes at the question, nonetheless. For a moment, he worries—that Vincent knows precisely how little sleep he’s gotten since they landed in France. That Vincent was awake last night—or worse, that Yves was the one who kept him up—which is why he’s asking this question now.

But if he knew, wouldn’t he have said something about it yesterday?

“I slept fine,” Yves says.

There’s a cold breeze coming in from somewhere—from the hallway, or from one of the air conditioning vents, he can’t say. Yves tries his best to suppress a shiver. He can tell, by the change to Vincent’s expression—the way Vincent’s eyes linger on him a little too long—that he doesn’t do it well enough.

“You should really have taken the bed,” Vincent says, with a sigh. “It’s warmer.”

“It’s warm here too,” Yves says. There probably wouldn’t even be a problem if he weren’t feverish—it’s just the relative temperature difference that’s making him shiver. “Are you goidg to stop interrogating me ndow?”

“If you stop giving me reasons to be worried,” Vincent says plainly, “Then I will.”

Yves sighs. He’s cold, and exhausted, and he wants this argument to be over. He doesn’t want to have to justify all of this to Vincent, who should be enjoying this vacation instead of worrying about Yves and whatever cold-slash-flu he’s managed to pick up this time. “This is not the first time I’ve been under the weather,” he says. “I—” he veers away to face the opposite direction from Vincent, pulls the blanket up to cover his face. “hHeh-!-hHEHh‘nGKTTSHH-iiIEw!”

“Bless you.”

“—I kdow what I’m doing, snf. I don't even feel that—hh… hHheh'iiDDZZCHH-iIIEW!” The sneeze comes on too quickly for him to stifle. “—that udwell,” he finishes, sniffling, though that’s not entirely truthful. He lifts an elbow to muffle a few coughs into it, blinking through the tears that are surfacing, irritatingly, in his vision.

“So you’ve said,” Vincent says.

“Yes,” Yves says. “You can trust me on this.”

Vincent looks at him for a moment. For a moment, Yves waits for him to refute this, waits for him to point out just how unprepared he is, just how little of a plan he has aside from sticking this out until he has the chance to crash and burn.

“What do you need?” he says, instead.

Yves blinks at him. It’s not the question he expects Vincent to ask.

“Nothidg,” he says, honestly. “Seriously. It’s just a cold. I’ll take somethidg for it when I wake up.”

“Cold medicine?” To Yves’s nod, Vincent says, “I can get it for you, if you want.”

“No need. I’ll probably just — hhEhh-! HhEHh’IITShh-iiEW! Ugh… I’ll pick somethidg up from the codvenience store on the way to breakfast.”

Vincent turns aside to muffle a yawn into a cupped hand. Yves is unpleasantly reminded that he’s probably the sole reason why Vincent is awake right now.

“You should sleep, seriously,” Yves says, insistent. “Maybe you’ll be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before sunrise. I’ll be okay.”

Vincent blinks at him. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Vincent says, softly.

Then he stands, sets the bottle of water on the cabinet by the sofa, switches off the lamp, and heads back into the bedroom. Yves listens as his footsteps recede. His sinuses are starting to feel like they’re slightly waterlogged, and the pressure from behind his eyelids is back, throbbing.

The tickle in his nose heightens, momentarily, and he finds himself muffling another set of sneezes into the bedsheets. He desperately hopes it’s quiet enough to not be disruptive. It’s hard to be fully quiet when whatever he has leaves him sneezing so forcefully, but he’s determined to try.

The coughing fit that follows leaves his throat feeling like it’s been nearly scraped raw. He clears his throat quietly, though that hurts, too. He takes another small sip of the water, though it goes down his throat with such difficulty he finds himself coughing again.

Two more days. He just has to make it through. He’ll grab a pack of cold and flu medication from the convenience store downstairs—the kind that’s supposed to smother all the symptoms—and then he’ll be good as new, he’s sure.

Yves shuts his eyes, turns to the side, and tries his best to get comfortable. He’ll be less disruptive if he’s asleep. It’s just getting there that’s the problem. He’s exhausted—that fact only seems to become more evident the longer he stays awake—but every time he finds himself drifting off, he’s jolted awake by another untimely sneeze which wrenches him back into consciousness.

In college, whenever he was up unreasonably late for some reason, Erika used to tell him to Stop worrying, Yves, I can hear you overthinking from the other side of the room. Ask anyone else and they’d say that Yves has his life reasonably put together—being the eldest of three does that to you. He’d spent his formative years growing up trying to be the sort of person Leon and Victoire could lean on—the kind of person impervious to the sorts of stressful situations he’d gotten regularly thrown into—and for the most part, it’d worked.

He’d learned, early on, that it is not really that difficult to keep things from people. He likes to think of himself as reliable, even if that means that whenever something does come up—something that feels frustrating and insurmountable—it doesn’t really hurt any less when he goes through it privately.

Erika had always been good at seeing through his bullshit. It was one of the things he liked about her—that he could lean on her if he needed to, without worrying that it’d take its toll on her. That she’d take a look at his problems, which always felt so all-consuming in the moment, and make them seem simple and solvable and almost trivial.

It’s hard not to miss her, now, when he’s alone in the dark, devoid of any and all distractions. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was just having someone he didn’t have to hide from.

Yves wonders, faintly, what Vincent would’ve said if he were more honest with him. He and Vincent aren’t actually dating, but he thinks maybe Vincent would understand. He thinks that they’ve been getting along well, as of late—he might even consider them friends.

But then again, hasn’t Vincent agreed to do all of this—lying to Yves’s friends and family, falsifying their relationship, letting Yves drag him from one celebration to the next—because it’s easy? Because he is willing to tolerate going to a party, or a housewarming, or a wedding, where there are no strings attached, when after the night is over he can drop the act cleanly?

It’s a lie that they’re telling, but it’s a self contained one. The moment they step foot out of whatever event they’re attending, there’s nothing left to pretend. Yves can go back to living his own life, and Vincent can go back to living his. Would Vincent really have agreed to do any of this if that weren’t the case?

It’s going to be fine, Erika would have said. Just breathe. She’s not around to tell him this, now, but he still tries.

The medicine will be enough to get him through today, and the day after. It has to be.

—

When Yves falls asleep, it’s the kind of restless sleep that sits somewhere in between unconsciousness and wakefulness. He dreams in fragments of scenes—him at Aimee and Genevieve’s wedding, the details hazy and illogical and unusually bright, the weddings he’d been to in the past all superimposed into one.

When he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, it’s to a pounding headache and what he’s certain must be a fever. He can’t seem to stop shivering. It’s already bright out—the curtains in the bedroom are pulled shut, but light streams in from the sliver of space between them.

He feels too cold and somehow entirely devoid of energy, though he doesn’t remember doing anything particularly tiring. Sitting up makes the throbbing pain in his head sharpen, so painfully that he has to grip the side of the couch to steady himself, blinking against the dizziness. If Aimee saw him right now, he thinks, she’d send him straight home—he’s in no state to attend a wedding, and he’s not sure if he’s in any state to pretend that’s not the case.

He breath hitches. He raises an arm to shield his face, habitually, even though there’s no one here to witness—

“hhEhh-’iZZSSHH’Iew!” The singular sneeze is, unfortunately, far from relieving. The tickle in his nose is irritatingly persistent, even when he reaches up to rub his nose, which is starting to run. “Hh-! hhEH-!! HEHh-’IDDZSCHh-yYew! hHEHH’iDDSCHh-iEWW!hhEhH-! H‘IIDzZCH-YIIIEEew! Ugh…” The sneezes scrape unpleasant against his already-sore throat, leaving him hunched over as he muffles cough after cough into his arm.

There’s a small packet of cold medicine on his bedside, along with an uncapped bottle of water, and Vincent is nowhere to be found. The medication is a relief. It’s strangely thoughtful—a part of him is a little worried that Vincent’s only gotten this for him out of a sense of obligation—but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless.

It’s exactly what he needs. Surely if he takes something for this, his symptoms will be, at the very least, tolerable enough for him to function as usual.

He picks up the packet, squints down at the instructions. The text is inconveniently small, and he’s always been better at speaking French than he is at reading it, but he gets it eventually. It’s supposed to last six hours. If he times this right, he can take a dose that will last him until the end of the rehearsal dinner tonight, and then—if he’s not feeling better by tomorrow—take another before the wedding starts.

It will be fine. He uncaps the bottle by the cabinet, downs two pills, squeezes his eyes shut, and sits there for a minute, forces himself to breathe, waits for the uncomfortable pressure in his temples to subside.

Then he shoots off a quick text—

Y: thanks for the cold meds :)

Y: sorry i essentially left you with some strangers (again)

Y: this seems to be a theme for me huh

Vincent texts him back just a few minutes later:

V: No problem. I hope you feel better soon

V: Leon and Victoire invited me out for lunch

Yves blinks. That’s a little surprising. But come to think about it, Vincent’s plans with Genevieve’s friends aren’t until dinner time, so it makes sense that he’s out doing something else.

His second thought is: he is definitely in for an earful from both Leon and Victoire.

Y: jealous! have fun!

His phone buzzes not long later with Vincent’s response.

V: I considered waking you, but I figured you could use the sleep

V: Do you want me to bring anything back?

Sure enough, when he checks his unread texts, Leon has texted him, are u alive????? And then, a few minutes later, ur sick? dude worst fucking timing ever 😦, to which Yves types back, thanks for your glowing reassurance

Victoire has sent him, vincent told me you’re sick :((( and, feel better soon (preferably before 3pm tomorrow!!), to which Yves says, thanks, fwding this to my body. hope it gets the message ✌️

Then he sends back to Vincent:

Y: i’m good, but thanks for asking! enjoy lunch

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that, which means that he’s probably busy. Yves makes a note to thank him in person later. And again, much later—when all of this is over.

He just has to get the next day and a half to go according to plan.

—

The wedding rehearsal is mercifully uneventful. They walk twice through the processional, and then twice through the recessional. Yves picks a seat near one of the back rows, shivers through thirty minutes of run throughs, and tries to cough as discreetly as he can. He stifles every sneeze into a vague approximation of silence—he’s never been good at stifling—and does his best to ignore the mounting congestion in his sinuses, the persistent ache behind his temples.

It's easy enough to ignore all of those things in his excitement. He’s happy to be back—here, in France, surrounded by his whole extended family A part of this still feels unreal to him. He’s really here, in a place that feels familiar and simultaneously so novel, to watch someone who’s influenced him so fundamentally get married.

They’re all dressed for the spring weather. For the wedding rehearsal, Yves picked out a gray blazer over a dress shirt, chinos, and dress shoes. It’s not quite as formal as what he’s planning to wear tomorrow—the shoes are the only item he’s planning to rewear—but he finds himself distinctly grateful for the blazer jacket when the wind threads through the trees, knocking his tie slightly out of alignment.

It’s not unusually cold out—this would probably be considered temperate weather here, in March—but the wind is cold enough to offset the otherwise agreeable temperature.

The cold medicine helps, too—it keeps him feeling well enough to stay upright, which is already an accomplishment. He’s congested—his sinuses hurt a little, like everything’s a little waterlogged—but at least he isn’t sneezing as much as he was last night. His head still feels heavy, but the pain is a little duller, a little more muted; he’s tired, but he thinks right now he could stay awake on pure adrenaline alone.

“Dude, you sound awful,” Leon says, after the rehearsal ends.

“Thadks,” Yves says, muffling a fit of coughs into his elbow. “You always kdow just how to flatter me.”

Leon looks him over with a frown. “Are you sure you’re good for tomorrow?”

Yves doesn’t know. “Let’s hope so,” he says. “I don’t have any contingedcy plans for if I’m not.”

“I’m sure Aimee would understand if you told her.”

“I’m sure she would.” Yves looks over to where Aimee’s standing—she’s in the middle of a conversation with Yves’s parents and some of the adults on Genevieve’s side of the family. He’s too far to make out what she’s talking about, but she looks happy—she’s gesturing animatedly, her eyes bright. Every so often, he sees her flash a smile at Genevieve, as if to make sure Genevieve is following along.

Leon seems to understand that Yves has no intention of telling either of them, because he sighs. Yves changes the subject before he can say anything. “How was ludch with Vincent?”

“I like him,” Leon says, brightening at the question. “He’s surprisingly pretty funny. I hope you guys stay together.”

“Just because he’s funny?”

“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” Leon says, grinning. “But you work with him, right? If he’s a nice person while he’s looking at like, tax forms, or whatever, he’s probably a great person when he’s doing anything else.”

“Yves! Leon!” someone waves them over. When Yves turns, he sees it’s Roy, one of his younger cousins from his dad’s side of the family. “Pictures!”

“Coming,” Leon shouts back.

Yves has no idea why there are pictures happening today when the wedding is tomorrow, but he fixes his tie hastily and heads over to join them both.

—

When dinner rolls around, Yves finds he has no appetite, but he eats what he can and spends the rest of the time making conversation with some of his aunts and uncles. He’s always found this kind of small talk to be more enjoyable than it is tedious. They ask about his job, about his workload, about life in the states, about his parents, about Vincent—all things that he knows intimately, and has no problem speaking on. He thinks that speaking in French makes him a little more deliberate with his answers, partially because he has to spend some time formulating the sentences when they get more complicated, and he likes that, too. It has all the camaraderie of a family gathering—warm and crowded, welcoming, a little chaotic.

He finds Genevieve after dinner, sitting out on the steps.

“Hey,” he says, in French. She looks up, and he motions to the steps beside her. “Do you want some time alone before you get swamped with codgratulations tomorrow, or can I crash your alone time early?”

She smiles up at him. “You can sit here,” she says.

He takes a seat on the steps—a few feet away from her, because he doesn’t want to risk passing whatever he has onto her. He doesn’t know Genevieve very well. He knows her best through Aimee—through the stories Aimee has told about her, through the way Aimee’s entire disposition seems to change around her—but he’s exchanged very few words with her outside of that, all over the summer during their yearly family reunions in France. His extended family is large enough and the family reunions hectic enough that he can probably count the number of conversations he’s had with her in person on one hand.

“So,” he says. “How are you feelidg before the big day?”

“Do you want the good answer, or the honest answer?”

“The honest one,” Yves says. “hit me with it.”

For a moment, Genevieve doesn’t say anything. Yves zips his jacket up a little higher, just to have something to do. Genevieve pulls her legs in towards her chest.

“I’m terrified,” she says.

“You think somethidg might go wrong?” Yves asks, surprised. “You guys have planned this all out so thoroughly.”

“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s more like—this is probably going to be one of the most important things I’ve ever done,” she says. “You know, when something is really important to you, so it’s just that much more crucial that you don’t mess it up?”

“You’re the bride,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I don’t think you can mess up. Unless you like, hheh-! hHheh… HEH’IIDZschH-YIEEW! snf-! Unless you get cold feet and say no when you’re supposed to be saying your vows. I wod’t forgive you if you do that, by the way.”

She laughs. “God, no. I’d never do that. It’s just—there’s all this perceived… I don’t know. Like, fragility around the moment. Like you’re just waiting for the moment to crystallize, and once it sets, it will be like that forever, so you have to make sure that it crystallizes right.”

“I’m guessing you’re ndot a fan of, like, pottery,” Yves says. He tries thinking about what other kinds of art carry the same lack of tolerance for backwards revision. “Or sculpting.”

“I haven’t tried either of those things,” she says. “Though I would probably be bad at them.”

Yves looks off into the distance, towards the countryside, the rows of verdant green hills which unfurl before them, the white cobblestone paths, the houses lining the winding roads all the way to the horizon.

“I think you don’t have to be so concerned about what it’s supposed to be,” he says. “You can give yourself permission to just—live it. Enjoy it, free of expectations. Who cares what you think about it after, right,” he says. “You’ll have a ring on your left hand. That’s good enough to offset any—well, awkwardness, or clumsiness, or anything, because as the bride, you are sort of incapable of doing anything wrong, by default.”

“I guess,” Genevieve says.

“It’d be a disservice to Aimee if you spent the wedding worrying about how to get things right idstead of like, just living,” Yves says, turning to face her. “What’s the worst that could happen? Like, you spill your drink during the wedding toast, or your mascara smears a little, or you trip on your wedding gown and you have to be helped up by the woman you love most? I think that almost makes it more romantic,” he says. “Because however the moment crystallizes, it’ll be you.”

“Did you learn all of this through pottery and sculpting?” Genevieve asks, wiping at her eyes. She looks a little better than before—she’s sitting up straighter, and the tension in her shoulders is less pronounced.

Yves grins at her. “I have a younger brother and a younger sister,” he says. He clears his throat again, though it doesn’t really do a good job at making his voice sound less hoarse. “It’s exactly as bad as you think it is. I have to be the one to talk them out of their stage fright like, all the time.”

Genevieve laughs. “It must be lively,” she says. “Your whole family is very accommodating.”

“They’re certaidly a handful,” Yves says, with a laugh that tapers off into a short cough. “I love them to death. And I’ll be happy to have you as part of them.”

She smiles at him. The evening light strikes the windblown strands of her hair gold. “Thanks for this.”

“Yeah,” he says. “No problem.”

They sit for awhile in silence. Yves crosses his arms in an attempt to conserve warmth and tries his best not to shiver too visibly.

“How did you kdow it was her?” he asks—a sudden, impulsive question.

As soon as he says it, he feels the urge to take it back. Genevieve is already stressed out enough about the wedding without him asking her difficult, abstract questions the day before the ceremony. He opens his mouth to apologize.

“There was never any doubt,” she says.

When he looks over at her, her expression looks a little wistful.

“Like, one day I woke up and I realized that whatever future I imagined for myself—in Marseille, or elsewhere; as a copywriter, or a journalist, or a director, or something entirely different—she would always be there.” Yves understands that—back when he’d been dating Erika, he’d felt like that too. That she was going to be the last person he’d ever date. That there was no conceivable future for him that didn’t involve her.

“Those kinds of revelations would come at the most insignificant of times,” Genevieve says. “I’d look over her halfway through morning coffee, or I’d watch her pick groceries from the aisle, or I’d watch her fiddle with the radio as she drove, and then it would strike me.”

“That you wanted to be with her?”

“That I was happy.” Genevieve tilts her head back to face the setting sun. “I’m really happy. It sounds like such a simple thing, and it is, but even a few years ago I’m not sure if I could’ve told you that that was true. And I think that finding someone who makes you feel that way—like they’d guard your happiness under any circumstance—is really something special.”

“You were the one who proposed to her,” he says. He remembers Aimee texting him about it, the night after it’d happened, remembers how he’d excused himself from dinner somewhere or other, ducked out of the room to get on call with her. She’d sobbed recounting it, the engagement ring on her finger.

“I was,” Genevieve says. She smiles. “I knew that if I gave up this chance I’d be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life.”

—

When he gets back from dinner at last, it’s late.

The cold/flu medicine he took from earlier is starting to wear off. His whole body aches—spending the evening outside in the cold probably didn’t help with that—and even in the relative warmth of the hotel room, he finds that he can’t stop himself from shivering.

He takes a hot shower, which feels pleasantly indulgent in the moment, but not long after he shuts off the water, he finds himself shivering again. The absence of the hot water makes him a little dizzy—he finds himself gripping the tiled wall, pausing for a moment behind the shower curtain to catch his balance.

His head really hurts. It’s the kind of sharp, throbbing pain that makes him all too aware of his heartbeat. He gets changed, towels his hair dry, and steps out of the bathroom.

Vincent is sitting on the bed, reading something. He must’ve gotten back at some point while Yves was showering. At the sound of the door, he puts the book down and looks up.

“How was the wedding rehearsal?” he asks.

“Great,” Yves says. He clears his throat, but clearing his throat irritates his throat enough that he has to muffle a few coughs into his elbow. “How was dinner with Genevieve’s friends?”

“They were very nice,” Vincent says.

“Ndicer than my friends in New York?”

“I felt less like I was being evaluated,” Vincent says, with a smile. “But if they were to express their disapproval of me in French, I would be none the wiser.”

Yves laughs. “I’mb sure that even if you learned the ladguage in full, you wouldn’t hear any disapproval from them.” He takes a seat on the couch, if only because he can’t quite trust his legs to keep him upright for the entire course of the conversation. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Lots of things. Life in France,” he says. “Life in the states. Individual freedom and the formal institution of marriage.”

“Do you believe in mbarriage?”

Vincent looks at him. “I think I believe in it just as much as everyone else does,” he says. Then, after a moment: “It worked out for my parents.”

“The busidess competition proved to be a good edough reason?”

Vincent traces a finger down the spine of the book, over the gold lettering. His shoulders settle. “They weren’t in love when they got married,” he says. Hearing him state it so plainly comes as a surprise to Yves. “Strictly speaking, I’m not sure if they ever were in love. But I think they came to love each other eventually.”

“What about you?” Yves asks. “Do you think you’ll fall in love someday?”

“Is that really something I’d choose?” Vincent says. “It either happens or it doesn’t.”

“Sure, but there are plenty of ways you can seek out love actively.”

“If I found something worth pursuing, I’d go after it,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “That’s very like you.” he wonders what kind of person Vincent might be drawn to enough to see as worth pursuing. Wonders if, after all of this is over, he’ll even be in Vincent’s life for long enough to know.

His head hurts. The slight prickle of irritation in his sinuses is already tiringly familiar.

“hHEh… HeHh’IIDZSCH-yyiEW!” The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist, messy and spraying. He reaches for the tissue box Vincent left him this morning, still nestled into the crook of the couch, and grabs a generous handful of tissues. “Hh… hehh-HEh-HhehHh’IIzSSCH-iEEw! Hh…. HEHh’DJSCCHh-IEew!”

The sneezes leave him coughing, afterwards. His throat feels raw and tender—he raises the tissues back up to his face to blow his nose.

“You sound worse than you did last night,” Vincent says, with a frown.

Yves opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself coughing again. He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to be seen when he’s like this by someone who’s usually so well put together. “I’b a little prone to losidg my voice when I’m sick,” he admits. “It’s pretty incodvedient.”

“I’m probably not making it any better by talking to you,” Vincent says. That might be true—Yves is half sure that any time he does lose his voice, it’s because he typically makes no effort to converse any less than usual—but Yves likes talking to Vincent. Besides, they haven’t talked all day.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but then Vincent asks: “How are you feeling?”

“Good as new,” Yves says. When Vincent raises an eyebrow, at that, he amends: “Good enough for tomorrow, at least. The ceremony doesn’t start until three, but I’ll probably be up earlier to see if there’s anything else Aimee and Genevieve ndeed help with.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “If anything comes up, I can help.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.”

“I can handle it on my own. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I— hHHEh’IDJZSCHh-yyEW! snf-! I’mb really fine. I swear.”

“Yves—”

“I’ve done this before,” he insists, which is true, too—he’s certainly been through worse. It would be wrong to put himself first, to take things easy when he might be needed still. “It doesn’t have to be your problem.”

For a moment, there’s something there, to Vincent’s expression—a flash of something that looks suspiciously close to hurt. Then it’s gone. When he blinks, Vincent’s expression is carefully neutral, as usual. He wonders if he’d imagined it.

“Okay,” he says. He sets the book gingerly on the bedside counter, and pulls the cord on the lamp. Darkness engulfs the bedroom. “You should sleep soon, if you’re able to.” A pause. The rustling of sheets. “Goodnight.” Yves wants to say something. He has a feeling that he’s messed things up, somehow, though he’s not entirely sure how.

But what can he say? He just—he just wants, desperately, for all of this to be okay. He wants the wedding to go just as planned, wants to be as present and as reliable as Aimee deserves for him to be. All of that responsibility falls on him and him alone, doesn’t it?

“Goodnight,” Yves says, instead.

[ Part 4 ]

#sneeze fic #snz fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snzfic #this chapter turned out to be kind of personal to me in some ways?#i am so sorry if it feels uneventful 😭#i have done so much googling on so many things that did not make it in (and a few that made it in only peripherally)#work is killing me and i am stressed out of my mind so i am posting this before i get swept away and am unable to edit for a week #next chapter will be the wedding for real!#and i will be mean for real when i get to writing it 🙇‍♀️#yvverse #my fic #thank you to anyone who has left nice tags/comments on previous parts :') it's hard to express the full extent of my gratitude but #thank you for making my life a little happier

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r0ckgoblin · 1 year

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Would that I- bella ramsey xreader

“true that i saw her hair like the branch of a tree”

summary: bella is a person of many trades, your favorites just so happen to be when they play guitar and sing. you have always admired this about her, as any friend would. b/c you and bella have always been supportive of each other’s interest, they always come to you first when he’s written a song or learned a new one. why would this time be any different?

a/n: idk how to write summaries… but anyways enjoy:) (p.s. hc wise, i think they listen to hozier…yea she definitely does)

warnings: unproper grammar(maybe) how i've passed all my lit classes i will never know. probably not fully proofread, i miss the smallest things smh

*all pronouns for bella used*

you wiggle the key into the stubborn door of bella’s apartment, eventually winning the fight against it. opening the door you’re met with the sound of guitar strings being plucked and you smile softly. setting your bag on the kitchen counter you begin wandering around looking for your best friend.

“hey bels?” you call out.

“in here” he says from the sunroom.

you laugh softly grabbing a small throw blanket from the couch.

"hi" you smile, bending down to hug her, finding it a little difficult due to the guitar in their lap. the smell of old spice wonderfully clouds your sense of smell as they reach up to hug you back. the two of you gently sway for a few seconds before you pull back to adjust yourself next to him on the small couch, covering your legs with the blanket.

"how was your day?" he asks smiling over at you.

"it was good, slow, it was just a lot of cleaning up some scenes" you exhale recalling your most recent project, a movie you had been working on for the last few months, one only the people a part of it and the people closes to you knew about. acting was stressful sometimes, but the final project was always worth it, and that's something you and bella could both agree on.

"those days are inevitable, but i believe in you." they say as the lean back to rest their head on your shoulder. this caused you to blush a light pink color, luckily, he couldn't see your face at the moment. you didn't know what it was but lately you've been feeling certain ways about your best friend, and you were scared you wouldn't be able to hide those feelings for much longer. the only thing stopping you was the incessant fear of losing her friendship if they didn't feel the same way.

after moments of peaceful silence bella breaks it be jolting up excitedly. "oh! i learned a new song!"

"really? show me!'' you smiled mirroring her excitement. for as long as you've known bella your favorite thing about them has been her ability to play guitar and sing. they were so good at it, and it seemed to be a big passion of his as well.

"of course! you're going to love it, it's a hozier song" they beam at you holding eye contact waiting for your reaction, which didn't take long because you immediately grinned so big.

" you learned another one? which one?!" you question with giddy.

"you'll have to guess."

"c'mon that's no fun" you whine putting on a fake frown.

"you'll live" she jokes.

"okay, fine go." you pout resulting in a laugh from her.

she plucks some cords before playing, listening to them intently. you just stare at him in awe. before you know it, you're hearing the first notes of hozier's "would that i". you gasp in amazement, and they let a small laugh leave their mouth, somehow without losing focus. as if it couldn't get any better, he also starts singing the words along with the music.

you feel your eyes water, you have no idea why that would be happening. was it the emotional toll of being in love with your best friend, someone who you've watched grow into a beautiful and talented human being? the fear that if you were to express how you feel, it could all turn against you, and you lose the one person who means the most in the world to you? or maybe it's just because the song is so beautiful? its defiantly the song.

you got so lost listening to his voice and the way the sun setting through the window made their skin glow and made his hair shine like honey. shit you were head over heels.

by down you had drowned out her voice due to your staring that you didn't even realize they had finished. not until they're talking directly at you. you blush a little realizing you 100% got caught staring.

"so what do you think?" she ask not making eye contact.

"i loved it," you smiled,

"thank you so much." he grins, and you swear you see faint pink on their cheeks.

"i, um-", you go to say something, but you stop yourself.

"what was that?''

"i uh... i should get back to my hotel.''

"just stay here'' she says but its more of a begging question.

"no, i can't, ive got an early morning and we both know i'm not quiet in the mornings, i wouldn't want to wake you that early.'' you try and lie.

"y/n please'' he begs, grabbing your hand giving you those big brown puppy eyes.

"i'm sorry.'' you shake your head.

they tug you closer, your chests touching. they stare you in the eyes, you notice her give a quick glance to your lips. you in return look to theirs.

"there's something uh... i've mean meaning to tell you," they exhale nervously, "and i really need to get it off my chest. this um..." they swallow hard, "this is harder than i thought."

"shut up" you say with a fake serious tone.

"what i haven't even gotten to what i wanted to say." they knit their eyebrows in confusion.

"you don't have to, if it's what i think it is, i already know," you smile, "because i want to tell you the same thing."

"y/n-"

"i like you, like REALLY like you okay!"

"i-" they were speechless. you two just stared back at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

"i like you two, like reeaallyy like you." they smile wide.

you smile and release a breath of relief, resting your forehead on theirs. you two stay like that giggling back and forth.

"can i kiss you?" they speak up.

"of course." you smile.

she then softly presses their lips to yours, grabbing your face, she deepens the kiss making it more passionate but soft. his hands travel to your hair gently brushing it while your hands find the small of their back caressing softly. this goes on until your both pulling away for air, laughing breathlessly.

"so... stay the night?"

you laugh hugging them as they spin you around like something out of a movie.

the rest of the night you spend cuddled on the couch watching your favorite movies until you're both passed out in each other's arms.

a/n: AAAAHHH LETS GOOOO!!!! so BAHAHAAHAH this took longer than i wanted and it's not even as long as i wanted it:( anyways here it is, i hope you really enjoy it. there will hopefully be more in the future:) feel free to request, also let me know if my replies are off bc i clicked on one of my post and it says my comments are turned off??? idk, but my asks should be on:) love you! have a great day/night!🫶

#bella ramsey #bella ramsey fic #the last of us #the last of us hbo #bella ramsey x reader

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jlfletcher · 3 months

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All I Really Want Is You

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: bullet wounds, mentions of potential death (no one dies, just a small injury during a mission). This is told in 3rd person limited POV (of Miguel, mostly?). One-sided kind of. Reader can speak Spanish (is that considered a warning?).

Summary: This is how it all began for Miguel. From mere coincidence to something more. (Fluff/Romance)

Excerpt: "He realizes something and it’s arguable in his mind... Out of all the Spiders, you’re the anomaly."

A/N: This narrative is actually repurposed from my friend's spidersona story. It didn't have any romance in it originally but my version does and the more I wrote, the more it diverged from their initial story. They said they liked this version and gave me the go ahead to post it because they'll probably never share their's anyway.

Special thank you to my friend who edited this thing. I'm grateful that they were able to help me turn my messy notes and ramblings in a cohesive story.

I get really inspired by music. So, if I do continue to publish installments of this story, they'll most likely be written with songs included.

Also, I'm sorry if there are any mistakes. I've never had to format such a long post like this on here before.

Word Count: 13.9k (This is a slow burn)

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Breakdown

I'm overworking 'til the sundown

Don't see the light inside my head now

There’s a faint buzzing sound that fills Miguel’s workspace. His eyes are a bit bloodshot and itchy from his lack of blinking. He’s grown irritated by now after hours of surveillance and Lyla badgering him to just take a break already. He keeps swatting her away with languid flicks of his wrist while sighing and rubbing his temple. There’s an ache in his head that’s dull yet ever-present but he feels like rest will not come to him anytime soon. He also remembered that he wanted to run diagnostics on a few of his lab’s systems that would ultimately take a while. The testing is usually run automatically but he’s disabled the scheduled maintenance cycle in order to have tasks to do when he's restless like now. Unfortunately for Miguel’s overactive mind, things have mellowed out in the multiverse for the time being. He's been trying to fill his time as he waits for something, anything to happen. It's caused him to grow a bit on edge as of late. Yes, there are still plenty of anomalies to be dealt with but he’s found the late hours to have grown more quiet. It seems that the uncharacteristic silence has planted an eerie feeling in him that he just can’t shake. What if the moment he steps away, something arises? Lyla calls him paranoid but truthfully, he can’t take the risk of complacency.

Eventually, he plops into his chair and prepares to stare at the monitors for another who knows how many hours. He glances over the society’s various CCTV displays in a sluggish attempt at monitoring the building. Yet, something catches his attention. His eyes zero in on a lone figure in the engineering lab. He blinks a bit slowly and scoots closer to take a better look while disregarding the buttons on the control panel in front of him that actually allows him to zoom in on the feed. The thought had completely escaped his foggy brain thanks to his chronic sleep deprivation. Languidly, his eyes flicker to the time and back up. 4:13 am.

I need to see you in my window

There’s not a doubt in Miguel’s mind about what or more accurately who it may be. It’s your form hunched over the workbench. Your signature pair of shoes gives you away entirely. Frankly, it’s not a surprise at this point. This may be the fourth or fifth time he's noticed your presence at such an unorthodox hour. You always tend to stay late at HQ because of your own odd sleeping schedule. He’s overheard you mention to Jess that your universe has a slight daytime shift compared to the others but he didn’t consider it to be by this much. This was nonetheless a preferred choice of company, albeit in an entirely different area of the building from him, because you're quiet and focus on your work. He's not entirely sure if the two of you have interacted for more than a single minute. Perhaps, that's why he prefers you over others. He's never actually spoken to you outside of very few mission assignments and reports. You've caught his eye before. At first, he noticed you were a bit too quiet. It initially caused suspicion to sew itself within his brain. However, after a brief investigation into you performed by Lyla, he concluded that it's simply the way you behave. Now, when you catch his eye he assumes it's due to how you carry yourself relative to others, professional and efficient. Despite the distance between you two, both figurative and literal in this moment, he finds himself watching you through one of the many floating windows before him. His fingers finally slither among the control panel to switch to a different camera in the lab. After flicking through a couple of feeds, the screen changes to an angle that shows your face. Perhaps he's a bit too tired in this instance because his hazy brain barely registers the way his breath hitches in his throat momentarily.

He's seen your bare face only once before and it summoned the same reaction from him. He's taken aback by how you look. It's a bit of a surprise in all honesty. You're so, for lack of a better term, different. And that's not claimed in some common colloquial way. You are literally different. Here at the society, a handful of faces are circulated between the Spiders. However, yours is unique and undoubtedly you. He's only ever come across one of you, the one that's sitting and tinkering in one of his labs. The last and only time he saw your bare face was a fleeting glance before you quickly shoved your mask back on. He assumes you're a bit shy because of it. However, now he can take his time to really analyze your features. He sees how your brows pinch in concentration and how your eyes look a bit red. Ah, it appears you haven't been blinking properly like him either. He sees how your tongue gently swipes out from your mouth before you nip at your bottom lip. Your hands work on repairing a circuit board with your eyes focused on the corrosion you wipe off. He watches you for a while as you work, finding intrigue in the way you do such mundane tasks as repairing a PCB and reassembling a gadget. Eventually, you sit up and stretch a bit, before rubbing your face in what he collects as either exhaustion or boredom. He understands the feeling, truly. Yet his eyes widen a bit as your eyes look at the camera and he finds himself perking up when he sees you smile. He then zooms out to see that you’re conversing with Lyla. Despite the quick misunderstanding, he finds himself enjoying the scene before him. You speak to her so calmly and casually. Do you often speak with her? Many thoughts start to pop up in his mind about you and your overall enigmatic behavior. Your smile triggers hyperactivity to blossom in his mind, his thoughts reeling at the way you look. Your lips pinch together softly as one side of your mouth curls a bit more than the other. Your brows raise as you speak with Lyla, your contentment is evident. He's caught up in the details of your face and it's nearly instinctual the way the corners of his lips twitch in a subconscious attempt to mirror yours.

And I whisper

All I really want is you

What would you do?

He has formed this habit of watching you in the late nights and early mornings. At first, it was mere coincidence when his eyes lingered on you, maybe even out of some sense of caution, but now he finds himself seeking you out after a month of noticing your constant presence. Lyla teased him about being a creep but he usually just replies with a grunt or the occasional snarky comment. Every night you’re working on something and his curiosity is piqued. However, it appears you work efficiently given how it seems to be a new project every few nights or so. His eyes flutter a bit as he sees Lyla appear next to you. Judging by the way you react to her arrival, it’s just for a chat. He notices how your hands rest over one another in front of you as you nod at what Lyla says, laughing and blinking softly at her. You’re polite when listening, putting down whatever you’re working on to give her your attention. The only assumption he's made from it being that you're simply kind. His eyes are attracted to the way your thumbs twiddle around one another absentmindedly. Do you often fidget like that? He tries to think back on the previous times he witnessed your hands when they were not busy, which is not a common occurrence. And as he watches you, he strokes the panel button under his own thumb subconsciously as if it were the back of your hand. He’s only managed to conclude one thing about them and it’s not about how you fidget.

He mutters to himself deeply in observation, “Pequeñas.”

He looks at your hands, pixelated by the monitor, and then down at his own much bigger ones. He ponders momentarily about just how small they truly are. He's certain that if he were to measure them, the entire length would barely reach 7 inches while his are well past 9, probably even past 10 in actuality. If you placed your palm against his, his hand would completely dwarf yours. If you placed your palm against his... what would it fit like? What would it feel like? What would you do if he held your hand? Wait… why is he thinking about that?

“But,” he mumbles softly as he watches you walk off with Lyla in tow, “I think…”

Laying in the rain with you

Middle of June

It’s been two months since he fully took notice of you that night with his full attention; the night he seen you truly as yourself for the first time. From what Lyla has mentioned, you’ve been here almost every night since you joined the society. It doesn’t bother him that he hadn’t noticed you for so long. To him, it made sense. He often found himself drowned in work. Things were hectic for a while, a long while, but luckily during these past few months, things have been relatively easy. Emergency missions in the middle of the night have been few and far between and usually required only one person to complete them which is why Miguel has been manning the fort all by his lonesome for some time now. However, the only other spider permitted to be at HQ during the overnight hours is you thanks to your completely reversed day-night schedule. The two of you have been on a handful of late night missions together throughout this time but he has yet to speak to you about anything not regarding work. It’s a bit strange if he’s being truthful. You may be the only spider that has never spoken to him casually, ever. Sure, he’s suspected you are antisocial but he hadn’t anticipated it to be by this much. You don’t stand out, you stay focused on your work, and you never talk to anyone. Well, that last one isn’t too unbelievable given the fact that you’re only ever here when everyone else isn’t. Miguel can’t help but wonder if you have ever spoken to anyone in the Society without the intention of completing your professional duties? The closest to such an instance was the one time he heard you speak to Jess which was also the first time he had ever seen you. Jess was going to introduce you to him but he was busy having an argument with Hobie. It never grew to be physical but his shouting certainly must have put you off considering he never saw you around again after that. It makes sense, truthfully, since that was your first impression of him. You must think he's always shouting, irritated, and highly intolerant of disobeying his instruction. That is what he was yelling about at the time after all. Well, that is until he noticed you lingering around the building at night. Honestly, you weren’t even a thought in his mind until Lyla sent him a debriefing of you just before Jess officially assigned you to the night shift. He was going to protest, citing that you have no meritorious experience to do so or something like that but he found out that you don’t actually bother him like everyone else. However, he’s grown very aware of your presence as of late thanks to his more unoccupied overnight schedule.

He even has time to just sit and think about anything other than the multiverse now. Usually, this spare time is occupied by observing you. He likes to sit back and watch all the tasks you do with no one around. He finds it relaxing in a way, which is something he’s grateful for. He’s discovered many things about you through this newfound hobby. You tilt your head with a small pout when you’re confused. You often have music stuck in your head which is made evident by the way you nod your head rhythmically. You rub your face with both hands when you’re tired and only one hand when you’re bored. You like to take power naps under the workbench specifically in the left corner of the lab, closest to the door. You usually wear civilian clothing around HQ at night but always wear the same shoes. You don’t like coffee. You drink tea but it has to be hot with steam billowing from the cup. You drink water more often than tea though, but only at room temperature. You crack your knuckles in 30-minute intervals when you type or tinker for long periods of time. You yawn frequently when the air-conditioner is pointed at you… The list could go on. Honestly, he’s a bit taken aback by how much knowledge he’s retained of your behavior and mannerisms. Why is that exactly? He can’t just claim outright boredom. Watching you is something he avidly chooses to do because he likes it. Bored certainly isn't the word he'd use to describe how observing you makes him feel.

“Why am I doing this?”, he mutters deeply as his eyes watch you type away on a computer. Maybe it’s like a child with an ant farm. It’s simply interesting. No, that doesn’t quite sound right. Even ‘interesting’ doesn’t truly capture how he feels watching you every night.

Soon a bright search window pops up in front of him, making him flinch aggressively. “Lyla!”, he shouts in annoyance as he rubs his stinging eyes; already knowing the culprit.

She pops up next to him with a shrug, “What? You asked a question and I’m answering it.”

He squints softly, his eyes focusing on the window presented to him. There are multiple articles listing words that make him furrow his brows. Intrigue, infatuation, sonder, escapism, comfort-watching. To Lyla’s surprise, he mulls them over but she chalks it up to his sleep deprivation. Some words stick out to him, finding himself unfamiliar with them.

“Comfort-watching.”, he states slowly as he selects the article. It explains what it is and what it stems from, denoting its connection to escapism. “The habitual diversion of the mind to purely imaginative activity or entertainment as an escape from reality or routine.”, he reads aloud, words muffled by his hand stroking his chin. Well, that didn’t make sense, watching you is his routine at this point.

He wouldn’t describe what you do as entertainment in theory and it’s certainly not imaginative. It’s just him watching how you do normal things. He softly chews his lip as he glosses over the other articles.

Lyla mimics his actions and strokes her chin, opening another article in front of her form. “Oh? This’ll be interesting.”, she thinks before speaking to Miguel, who’s now distracted by both the articles and his occasional glances at you. “Why do you like watching y/s/n?” [your spider name]

He replies with a sigh as he waves his hands around, positioning the articles around him, “That's what I’m trying to figure out, Lyla.”

“Just think for a moment. Off the top of your head, what’s one thing you like about doing this?”, she gestures to the monitor containing you. The two of them glance at you through one of the screens standing from your seat and stretching your whole body in an attempt to reduce your exhaustion.

Miguel’s inquisitive eyes soften a bit as he responds earnestly, “It’s familiar.” Lyla’s face flashes a bit in curiosity as she observes his expression. Before she can speak again, he continues, “This is calm and… warm.”

“Warm?”, Lyla asks curiously, her eyes fluttering over the chart in the article she opened. She's notated a couple of checkmarks now, in places she hadn't expected.

His eyes just can’t leave you as he thinks about what he’s said. It’s hard to put exactly into words, “I… appreciate her presence. She’s always there and it makes me feel comfortable.” There’s a strange feeling that stirs inside him upon hearing the words he formulates in response. You, a complete stranger, have somehow become a totem of routine in his eyes. Because after watching you nearly every night, you are always there working. Always. Despite the strange and unpredictable multiverse the two of you reside in, you sit in one of his labs, typing away on a computer. In a sense you’ve become the embodiment of normal.

Lyla repeats quietly but not lacking the casual tone she usually holds, “Her… Do you ever want to talk to y/s/n?”

He hums in thought before replying with an unsure shrug, “Honestly… I never even considered that. I don’t think I need to.”

Lyla glances back at the article and then back to Miguel, “But do you want to?”

His movements stall as her question hangs in the air. He takes a moment to apprehend what she’s asking. His eyes trail slowly from the articles floating around him to you on the CCTV display. You're crawling under that specific workbench in the left corner of the lab for what he knows is a power nap; he finds himself almost smiling at that. Does he want to talk to you? He ponders a situation in which he finds himself conversing with you casually. What would you talk about? He knows you like tea. Would you talk about your favorite kind? What is your favorite kind? How would you pronounce it? How do you pronounce certain words like caramel or aluminum? Maybe like aluminium? Maybe you say it differently than he does. He can imagine a light-hearted debate over phonetics, the two of you drowsy from the late night hours. Maybe you’ll tease him about the way he says it. How would you say… his name? You’ve spoken his name before on missions with a professional tone, always addressing him by his surname. It irks him a bit but he's never gotten around to informing you to just call him Miguel… How would you sound calling out to him in a tone that's amicable and familiar?

He’s broken out of his thoughts by Lyla waving her pixelated arms in front of him and a shout of his name, “Miguel!” He jolts at the sound of an alarm beeping around him. Bold words pop out in front of him, “ANOMALY DETECTED”. He hears his family name called out and straightens at the sound. That’s not Lyla's voice. He turns around to see you in your suit, tucking the hem of your mask into your collar as you trek to his platform. His hand waved behind him, minimizing the displays floating around him to hide the clues to his distraction with a single motion.

He hears you speak in a sober tone as you stand before him, “Lyla informed me that we’re both needed for this one. There’s an anomaly running around a metropolitan area on Earth-26. It travels quickly so we'll have to chase after it. Also, there doesn’t appear to be anyone to help.” He nods quickly, navigating through the multiversal map on his watch to open a portal. He nearly flinches as you gently grasp his forearm, looking up at him slowly.

“O'Hara,” you said calmly, which made him look at you curiously, “full stealth on this one. I’m uncertain how this universe would respond to… our kind.”

His lips nearly press into his natural pout under his mask as you address him by his family name but quickly absorbs what you're truly saying to him. He’s had a couple run-ins with a universe like this before and understands your concern entirely. He slowly pulls your hand from his forearm. The size difference doesn’t skip past him and makes something buzz in the back of his brain. Yet it’s subconscious, the way his fingers linger around yours before he releases them and states firmly, “Stay close to me.” You nod in understanding which he reciprocates before opening a portal. You flip open your watch and quickly calibrate your interface and send sync data to his watch to stay connected during the mission. It’s strange how ready you appear to be but it’s greatly appreciated. He hadn’t realized that he was staring before you turned towards him. You tilt your head softly and unbeknownst to you, he knows without a doubt that it’s out of curiosity. He gives you a nod, hoping it didn’t look as strange as he felt doing it. You step through the portal first and he’s quick to follow after as Lyla observes it all with an inquisitive squint.

All I really want is you

This was an uncommon feeling. You two chased after the anomaly, zipping through the sleeping city's skies quickly. Luckily, you both haven’t been spotted by anyone as you swing through the late-night drizzle. He started feeling a bit… he supposes ‘at ease’ is the best way to put it. He’s not foolish enough to grow complacent mid-mission but being on mission with you, working so seamlessly with him, made this feel easy. You’re professional, giving clear cues and staying on the same page. It’s as if you can hear what he’s thinking. Sure lego Spider-man is a good teammate but you’re a good partner.

The anomaly made its way to a rooftop with you right on its tail. You landed quickly with a soft roll before keeping low to the ground while Miguel landed behind you with a soft grunt. You crouched a bit as you tiptoed around gently, trying not to alarm the anomaly located somewhere nearby. He waits on standby, keeping a lookout for anyone who might see you two while you try to catch the small creature. You freeze as you see the silhouette of it, patting the ground with stubby limbs, seemingly ready to take flight again. That is until you squat down and pat the ground too. It looks at you and tilts its head, another action that you mimic before removing your mask. It slowly walks to its right and you gently shuffle to your left. You release a chuckle as you can see something that looks like a tail wagging. The noise meets Miguel’s ears and he turns to find you squatting and maskless. His eyes widen at the sight, fighting the hitch in his breath as he sees your h/c hair, it looks much softer in person. His eyes narrow is realization as he quickly replaces his intrigue with his usual pragmatism.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he speaks monotone, “What are you doing?”

You release a slow and soft, “Shhhh.” You then gently raise your hand, motioning him to approach you. His fingers twitch instinctively as he looks at your flopping hand and surprises himself by reaching out for it. However, his mellow emotions are doused in confusion as you tug him down quickly. He nearly falls on top of you, clearly not anticipating such sudden strength from you. Luckily, he manages to brace himself, kneeling behind you, and leaning a bit over your shoulder. He’s about to ask what the hell you’re doing when you point to the far corner of the rooftop. His eyes widen as he watches the dark creature slowly slink toward the two of you.

You breathe out quietly to Miguel, “Deactivate your mask.” He turns to you in shock despite you not looking at him. He’s about to protest before you whisper, “It needs to see your face.”

He acquiesces your command and slowly retracts his mask. The air nips at his warm face as he spies the creature tilting its head. You tilt your head too while whispering to him, “Mimic what it does.”

Miguel begins to protest but you quickly cut off his words, “Why-?”

“Just do it.” He nearly rolls his eyes at your sudden command but finds himself following suit as he tilts his head too. He watches curiously as the creature pats the ground with its left paw and you mirror it with your right hand. He grows a bit amused watching the two of you continue this little dance until it slowly crawls closer to you both. Miguel can hear your breath hitch as the creature steps into the light shining from over the door to the rooftop you all are on. It’s dark and covered with scales, with large blue eyes and bat-like wings. Your hand is still placed on the ground as the creature cautiously closes the distance between you. You cautiously turn your hand palm up, Miguel is confused by this but continues to watch nonetheless. The creature's eyes look up at you warily with tightly constricted pupils. You then turn your head, facing away from it and toward Miguel quickly. He barely manages to lean back enough to avoid you smacking your head into his shoulder.

He looks at you quizzically as you whisper to him, “Keep your eyes on me.” His brows furrow which indicates his clear confusion at your command. You respond cautiously yet softly, “Don’t look it in the eyes. It’s still scared.” Miguel slowly nods in understanding as his eyes stay on yours.

There’s something that fizzles in his ears as he stares at you. Your eyes are oddly… calming. He’s never thought of looking at them before. At least not in an intentional way like this, unlike the usual polite eye contact you’re obligated to give someone you work with. It's so strange seeing you in person up close like this. He also has to fight the heat he feels making its way onto his cheeks at your close proximity. Your eyes sparkle a bit from the dim moonlight and there's drops of rain littered around your hair. You look so soft and inviting. There's not a sliver of malice anywhere across your features. He's sure this small anomaly is smart enough to come to you.

Soon he feels his lungs quiver in his chest as he watches your eyes crinkle as you smile. You’re chuckling. Why are you chuckling? His ears are roaring by the time you turn back toward the creature. His gaze lingers on the side of your face before looking down at the little one who’s currently licking and nuzzling into your hand, giving it playful nips. He smiles at that, grateful that this mission will end easier than expected.

The creature jumps on you and licks your face with a happy warble. Miguel tenses, worried that it may be attacking you until you release a giggle as you coo warmly, slowly standing with the creature wrapped in your arms. The sound tingles in Miguel's ears and he can’t help but watch you almost mesmerized as you carry the creature carefully before he stands back up next to you.

You comfort the creature with soft words as your nimble fingers quickly fashion a tracker to the little beast then click your watch. You speak calmly as you stare down at the baby creature with a smile, “Lyla, may you please check for any residual anomalies?” Lyla appears behind the creature and gives you a little salute before her visage flits around and scans the area. Miguel approaches to inspect the animal but leans back when it attempts to sniff at him which makes you chuckle at his stiffness. Then, you gently scratch between the animal’s horns as you walk closer to him to let it smell him properly. He stands awkwardly, watching its nostrils flare with each sniff of his arm.

You look around at the skyline behind him with a sigh, “What a view. Do you ever-”. Your voice fades off quickly as you squint, looking at something in the distance. Miguel notices as your hand stops moving and you cradle the creature protectively. Before he can even look at you, you shout while shoving him to the ground roughly, “Sniper!”. You yelp as something pierces your forearm violently, making your knees wobble. The creature jumps out of your hold, having sensed your body going limp before you slump into Miguel’s arms. The creature nuzzles into your dangling hand with a sad whine.

Miguel immediately enters high alert. He stays low as shots ring out above you, dragging you behind a structure to obstruct you all from whatever the hell is attacking. You're slumped against him as he shakes you softly with a tense voice, patting your face anxiously, “Y/s/n? Y/s/n wake up!” He sees the creature standing on its hind legs pawing at your thigh, looking up at him with scared eyes. Miguel shouts out into the air, “Lyla!” Immediately, a portal opens in front of you three.

Lyla speaks in a rushed tone, looking down at you worriedly, “I didn’t detect any more anomalies. Hurry.” Miguel scoops up both you and the anomaly, holding you tight as he jumps through the portal quickly.

What would you do?

Sleeping outside, the moon

Tripping with you

Miguel’s quick as he carries you to the med bay, the anomaly’s little legs trying to keep up with his long, wide strides. He places you on a bed and pulls up a med pod. He runs a full scan of your body and finds a bit of relief when it is concluded that you got dosed with a tranquilizer but he’s still tense. Usually a tranq doesn’t work that instantaneously; nor does it cause a strong shift in your blood pressure like this… It’s almost as if it’s thinned your blood. He sanitizes and gloves up quickly before grabbing some supplies to remove the projectile lodged in your arm. Fortunately, it doesn't take too long to remove all the pieces of the dart that broke apart. There's a bad feeling in his stomach as he does. He's never seen a tranq dart do such a thing. Why is it so fragile? Miguel has Lyla analyze the fragments while he cleans the wound.

He steals a glance at the little creature sitting in the doorway, its eyes watching you intently. He speaks evenly as he floods the wound with saline, gently patting it dry, “Don’t worry, she’s okay. She’s just sleeping.” He finishes wrapping your arm gingerly with a bandage and pulls the bed sheet over you, raising each of your arms to rest over the sheet. He stares at your hand in his for a moment. It’s warm. Your hands are warm and tiny compared to his. So, that’s how they feel… He blinks himself out of his thoughts and gently sets your hand down by your side to let you rest.

“You can come over. I’m done but she won’t be awake for a while.” Miguel says before looking over at the little beast. He’s almost surprised when it appears to understand what he’s said. After all, you did mention during the mission that it seemed highly intelligent relative to other wild animals. It stands, slowly trudging over before hopping onto the bed beside your leg. It looks at you and then turns to crawl on you cautiously as if it’s afraid of hurting you. After a few moments of hesitation, it pats the bed, circling a few times before settling down between your feet. Finally, it rests its chin on your leg, looking at you with large eyes while its tail curls around itself, and releases a soft bleat.

The display of how gentle it acts with you nearly makes him scoff in disbelief. It’s hard to believe that this is the same angry little beast that tried to claw at him earlier in the night. He's almost offended, truthfully. Why was it so mean to him? It seems to act like a cat, aggressive one moment then clingy the next. Miguel's eyes drift back up to look at you as he works around the room. He thinks for a moment to himself, "I guess between the two of us, I'd go to her too." He shakes the thoughts from his head. Miguel plops back onto the stool beside your bed with a sigh, having just finished cleaning up the soiled supplies. He yawns and scratches his jaw tiredly before he crosses his arms over his chest. The adrenaline that was once in his body is now long gone and his prior exhaustion floods him tenfold. However, he’s able to mutter with droopy eyes that watch your peaceful sleeping face, “What were you going to ask me?” He soon couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, his body feeling heavy and slowly slumping over as he drifted off to sleep.

Head down

Miguel groans as he feels something slimy on his forehead. He squints harshly at the light that penetrates his eyelids but before he can get up to stretch he freezes at what he hears.

"Hey, hey. Don't do that, little one. He needs to rest."

He's about to just sit up to explain that it's too late but your voice breaks through with a gentle coo. "Oh. Look what you did, honey. You messed it up…"

Before his mind can propel itself into countless thoughts of hearing you say the pet name in such an endearing way, he feels something gently card through his hair. There's something that erupts down his spine at the sensation and that faint fizzling in his ears returns. Especially when he can feel your fingers graze against his helix as you sweep some strands of his hair behind it. He feels his body melt at your ministrations.

Now, he chooses not to move or open his eyes. He pretends to be asleep on what he can blindly tell is the edge of the bed you’re resting in. He enjoys this, the sound of your voice as you comfort and hush the little anomaly the two of you caught. He hears sad warbling and feels the bed move a bit. He manages to cautiously crack an eye open to peek at you cradling the creature close as it sniffs and licks your bandage gently.

You speak softly to it, "Hey, shh-shh. It's okay, I'm okay. See?" You poke the bandage, not where the wound is but the edge of it, to prove that it's fine. You point at Miguel which causes him to shut his eyes quickly before you speak again, "He protected me and helped me get better. So, it's okay." He feels the bed shift as you quietly chuckle, "Ah, ah. Don’t do that, love. I don't want to wake him up, he was really tired." He can sense you stopping the creature from approaching him further as you stand.

There's a soft shuffle that can be heard around him before he feels something drape over his shoulders. You speak so delicately near his ear as you cover him, “Thank you for taking care of me. Sweet dreams.”

He hears the rustling of fabric and the soft plodding of your feet along the floor accompanied by your voice, "Okay, baby. Let's go." Miguel's eyes peek open to see you walking out of the infirmary with the little creature trotting next to you.

Once you’re gone he turns his head, pulling the fabric off his back. It's your cardigan. The one that you were wearing earlier before the mission. His eyes still feel heavy as he bunches up the fabric under him. His nose is flooded with a scent he's unused to. It smells warm and comfortable and soon he drifts off again with his arms wrapped securely around your cardigan below his head.

That’s what you are, he thinks. Warm and comfortable.

I don't know when to come up for air now

It's been a couple of days since your e-26 mission together and you haven't spoken since. Like usual, you spend the night in the lab and Miguel busies himself with some backlogged reports. However, his eyes still glance over to the monitor displaying you occasionally. He's noticed that you haven't worked as much as before. Sure, you’ve tinkered with a few things but you mostly just write in a notebook and slump over the workbench now. He pauses to inspect your face then switches to a camera angle that shows what you're writing. Oh. You're not writing, you're sketching something. He zooms in to see a picture of the anomaly you two sent back after Miguel woke up that morning. Just as he thought, you were depressed because your little friend had to go back home. That’s a lie, he hadn’t actually thought of that at all. Truthfully, he was starting to grow concerned that something was wrong with you… He watches as you add detail to the eyes, the tip of your pencil faintly tracing along the paper to simulate each streak across its irises. It's this that reminds him of when he stared into your eyes. They're much richer than expected, drowned in a color that is so… you. It's you because it's comforting and relaxing and deep. Comfortable and warm. He remembers the words with a soft hum.

He catches something bright appearing next to you. It's Lyla. He's found that you two converse almost every night. What do you two talk about? How many things have you discussed? There’s something unknown that bubbles in the pit of his stomach as these thoughts fill his head. Eventually, his curiosity gets the best of him and he switches on the audio feed. The thought of this being a violation of your privacy, completely slipping past him. He gently sits down as he listens to the two of you talk.

"Raon? What does it mean?", Lyla questions curiously.

You rest your chin on your hand as you lean against the table, looking up at Lyla with a warm smile as you reply, "It means joyful. He looks just like… ah, it’s nothing." You trailed softly but soon chuckled with a wave of your hand.

The scene before him makes Miguel smile softly to himself. It’s such a mundane conversation yet he finds enjoyment from it. Especially from the soft chuckle that comes from you.

"Hey, did you ever get around to-" Lyla begins but is cut off by your quick response.

"Nope… sorry.", You apologize with a bow of your head, realizing you interrupted her, "I should probably soon, huh?"

"Uh, yeah. The window of validity is closing, bud.", Lyla conjures up a window beside her before shutting it slowly as she raises a brow at you.

You nod and sigh, standing from your seat before turning to leave, "You're right. Thanks for reminding me, Lyla."

She hums to you before disappearing off the screen. She soon pops up next to Miguel who’s watching the feed of you walking through a corridor. She leans over his shoulder and speaks near his ear, "Stalker much?"

Miguel jolts at that and quickly exits off the camera display. He grunts and pulls some reports in front of him in a feeble attempt to cover up what he was doing, "I'm not a stalker."

She smirks and sings with an almost smug tone, "Ah, c'mon. It's just a joke, Miguel. Don't pout."

He states evenly as his eyes glance over the files presented before him, “Not pouting.”

“You never answered my question, y’know?”

“What question?”

“Do you want to talk to y/s/n?” She emphasizes her words with raised brows as she slowly orbits around his head to face him.

He blinks in thought, recalling the recent mission. You’re unfinished words wading upon the surface of his mind and truthfully they have been in his thoughts ever since you first uttered them into the night air. It wasn’t in your usually professional tone. It sounded more casual and unfortunately, you were cut short before finishing your sentence. “Do you ever… Do I ever what?”, he muses as his fingers rub at the side of his chin. He nods slowly before mumbling, “Yes… I think I do.”

Lyla bends down to smirk smugly at him with her arms akimbo, “Good.”

He squints at her and voices his confusion, “What do you mean? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“O’Hara?”, he stiffened as his eyes went wide at the sound of your voice. He composes himself quickly with a low grunt before turning to you.

Unfortunately, you misunderstand this, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You’re not interrupting me. I just remembered something. Did something happen?”

You absorb his fast-paced sentences, “No, I just wanted to talk to you.”

He’s shocked by this but his face doesn’t show it. If only you knew of the discussion you just interrupted by coming here.

“I wanted to formally thank you for taking care of me.”, you spoke calmly while looking up at him on his platform. He noticed your hand resting over your bandaged arm, confusion taking over his features. You noticed this and looked down at your arm too, nodding before your gaze returned to him. You subconsciously rub the bandage as you speak, “Ah, this. I don’t… heal as quickly as the rest of you.”

He mulls over your words, the rest of you. You speak in a way that alienates yourself from the Spiders. It’s a phrase he can understand due to him constantly being put in his own category relative to the other spider-people. Other… He supposes he speaks about himself the same as you. So that’s that sense of familiarity explained, albeit partially. He asks with his naturally stoic expression, “Why is that?” He watches with furrowed brows as you think of how to respond.

You softly shake your head with a shrug, “I just don’t.”

Before either of you can speak again, Lyla questions while pointing at you next to Miguel. There’s a small smirk on her face, “Hey, y/s/n? What’s that?” Miguel looks at her curiously before looking down at the box in your hands.

“Oh, this is just… This is for you, O’Hara.”, you take a step forward towards his platform. Miguel’s brows shoot up not only at what you say but at his now descending platform. He looks over to Lyla who smirks at him, clearly the cause. He clears his throat as his workspace reaches your level, “Is it something to sign off on?” He thinks that maybe you’re ready to beta-test new equipment that needs approval first.

You shake your head and hand the box to him with a small smile, “No. This is a thank you.”

He furrows his brows again as he slowly opens the box with his words trailing off, “A thank you?...” It’s… they’re empanadas. You just gave him a box of empanadas as a thank you?

“I heard Jess mention you liked empanadas. Sorry, they’re not the ones from the cafeteria though.”

He stares at them for a few more seconds. They’re warm. Are they fresh? How? It’s almost 3 am. Did you pick them up from your universe? “You didn’t have to give me this. I didn’t really-”

“You saved my life.” His eyes widen a bit as they meet yours. Ah. So you found out…

Your hands wring together nervously as you speak, “Lyla showed me the analysis of the fragments you pulled from my arm. Etorphine is a strong agent as is but it was formulated into a high-dose soluble projectile. If you hadn’t helped me so quickly, it would have dissolved into my blood and…”

“Thank you.”, Miguel all but whispers with his head down.

“You don’t have to thank me for thanking yo-”

“You took that shot for me.”, he quickly cuts you off. His eyes slowly trailing up to meet yours with firm sincerity. “Why did you take that shot?”

You rub your nape as you avoid his gaze and reply in an almost soft voice, “Ah. I didn’t really think about it… my body just moved on its own.”

There’s a bit of an awkward silence that spreads between you two as you both avoid each other’s eyes. Miguel stares back down at the food before speaking, “You really didn’t have to give me these.”

You speak with gentle hand gestures, a trait he didn’t know you had until now, “No, no. Please take them. I made them to thank you. It’s how I show proper gratitude. Honestly, I don’t think it’s enough.”

He looks at you in thought before looking back down at them with raised brows and a gentle smirk, “You made them?”

You tense, eyes darting to Lyla but she only offers you a quiet snicker. You sigh before nodding slowly, “Yes, I did. I’m sorry if you think they taste bad.”

He’s amused at your word choice. You didn’t say if they taste bad, you said if he thinks they taste bad. So you cook. And it sounds like you cook well given how confidently you speak about what you make.

Before he speaks, Lyla asks you something and motions you toward the control panel, “Y/n/n, come take a look at this.” [your nickname]

You bow your head briefly at Miguel with a modest smile before making your way to the screen Lyla opens for you. That’s another habit of yours he wasn’t fully aware of. He stands back and watches as you point at the screen and discuss it with Lyla. Your arms cross as you stand before the monitors, your face morphed from your inquisitiveness as you inspect the blueprint Lyla shows you. This makes him calm again. Watching you always made him calm and relaxed. However, it feels a bit stronger when you’re standing just a meter or so away from him. With you here now, so close to him, he actually feels warm. There’s a heat that surrounds him that he just can’t really explain. He continues his musings before taking a bite of the empanada absentmindedly but his eyes shoot down at the food as he tastes it. These aren’t like the ones from the cafeteria, they’re far better. The cafeteria carries standard beef empanadas. Beef and seasoning, it’s hard to mess it up. But these? Is this stew? This is honestly the best thing he's eaten in a long time. His foot stutters as he prevents himself from stepping closer to you and swallows the delicious bite before mumbling, “Are these-”

“Salteñas, sí.” His eyes travel up to see you looking back at him with a warm smile and nod. The way you say it is so natural. It rolls off your tongue so smoothly. Do you speak Spanish?

“Wow, it eats!”, Lyla cheers sarcastically.

“Lyla!”, he groans in annoyance.

“What do you-”, you unfurl your arms and look at him with what he recognizes as concern, “Sir, are you not eating properly?” You turn to face him completely and approach him slowly when all he returns is silence.

Lyla floats over to you, her voice laced with a haughty tone as she tattles, “No. No, he is not.” He grunts and tries to snatch her holographic form. His hand just misses her as she teleports to your other side with a giggle.

“O’Hara,” you call to him in a tone that’s so soft while still holding firmness. That’s new. It’s not as casual as he imagined and you’re still addressing him by his surname but he’s still pleased with how it sounds coming from you in that tone. “How often do you eat?”

He tenses a bit and looks away from your eyes before he gets lost in more of his thoughts. “I eat.” His brows furrowed as he mentally berates himself for his obvious statement. Of course, he eats. Estúpido. His embarrassment quickly triggered his next words despite how unexpected they are, even to him, “What does it matter to you?”

He feels an odd sense of uneasiness as he notices your lack of reaction. He’s quick to attempt to amend his words, “It’s appreciated but it’s none of your concern when I do and don’t eat.” Then there is more silence. It weighs heavily in the air awkwardly. He realizes his words may seem a bit harsh given how tense his voice is. He’s unsure what to say now and for once the silence from you isn’t so comfortable.

“O’Hara.”, you say more sternly as you cross your arms. He can’t help the way he feels like a child being scolded by their teacher. What truly catches him off guard is how firm your tone is despite how gentle you look at him, “Stop deflecting.”

It all makes him feel a bit small despite him being the one looking down at you due to your apparent size difference. He’s never been fond of his height. It’s annoying and cumbersome but the way your body positions itself to stare at him makes him think that it’s not that bad. Your head has to tilt back for your eyes to meet his. Those rich eyes of yours… The e/c encompasses your pupils in such an inviting way [eye color]. And each time you blink he catches a glimpse of how your lashes flutter against your skin. His eyes slowly travel along your features. Your forehead creases softly as your brows raise. The action makes your eyes appear larger as you look up at him. Then he sees your lips moving slowly. They’re not shiny nor are they chapped. But they do look smooth as he sees the tip of your tongue softly curl behind your teeth as you speak. Your words slowly grow less foggy before he flinches at the feeling of your hand gently holding his forearm. There’s a slight ringing in his ears as your voice finally reaches him.

“Mr. O’Hara, are you okay? You’re flushed.”

“What?”, he breathes out in a rushed tone before his eyes focus out to see the entirety of your worried expression. He gently tugs at the collar of his suit uncomfortably. He actually feels the heat now, it’s more intense than before.

“You’re burning up. It’s warm in here too…”. You quickly grab the box of food from his hand and place it on a nearby tabletop before pulling him toward the entrance of his work area. “Here, come with me.”

You take my hand like there's a way out (way out)

And we're escaping through the window

Miguel isn’t sure how but he now finds himself in a rather unfamiliar situation. You’re dragging him around by the wrist. However, it’s apparent that he follows seamlessly behind you. It feels natural for him to just maintain your lead, especially when there’s very little energy within him to resist. He watches how you walk in front of him. You walk in a way that makes you look smaller than you actually are. It’s as if you’re trying to hide. Why is that? Your shoulders are slouched a bit forward as you guide him through the corridors. His eyes drift to the back of your head, watching the way your hair gently bounces with each one of your steps. You halt for a moment which causes him to nearly stumble into you. Your grip on his wrist falters briefly before sliding down to take him by the hand. The action completely slips past you as you decide where to walk next, but it surely does not get past him. He has to fight the urge to squeeze his hand around yours but utterly fails. He’s not too upset about this. Truthfully, most of his awareness was occupied by trying not to let his claws protrude from his fingertips. You turn back to look at him but he’s quick to avoid your eyes, oscillating his head mindlessly.

You must have taken this as a sign of his unwell state because soon you're tugging him through the cafeteria with a firm whisper, “Over there. You need fresh air.”

His red face and his lack of words must make him appear as though he won’t be able to last the trek to the infirmary. You gently squeeze his hand which makes his eyes snap back to you quickly. Making your way to the large terrace, you push the glass door open. The air sweeps past you both as you guide him to sit on one of the patio chairs scattered among the outdoor area. His eyes are dazed as he looks up at you standing in front of him but they haven’t left you for even a moment since you squeezed his hand. But now your hand is no longer in his. He’s surprised to find himself a bit annoyed at that. You’re moving too fast, he thinks. All your actions are slipping away from him thanks to his hazy mind and he doesn’t appreciate it. You pull a handkerchief out of your back pocket and pat his sweaty forehead. His eyes watch you as you do. Your lips press into a line as you gently bite your bottom lip. Your eyes are full of concern as they roam over the sight of his flushed face. You remove your hand from his space as you step back a bit, wanting to let him feel the light breeze.

He spies how your hands start to reach out but retract back to your side, settling on your hips instead. You speak evenly as you look at him, “Are you okay? Does that feel better?” It’s gradual as he breaks out of his cloudy stupor, the wind finally cooling him down. He nods slowly before something slithers out of his brain and past his lips.

And I whisper

“What?”, you tilt your head curiously.

“Miguel….”, he breathes out, “My name is Miguel.”

You blink at him and speak with a bit of concern, “I know tha-”

“I don’t like being called O’Hara or Sir or Mr. O’Hara. Call me Miguel.”

You nod softly as you take in his words before giving him a small smile, “Okay. From now on I’ll call you Miguel.”

He almost smiles at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue but catches himself before it’s too late. His brows furrowed in confusion as you gently extended your hand toward him. You smile softly as you gently grasp his hand and shake it with a kind tone, “My name is y/n. It’s only fair that you address me as such.”

His brain stalls for a few moments, absorbing your name. It’s so fitting in a previously unknown yet expectedly pleasant way. Of course, that’s your name. He looks up at you in thought as you gently pull your hand from his, “Y/n, huh? It’s… pretty.”

He tenses in realization for a moment before slowly speaking, ensuring that his own curiosity remains undetectable, “The other night on e-26, on the rooftop. What were you going to ask me?”

You’re taken aback and stand back up, your lip jutting out in a pout as you try to remember. Your eyes wander to the table beside the two of you in thought but Miguel’s eyes stay on you. He takes in the sight of your face morphed in contemplation. It’s the same look he’s seen countlessly through the late nights. Except this time, it’s not pixelated or blurry from his monitors. Now, he can see you up close. He can see clearly how your chin softly wrinkles as you purse your lips and the way your eyes crinkle at the outer corners. It’s almost comical how earnestly he takes in such ordinary features with the same scrupulousness as a lab experiment.

“Do you ever look out at the skyline… and feel at peace?” The words flow out of you softly as you move to sit on the patio table next to him. Your eyes glide up to look at the lights below that decorate the horizon.

Miguel finally tears his eyes from you to look at the skyline before you both. It’s hard to hear the vehicles from up here but he knows they’re there. He can see the lights flicker and wane in the distance as his body relaxes into the chair. He realizes how familiar he is with the scene and breathes out lowly, “Yes. I do.”

He can see you smile in his peripherals before your voice fills the space between you, “I’ve always found comfort in the horizon and the view of the land below. The sunrise and sunset. I think Raon would have been mesmerized by this view of the city lights.”

He turns to look at you curiously, “Raon?” Truthfully, he was a bit curious about the word you mentioned to Lyla earlier.

You nod with a hum, crossing your legs and propping your chin on your elbows as you get comfortable. “The baby creature from our mission. Raon.”

Miguel notices how the word our rattles around his brain but pushes that feeling aside. He attempts to overpower it with a wry remark, “Did you name the anomaly?”

You release a breathy chuckle and nod, “Kind of. There’s a story from my universe that had a baby dragon named Raon Miru in it. Looked exactly like him too, blue eyes and all.”

He finds relief now not just in observing you but in your close presence and words. He’s intrigued by what you say. He can’t quite place the origin of such a unique name. He knows Japanese but he’s unsure if that is its correct origin. He takes a moment to look at you in thought, certain that he wants to hear more, “That name, what does it mean?”

“It’s a bit on the nose, truthfully. It means ‘joyful dragon’.”

“Raon Miru.”, he repeats to himself as he turns back to look at the skyline with you. There’s a comfortable silence that swells between you both. It takes a few more moments before your voice slithers into the empty space.

“Do you truly not eat well?”

He turns to look at you again but immediately regrets it. Well, not really. Your eyes are full of concern as they meet his. He sighs and shakes his head, “No. I don’t.”

“Why?” You ask so simply as your eyes never leave him.

He bites the inside of his cheeks and contemplates whether he should brush this off and lie or just tell you the truth. He chooses the latter, citing that he genuinely enjoys your consideration. “I’m busy. I lose track of time and just forget.”

Lyla finally decides to pop up next to you, “Hey, y/s/n. You actually remember to eat stuff. Mind keeping Miguel in check for me?”

Miguel stiffens quickly shaking his head to protest but before he can, you respond. “Sure, I don’t see why not.”

“Cool.”, Lyla nods and disappears having completed her job as instigator.

His eyes travel to yours in question only for you to smile gently at him with a tilt of your head. “I need to make sure you’re properly taken care of.”

Need, you say. Not want. The way you say it so matter-of-factly makes his lungs quiver, just like that night. His mouth shuts as he slowly leans back in his chair. The way you look at him lets him know that there’s no room for debate. You nod with a smile as you watch him acquiesce your response. “Good. So, did you like the salteñas?”

He nods and speaks with a low hum, “Yes, they were good.”

You beam at that and lean toward him unconsciously, “Really? I was worried there for a second. By the way you heated up, I thought you had a bad reaction.” You straighten up as your features quickly morph in realization of something before speaking, “That reminds me. Lyla?”

“Yo.”, she appears in front of you like a pop-up ad.

“What’s the temperature in Miguel’s work area?”

She conjures up a thermostat and squints at it, “Yeesh, 85°F and climbing. At the time of reporting, it is approximately 20 degrees higher than average. Excessive heat appears to be emitting from a ground-level display console.”

“Oh, may you please-”

“Filtering and cooling as we speak, captain.”, her little hand bumping her forehead to salute you in assurance. “I’ve shut off the machine since it’s under minimal usage priority. Consider this a work order.”

You chuckle at her antics, “Thank you, dear. I’ll be sure to repair it asap. It also sounds like your active monitoring is on the fritz, I’ll check that too.” You then turn to Miguel, leaning in inquisitively to see if he’s cooled down enough.

He questions absentmindedly with an almost gravelly mumble, “Hablas español?” [Do you speak Spanish?]

You're taken aback but smile softly, “Sí, pero no lo hablo con fluidez.” [Yes, but I’m not fluent in it.]

He finds the corners of his mouth gently lifting at your words, “Me suenas fluido. Tu acento es natural.” [You sound fluent to me. Your accent is natural.]

Your smile seems to grow ever so gently as you nod, “Thank you. I grew up in a diverse place. Lots of people spoke languages other than English.”

Miguel found himself completely relaxed as he spoke with you about anything and everything. Like that, the conversation flowed between you for a long while.

All I really want is you

What would you do?

Your brows shoot up in shock before a small smile blooms on your face. “Good. Let’s meet out on the terrace at 3 am. You better not leave me hanging.”

He smirks at your warning in amusement, you said it in such a way that carries no real malice. He nods in understanding as you two walk side by side languidly, back to his work area. The conversation hasn’t stopped. Miguel thinks this is the longest he’s ever talked to someone, speaking more words in these last couple of hours with you than he has to anyone in months. It’s odd to him how easy it is to talk with you. It makes him feel like he’s conversing with an old friend.

He’s lost in content conversation with you as you two enter back into his lab and continues even after you begin to work. He leans against the main control panel on his platform as he watches you repair the display console that practically turned his work area into an oven. Miguel’s arms are crossed over his chest, somehow unsure of what to do with his hands. He speaks with a more calm tone, “So you’re the one who does repairs around here? You’d think I, of all people, would know that.”

“I actually did think you already knew that but I suppose me coming in here and working on your tech while you’re out during the day is a bit of a clue as to why you didn’t.” You calmly respond to him. Your voice is just a bit louder than normal in order to ensure he can hear you properly. After all, half of your body is inside a relatively large electronics console.

“So what’s the issue here then?”

"Just a basic issue. Overclocked GPUs and faulty heatsinks don't really mix well.", you sigh with a shrug after gently crawling out of the unit to drop some screws into a small tray beside you. You present a damaged PCB to him and point at a burnt section of it with the tip of your screwdriver, “See, a few of them have blown fuses.”

He’s tuned into what you say and nods in acknowledgment. He knows what you’re talking about and enjoys it because it’s not rushed and not frantic like during the day. It’s calm and comfortable.

"Although I told Pete to run manual diagnostics on this which he said he did. Liar."

Miguel is amused by your annoyed grumble as you work. He’s a bit curious as to why you refer to Peter by nickname when you’ve only started calling him by his given name a couple hours ago but he figures it’s fine since Peter is the one who initially recruited you from what he can recall.

Miguel leans a bit over to peek at the mess that is the internal hardware before you crawl back inside. "I'm going to guess that he didn't even look at this at all."

"Yeah, pretty safe to assume that. I should have known better than to ask him. He's been preoccupied lately.", you groan from inside the panel. You look a bit funny like this, with half your body inside the console.

“Why did you ask Peter to look at it then?”, Miguel asks a bit curiously.

“Um, my arm was still messed up, Sir. I couldn’t really pronate it without feeling uncomfortable.”

He hears how nonchalantly you say it and senses that you don’t want to bring up the injury again. He nods curtly to himself and continues while changing the subject, “Don't call me Sir. It makes me feel old.”

You smile softly to yourself as you respond, “Sorry, it’s a hard habit to shake. I mean, you are the boss. But you shouldn’t worry, you’re not old by a long shot. In fact, I’m your elder…”

Your last few words are muffled but he manages to pick them up. His brows raise in intrigue as he asks, “Is that so?”

The way you tense at what he says doesn’t slip past him but you soon answer in a calm voice, “My universe’s present year is several decades earlier than here. So despite being biologically younger than you, I am chronologically n/y years older than you.” [number of years]

Miguel turns to work on some reports as he says, “Well, you still look spry enough to handle the duties of a Spider.”

You nearly snort at his comment. You must have not expected it, judging by your reaction. You continue to work, your eyes focused on the components you inspect as you jest in a sardonic tone, “Thanks, jefe. I’m glad to know you think my body is still young enough to be thrown around on missions.”

He has to bite his lip to contain the chuckle that he feels vibrate in his chest. He didn’t expect you to respond so sarcastically but he’s glad that you did. If anything, it makes him want to continue talking with you, “So why haven’t I been formally notified of your work here?”

“Well, if something breaks or needs general maintenance, Lyla is informed and she then passes that information to me. She typically deals with software issues and I’m the hardware person. We don’t usually bother you with these things because you’re always so busy as it is.”, you offer with a shrug as you crawl out and sit on your heels, inspecting yet another PCB.

“It wouldn’t be a bother. I need to know about these things.”

You look up at him and chuckle quietly with a soft shake of your head, “There are reports on file of every single repair I’ve done but… the last thing you need to worry about is a coffee maker gone haywire or someone’s empty web cartridges.”

“Aren’t you busy too? You take missions yet you still pull the Society’s odd jobs. Why?”

“Not really. I’m active mostly at night or in the early morning hours. Even when there is an active mission, I’m D-team at best.”

“D-team? Why do you think that?”, Miguel is genuinely confused by what you say. After all, the two of you worked so well together during the missions you have been on with one another.

“I’m just not that capable when compared to the Spiders.”

There’s that phrasing of yours again. It paints a clear separation between you and the society. Why are you so unwilling to include yourself with them? What exactly makes you speak this way? Miguel then thinks back to your first mission together, when it was just the two of you. Although it felt foreign at first, you two completed it quickly and efficiently. He speaks in a tone that leaves no room for rebuttal, “You are very capable.”

“Yeah, you think so?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

You sigh casually as you stand up, carrying a small tote against your hip of damaged hardware to be further inspected, “Well, I could just be pleasant to be around.”

He releases a breathy laugh at your arch remark with a shake of his head. If only you knew how important your presence has become to him over all these late nights.

You perked up at the sound as you placed the tote on a nearby desk, turning to him as you asked, “Did I just make you laugh?”

He was about to groan in annoyance on instinct but caught the look in your eyes before he did. Your face didn’t show a single sign of ill intent. Rather, it carried what he identifies as wonder. His lips purse a bit as he looks away from you, trying to avoid your gaze to spare himself from how overactive he’s found his mind becomes when gazing upon your bare face.

“Oh, now you’re pouting.”

“Not pouting.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not.”

Miguel’s brain stalls as his ears pick up a previously unknown yet gratifying sound. Gentle giggling slips from you and it makes that buzzing sensation in his ears return. But he's not upset because he knows you're not laughing at him. It’s that kind of laughter that isn’t rude nor teasing. It’s kind and full of joy. He can’t help the upturn of the corners of his mouth, finding your delight somewhat infectious.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just too cute.”, you wave your hand softly as your other hand attempts to muffle your chortling before grabbing the tote of hardware to repair again. You turn to leave to your usual lab to work but your joyful sounds have yet to cease.

Miguel’s frozen by your comment. Cute? In reference to him? That’s not… that’s implausible and honestly, unprecedented. The more he speaks with you, the more he learns just how strange you are. You’re different in not only appearance but behavior as well. He's sure now that you are unique to the Society in such an eccentric way. He realizes something and it’s arguable in his mind. It makes sense why you exclude yourself from them all. Out of all the Spiders, you’re the anomaly.

Laying in the rain with you

Middle of June

“Miguel O’Hara! Get your butt out here now!”

He groans and rolls his eyes with a smirk as he looks at the time. 3 am, on the dot. It’s time.

The two have grown very well acquainted with each other over the past 8 months. There was a stint of anomalies surfacing during the early overnight hours. For a while, it seemed you and Miguel were dispatched nearly every night but now the instances have slowed to every week or so. You’ve learned a lot about each other and have acclimated well to each other’s presence. His hands swipe away the monitors floating around him as he calls over his shoulder, “Yeah, yeah. Just a second, needy.”

“Needy?! Puh-lease, you would waste away without me.”, you chuckle as your body swings around the entrance to his work area. You cross your arms and lean against the doorway, “Ven a comer.” [Come eat.]

“Sí, Mami.”, he mumbles amusedly, stroking his chin as he stares at the monitors in front of him. [Yes, Mom.]

You chuckle and walk over to him, “Don’t make me drag you out of here.”

He closes the floating screens around him with a flick of his wrist before turning to you with a smirk. His hands rest on his hips as his platform descends to meet you. The soft fizzling in his ears returns as you look up at him with a small, playful smile. The sensation is no longer foreign to him. It’s welcomed now. Warm and comfortable. “Yeah, uh-huh. And how do you suppose you’d do that?”

Your grin is almost mischievous as he finally stands in front of you, “I’d figure it out. I’m very resourceful, you know?”

He nods and begins to walk with you to complete your late-night ritual. “Oh, are you now?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” You repeat the words he told you from your first night together. At this point, it’s more of an inside joke; a reference that often appears as you two converse.

“I thought you said it was because you were pleasant to be around.”, he hums amusedly.

“Well? Am I?”, you look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes gleam with warmth and he’s not sure if you truly know just how beguiling it is.

He mutters as he avoids your gaze, knowing damn well he wants to say yes, “Don’t fish for compliments.”

“But you would compliment me.”, you state in a way that’s laced with playfulness. You bend a bit at the waist to catch a glimpse of his face with your hands resting neatly upon your lower back.

He meets your teasing gaze for a moment before rolling his eyes, “What’s for dinner?”

He sees your lips curl up in his peripherals before you state nonchalantly, “It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise? What do you mean? What for?”

“What? Don’t you trust me?”, you chuckle in amusement after he rambles a bit. You managed to identify that habit of his despite his general seriousness after the many nights you've spent working together.

“I trust you as far as I can throw you.”, he replies collectedly, or so he hopes.

“Liar.”, you hum with an amused smile on your lips, “Nonetheless, I suppose it’s good that you’re an incredibly strong man that can throw me very, very far.”

You chuckle again as he groans beside you. You’re far too sharp for your own good, having seen right through his strategic word choice. You two enter the terrace and something feels different. The air is a bit warmer tonight. Miguel supposes it’s just that kind of summer night. One where the heat from the day lingers into the late night and rekindles the following morning. His eyes shut for a moment as he absorbs the scent floating around. It’s familiar, it’s… enticing. He blinks softly before turning to you, eyebrows lifting in surprise as he sees that setup you’ve made. Upon the ground is a large blanket with a couple of small pillows. There are a few containers of what he knows is your cooking placed in the center. It’s not extravagant but something does stir in his stomach as he sees you turn to him. You almost look coy as you gesture behind you but your eyes never lack that warmth he knows as yours. “Yeah, it’s a bit silly but… happy 50th successful mission, partner.”

He stiffens at your calm yet happy proclamation. The word partner rattles around his brain for a few moments before the gears in his brain turn again. 50 missions? Have you two truly been on 50 missions already? Oh, who is he kidding? Of course, he knows that already. The two of you have actually been on 58 missions to be exact but they can’t always be successes.

You walk over to pull him gently by the wrist to the blanket, “Come on already. Food’s getting cold.”

He rolls his eyes with a smirk as he indulges your command with reluctance, but only externally.

You let go of his hand and sit at one end of the blanket, “Mira, I made some of your favorites.” You remove the lids of the containers presenting a small variety of his preferred dishes. There’s a smile on your lips as you pull out the final container, presenting it to him with a kind tone of voice, “I even made Stobhach for you. And I’ll let you know I’ve perfected my recipe.”

He can’t help the small curl of his lips as he sits opposite of you. You seem so excited to show him all that you prepared for tonight. It all almost makes him blush. He’s learned fairly early on in your acquaintanceship-turned-friendship that you show affection through care. Especially, by giving someone a home cooked meal. He stares down at the food and hums, “Thank you.”

You return with a hum of your own. Besides the banter and wry humor, words aren’t really necessary between the two of you. You’ve learned to read each other well. Body language, quirks, and even the noises that rumble from each of your chests. It’s almost animalistic in its simplicity. Miguel has come to realize how truly perceptive you can be, similar to himself. You two actually share a lot of similarities like your inquisitive nature and reclusive behavior. And he’s come to the conclusion that that is why you two can exist so harmoniously together. It’s not hard to be around you. To him, your presence is easy.

All I really want is you

What would you do?

You two have been talking for a while, the food long gone and your bellies satiated. There’s a bubble around you two as you converse like you’re in your own little world.

“Come on. Lay with me.”, you look up at him with warmth in your eyes as you pat the space next to you. He truly can’t find it within himself to deny such a gentle command. He moves to lie next to you and stares up at the few stars that manage to make it through the city’s light pollution. It’s times like these when he ponders upon his actions and realizes how easily he finds himself following your instruction. He’s not upset about it. He just finds it odd although certainly not unwelcome. Truthfully, he’s grateful that he can take your lead and not have to be in charge, even if only for a moment. But these moments fill his chest with something warm. Warm and comfortable are his two choice words to describe you in any situation. Whether it be as you two work in silence in one of the labs or when you patch each other up after rough missions.

Sleeping outside, the moon

Tripping with you

He hears a sweet sigh from your lips as you relax on the blanket next to him. You whisper into the night air with the same gentleness one speaks a secret, “This reminds me of one night when I was a teen. In my universe…”

Miguel’s ears perked a bit as you began. It was very rare for you to speak of yourself, your experiences, or your universe. Every time you did, he was sure to pay attention and commit each word to memory because if you ever spoke of it like this, earnestly and unprompted, it meant you were revealing a part of who you are. That you were trusting him with a part of your very essence. To keep it safe.

“California isn’t gone. There’s a coastal city there called San Francisco that my friends and I traveled to. We spent hours there. We watched the sunset on the bay and the evening fog that rolled in. And eventually, we laid back on the sand and looked up at the stars. Just like this.”

He didn't say anything or make a noise. He just stared up at the stars with you, listening intently.

“I felt so calm that night. I knew in that moment that nothing else mattered. And for the first time, I felt at peace. My whole life I didn’t do much. I stayed at home filling my time with random knowledge and tricks. I avoided people and kept to myself as best as I could because I had learned very young that people were not to be trusted.”

Miguel feels his chest tighten at your words but keeps silent. There’s a darkness that barely laces your voice but it is there. He picks up the sound of hurt in your tone and it grips him tightly. There’s a tumultuous feeling in his stomach. He’s eager to preserve the pieces of yourself that you delicately hand him but it doesn’t change the feeling of helplessness that floods him. Your honesty is encased in sadness, a build-up of fears and insecurity that he’s far too late to have prevented. So he listens because maybe, just maybe, something you reveal to him in these genuine passages of your lore can help him protect the parts of you he keeps.

“I learned that family was everything because family would never hurt you. It’s funny now… Now, I think I’m nothing but a memory yet to be forgotten by them.”

He turns to look at you curiously but the concern is unmistakable in his eyes. Of all the countless nights you’ve spent together, you’re finally revealing why you are the way you are. Why he feels like he knows you without words. Because loss and loneliness radiates off you like bittersweet perfume yet you contain it with walls built of sufferance and capability. He’s always held a certain affinity to you that he could never quite describe until now. Before his thoughts submerge his consciousness, he notices how your eyes are screwed shut and the way your fist is squeezed tightly around the strings of your hoodie. Your clenched fingers resting above your heart almost as if you're quelling pain into passivity.

You sigh quietly as if to prepare yourself for what to say. “Things happen. At one point you think you know where you are. Then you blink and wake up somewhere else entirely.”

There’s a brief pause before your next words. Your eyes slowly flutter open to look up at the stars with glossy eyes and a gentle yet certain voice, “I’m here now and I’m actually very grateful for all that has happened. I’ve learned things I never thought were possible, about reality and the world. About people and about myself.”

He’s a bit surprised as you speak to him with sincerity, “I know I’m strange, Miguel. I know I don't make sense and that I don’t really fit. But you make me feel understood. And you make me feel like I’m not really alone… Thank you.”

You turn to find him staring at you in surprise. Your smile is small but your usual warmth has returned, and truthfully, he thinks that it never left. “Sorry. That was a bit heavy, huh? Just forget I said anything.” You offer with a chuckle before laying back.

All I really want is you

Your eyes are closed as you bask in the moonlight and his eyes travel over you. He takes in the soft curl of your lips and the faint flush on your cheeks from the cool air and candid words. The temperature isn’t too bad but thanks to the extreme altitude of the building, it’s crisp yet foggy. It’s an odd feeling, the air is damp from the clouds rolling through the skyscraper but Miguel feels warm. So soothingly warm. Especially, with you laying so close to him. So earnest and so true. He finds it odd how comforting this feeling is despite it being foreign to him, or rather dormant. He’s astonished by your trust in him. It fills him with something that he wasn’t entirely sure he was missing. Suddenly it's apparent what exactly this feeling is. The same feeling that he's felt for months. And it finally sparks in his mind as you look at him with tired eyes and a warm smile.

I love you.

All I really want is you

What would you do?

He can nearly taste the words on his tongue but he remains silent as your eyes stare into his. Suddenly he feels very awake as his own thoughts dawn on him. Managing to tear his gaze away from your familiar e/c eyes, he finally speaks as he closes his eyes with a coy smirk.

“Never.”

It’s you. Now, it’s something that’s as certain as fact in his mind. He feels the heat of your hand resting on the blanket between the two of you, right next to his. Right where you belong, he thinks. Right next to him.

All I really want is you

Is you, is you, is you

Appearing near you two and out of sight is Lyla. She watches you two and makes a final checkmark on the chart she pulled from an article months ago, when Miguel was initially questioning his interest in you. She smiles to herself as she looks over the chart then back at you two as you exist in your own little world. The words softly illuminated in the window beside her, Infatuation vs. Love, with all her markings under the latter.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who took the time to read this! Also, big thanks to everyone who voted on my poll regarding this fic. I am open to your opinions and questions! Please feel free to ask me anything!

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imyourbratzdoll · 2 years

Note

Hi can you write Chris angst with happy ending, where the reader is younger than him and not from the US, Chris and reader have a fight and he says something he didn't mean, bc the reader didn't have anyone to go to so she went to chris' mom's house and tell her about the fight. Thank youu!

hello! I hope you enjoy this, this was probably the longest thing I've written as well, haha. thank you for sending it in!

warning - angst, happy ending.

the gif I use isn't mine, dividers by @newlips and @firefly-graphics

While Chris is away at work, I usually stay at his house, which he says is mine. I make sure it’s spotless before he comes home. I look after Dodger and take him for walks. When I know Chris will be home, there’s always a hot plate of food ready for him and a nice cold beer. I have to admit. It was hard to get acquainted in a country I didn’t know that well. I was thankful for Lisa as she helped a lot.

The hardest thing about dating a well-known actor was the fans once they found out I was much younger than Chris. It was on, they’d try and make my life a living hell, and they made sure it was known I wasn’t deserving of a man like Chris Evans. But to them, no woman was unless it was themselves.

Chris has been distant lately. We used to talk all the time while he worked. Facetime, calls, texts. You name it, and we did it. But recently, he’s stopped. I receive one-word answers now and no good morning or goodnight texts, no I love you’s during the day. Just nothing…

Today, I cleaned the whole house, took Dodger to his usual dog park, fed him and made dinner. Making myself look presentable for Chris. The front door slams open as I finally sit down and start a movie while cuddling Dodger. An irritated Chris storms through, and he places his things down before turning towards me. A sneer appears on his face.

“So this is what you do all day? Just sit on your ass and watch tv?” Ignoring what I’m about to say, he stalks over to the kitchen and swings open the fridge door, grabbing a beer before popping the cap off and gulping most of it down. I slowly get up, feeling my chest tighten at his words. No hug, no gentle greeting. Just bitterness, like black coffee without the milk and sugar.

I give Dodger a small pat before heading into the kitchen, where Chris is drinking a second beer, leaning against the counter and glaring at the hot food on the stove. I nervously pick at my nails, carefully walking towards Chris and placing a soft hand on his arm. My mouth opens as I’m about to speak, but Chris’s head snaps toward me, and the harsh glare on his face causes me to flinch back.

“Can’t you just fuck off already?! You’re always fucking here! Always fucking texting and calling me! You’re so fucking clingy. You called me during work and interrupted a scene! You sit around here all day and do fucking nothing! I do all the fucking work, and I can’t even come home and get a fucking break!”

“I–I…” I try to blink away, the tears forming. Chris backs me into the table as his harsh words pierce through me. Spit flying from how angry he is.

“You– you what?! Huh?! GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I can’t even feel my heart breaking as I take off. I don’t see Dodger running into the room and practically tackling his dad whilst barking. Everything is a blur, and I quickly run out of the house, not even daring to take a car, as that’ll just add to Chris’s hatred.

I’ve been running for a while, not knowing where I’d end up as I didn’t have anyone. My feet managed to take me to Lisa’s house, and I anxiously waited at the front door after knocking, thinking that maybe coming here wouldn’t be a good idea. I mean… What if she hates me too? What if I’m just a burden and I should just leave and never turn back, but before I can turn and try and find my way, the door opens.

“Y/n?” Lisa’s eyes widen at the sight of me before quickly ushering me in. I didn’t even notice I was crying or that my feet were bleeding, “oh dear, what happened?” I’m so spaced out that I don’t notice her leading me over to the couch and sitting me down. As Lisa returns with hot chocolate, a blanket is wrapped around my shivering form. Once she sets it down, she looks me over and takes my hand.

My mouth opens and closes for a while as I try to find the words. “I– uh, Chris… He came home….” I slowly take a sip of the drink in my hand, even though my stomach is in knots, and I feel like I’ll throw up at any minute. Lisa patiently waits for me to continue, knowing I need some time for my head to wrap around all of it. “He’s been distant lately and– and he came home, said something about how I do nothing all day, and then, he disappeared to the kitchen. Already two beers in when I reached him….” I break out into a sob. Lisa’s hand connects with my back and gives it a rub.

“He– he, uh, said a lot of things… Mean things, and he told me to get out, so I ran, and this is where I ended up. I’m so sorry, Lisa. I’m bothering you.” I go to stand, but she quickly pushes me down before giving me a motherly hug.

“You’re never a bother, dear. My son shouldn’t have said or reacted like this, and I’m sorry for how he’s treated you. Now come on, let’s run you a bath and then you can sleep in the guest bedroom.” She stands, holding her hand out, and once I grab it, she leads me to the guest room before she heads into the bathroom, running the bath for me. Once she thinks it’s perfect, she comes out and informs me, and I head in. I strip down and hand her my clothes before relaxing in the tub.

As I sit there, the day catches up to me. A tear falls, and then another, until a full sob leaves my lips. I place my head into my hands at the feeling of heartbreak. My hand runs down my face. The stress of it all is visible on my face. I’m broken out of my daze when there’s a knock on the door, “I’ve placed a clean pair of clothes on the bed. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask, dear.” I mutter a thank you, deciding to get out and sleep the pain away.

I dried off and changed into the clean clothes put out for me before crawling under the covers, regretting sleep as my night was filled with nightmares. Waking up every two hours, sweat covering my forehead as a new nightmare has appeared. Soon the sun rose, and so did I, even more exhausted than I was before, slowly rising from the bed and pushing the covers off of me. I leave the room and head down to where Lisa is.

I stand in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I wish her a good morning. She spins, and her eyes widen at my state before she rushes over, “oh dear.” Her arms wrap tightly around me, I want to cry, but it feels like there’s nothing left. “Come, sit. I’ve made breakfast.” For a while, we talk and get things done around the house. It’s around the afternoon when we hear a knock on the door. Lisa lays a hand on my knee, excusing herself before going toward the front door.

My heart starts to race as I hear his voice. He seems to be pleading with his mother. I slowly stand before making my way over there, placing a gentle hand on Lisa’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Lisa, thank you.” She looks at me, and I nod, turning toward Chris as she leaves. His appearance is horrible, bags under his eyes, his eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and tears are rolling down his face.

“What do you want?” My arms cross, knowing I look just as horrible as him. His heart breaks even more at the sight. He goes to reach out, but I flinch away, and Chris feels his world shatter.

“I– I made a mistake. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t in the right, and I took it out on you, baby. I’m so so sorry. Please forgive me.” At this point, big fat tears were leaving his pretty blue eyes. He continues to plead, beg, anything and everything, but my heart hurts too much to forgive him.

“I, uhm… think we should take a break for a while. It hurts too much to forgive you right now….” I bite my lip hard, trying not to break out into tears. “I’ll come to pick my things up later….” Chris’s mouth drops open as he begs for this not to happen, but my mind has been made up. The distance was one thing that went on for months, but the fight that’s what pushed this.

Chris watches as Y/n packs all of her things, both hearts breaking. Chris regretted everything the minute the words left his mouth, hell, even when he was distancing himself. Dodger hasn’t come close to him since then, but the moment the dog saw you, he was all over you, licking you and giving you attention. He hasn’t left your side since. Chris felt his world slipping through his fingers.

God, he wished that he had talked to you. He wished he talked about how stressed he was instead of distancing himself, and he wished that he didn’t let his co-workers or fans get to his head about how you were much younger than him, that you were taking him for granted. That one day, you’d look at him and realise you could do so much better, god. Chris wished he could go back and slap himself for being so stupid.

Once you got everything, you started to head out the door. You were saying a long goodbye to Dodger before you stood and looked at Chris. You get on your tippy toes and place a gentle kiss on his cheek, pulling back and looking into his eyes. “I will always love you, and I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

A tear fell from the pair's eyes as one lover walked away from the other, not knowing they wouldn’t meet again for another couple of months.

During the time they were apart, Chris retired and decided to give therapy a try. Every day, he regrets it, choosing to spend time with family, not once looking for a relationship because he felt a piece of him was missing. Right now, Chris was at the store picking up some food. His relationship with Dodger took some time to heal.

Y/n, well. She decided to go back home for a while, needing to be around her family as she was so heartbroken. Just recently, she moved back to Boston because even though being with her family was lovely, she felt as though Boston was her home, but she still was missing a piece of her. Right now, she’s at the store because her fridge is empty.

The two soulmates didn’t realise they’d meet again.

Y/n goes to reach for a tub of ice cream, and at the same time, so does Chris. Their hands touch and they quickly jerk them away.

“Sorry”

“No– no, I’m sorry.”

Brows furrowed as the voice sounded familiar. They turned to look at each other, and that feeling of emptiness was suddenly filled when their eyes locked. Chris’s face goes red as he gestures to the ice cream, and Y/n grabs it whilst also grabbing another and carefully handing it to him.

They stand awkwardly for a moment, both trying to figure out the right thing to say.

“So… How’ve you been?” Y/n decides to start it off simple, feeling her heart hurt from how much she’s missed him, not the him she unfortunately saw but the one she fell in love with.

“Yeah, good, good. I– uh, retired and started therapy. How have you been?” Chris rubs the back of his neck as Y/n’s eyes widen.

“You retired?” He nods, explaining that he thinks it was time and that he’s been spending more time with his family. “I’ve– uhm. I’ve been good. I decided to move back, as you can see.” They and everyone else can feel the awkward tension, the ex-couple not knowing how to react.

Chris clears his throat before gesturing, “well– it was good seeing you, I should.” Y/n nods, agreeing. They start to separate ways for the second time, and god, is it heartbreaking for the two. At the same time, they turn and face one another before their items are dropped, and they move toward each other, Chris opening his arms and scooping her up as their lips meet.

It looks like something out of a movie to outsiders but to these two. It was like the piece that was missing was finally found.

They pull back for air, and their eyes are full of tears. “I’m so sorry. I’m such a fucking idiot. I never stopped loving you, and I should’ve talked to you instead of being an ass.” Y/n wipes the tear that falls from his eyes. Leaning forward, she places another kiss against his lips.

“I forgave you a long time ago, bubs, and I did say I will always love you.” We stare into each other’s eyes for a while until we both break out into laughter.

“We’ve become one of those cheesy romance movies, haven’t we?”

“Yeah, yeah, we have.”

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

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thedudeplayinggalaga2 · 1 year

Text

See You In The Morning?

Kate Bishop x GN Reader

3K Words

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Angst, Language, Questionable punctuation, I think that's it?

A/N: This is the very first full fic I've ever written and Grammer/Punctuation has never been a strength of mine. I also have no idea if this story makes any sense but I had a good time writing.

You had forgotten to take your ADHD meds this morning, and now you were really paying for it. As you sat at your desk stopping and staring and stopping a multitude of different tasks without actually finishing any of them.

It was Kate's fault really, she had completely thrown off your routine as she had a tendency to do. It was a rather chaotic routine but it still got you out the door in enough time to grab breakfast and make sure you took your stimulant before getting to work.

But last night Kate hadn't come home, she had sent you a quick text telling you not to wait up. This happened fairly often since you'd moved in, and she would usually come home at 3 or 4am. But she hadn't made it home till this morning when you'd already been up and getting ready for work.

You grimaced to yourself thinking about the conversation you'd had with her.

"How's your other lover?" You'd asked

"Listen I know that's a joke but it's not a very funny one! I'm so sorry, I really am! But this mission I've been working for weeks finally had a big break and I needed to follow this lead! I'm so close to catching this guy!"

"It was a joke, and I'm glad you made some headway on your mission, but I did feel sad and concerned when I woke up this morning and you still weren't home." You said this to her with your back turned as you made lucky his breakfast.

You heard Kate get up and walk over to you, she put a hand on your shoulder. You turned to face her and had gotten the first good look at her face since she'd gotten home. You gasped "Kate, that's a pretty nasty cut above your eye! What the hell happened!?"

"I... Well.. you see there was a guy with a bat and.."

You didn't give her time to finish cause honestly you didn't think you wanted to know the rest. So you'd pulled her into the bathroom and started cleaning and patching up her various wounds before having to rush out the door so you would only be slightly late to work.

And now here you are, having a highly unproductive day and also worrying about Kate. She had been having way more late nights than normal recently, and pretty much always came home a little beat up. She definitely wasn't getting anywhere near enough sleep, you assumed this was probably why she had been super distant as of late. And last week she had forgotten about Lucky's vet appointment which was probably the most concerning thing of all.

You've been with Kate long enough to know and understand that this is just what dating a superhero can be like sometimes. But this time it was really starting to effect your relationship for some reason. Things where so inconsistent between the two of you, partly because you never saw each other and partly because when you did Kate didn't talk much about anything of substance.

As Kate had grown more distant you'd started to get shorter with her, finding less and less patience which you normally had a bottomless amount of for her. You'd also stopped planning dates with her, stopped waiting up for her even if she said she wasn't going to be too late, and you'd been regrettablely a little too harsh with her when she forgot Lucky's appointment and you'd hauled ass across town to take him.

Sitting at your desk, switching between the same three programs over and over again you started to tear up. You didn't like this, you didn't like feeling so disconnected from her. You hated how you two seemed to be living completely different lives. Because goddamit you loved Kate Bishop so much! You loved being her partner. Kate was absolutely wonderful! She was passionate, brave, and very caring. She used her skills and talents to help other people, something you admired very much about her. She made you feel seen in a way nobody had ever really seen you before. But most of all Kate made you feel safe, not just physically but emotionally too. She had always felt like home.

----

The subway commute home was never your favorite, it was always so busy this time of day and wildly overstimulating. But you tried to spend the ride figuring out your game plan for when you got home. You wanted to talk to Kate, if she was even home, but you didn't want to create conflict especially if she was going to be leaving again tonight.

As you walked into your apartment Lucky nearly knocked you to the ground, absolutely showering you in kisses.

"Ok! Ok! Lucky I love you too! But we talked about this buddy, you can't just jump somebody at the door!" You said pushing him off before giving him a scratch behind the ears.

You checked that Lucky had water and decided to let him outside as you assumed he'd been inside all day. Then you went to search for Kate.

You found her passed out in your bed on top of the blankets letting you know she'd falled asleep as soon as she laid down. You smiled though as you noticed she was wearing one of your hoodies and probably your sweatpants too.

You bent down the kiss the top of her head before settling down next to her in the bed. Stroking some hair out of her face you couldn't help but smile at your beautiful girlfriend and her slightly battered face.

"What time is it" Kate mumbled so quietly you could barely hear what she said.

"It's about 4:30 my love."

"You're home early."

"Yeah.... I was having a really bad brain day so my manager told me to just go home." You hoped she wouldn't press any further, but that was wishful thinking.

Kate finally opened her eyes to look at you, worry evident in them. "Must have been a real bad brain day for Stark Industries to suddenly prioritize mental health over productivity."

You let out a soft laugh, "Well I definitely wasn't being productive so more likely it just seemed like a waste of company time for me to be there."

Kate sat up against the headboard next to you, looking even more worried, she tapped your forehead softly with her finger "What's goin on up in there?"

You gave her a half hearted smile, "Well I forgot to take my meds this morning which isn't the end of the world but it definitely didn't help, there's also no way I've had enough protein today, and ...." You trailed off trying to decide if now was really the best time to tell her that you were also very worried about her and about your relationship. You decided against it because honestly you couldn't remember the last time you'd just sat in bed with her and you wanted to keep those vibes goin.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it."

"Hope you weren't trying for an Oscar with that performance, because I definitely didn't buy it!" Kate said teasingly.

You groaned looking up at the ceiling "Sorry Kate, I just feel a little overwhelmed right now." Which was entirely true, you did feel very overwhelmed and your brain was going about 200 miles an hour.

"That's okay, how about we get some food and take Lucky for a walk?" She said suppressing a yawn.

"Are you sure? I know you're probably exhausted! You can rest more before you have to go to work."

Kate put her hand on your face stroking your cheek with her thumb. "Yes I'm sure baby, you're having a bad brain day, so let's get some food in you and take a little walk. Also..... I've missed you."

You leaned your head into her hand a little. "I've really missed you to my love."

----

Kate treated you to your favorite restaurant that had some outdoor pet friendly seating so Lucky could join. And now you were walking through central parking doing your best to keep Lucky from trying to chase squirrels.

You'd been walking in silence for a few moments when you finally broke it. "Kate, I was also having a hard time at work today because I was worried about you. And well, also about us...."

Kate slowed down and turned to look at you with a frown on her face "Worried because I was hurt this morning? Because really it was nothing! I appreciate you patching me up, you do a better job than me, but really I'm okay! It looks way worse than it is!" She rambled.

"Well obviously I don't like it when you come home hurt, but it's more to do with how distant you've been. I know how important what you do is, and I would never ask you not to do it! But... You haven't been home much recently, and when you are you seem so distant...." You trailed off realizing you didn't know where this was going.

Kate was quiet for what felt like forever but than she said "This guy I'm trying to catch, he's like really really bad, like I would tell you how bad he is but I really don't want to burden you with that knowledge. It's really hard for me not to think about it when I'm home I guess." She was just staring at the ground now as you walked, and the way her demeanor changed you could tell that this was really weighing on her.

Before you could respond she continued, "But, what did you mean that you're also worried about us?" Her voice getting quieter, almost nervous.

"Well.... I guess I just feel like we are living two completely different lives, passing like ships in the night hardly ever seeing each other. And when we do it's like you're not actually there, or I'm being grumpy with you. This is the first time in weeks we've actually had dinner together. Kate I love you so so much! But I'm getting worried because I want to support you, but I can't do that if I'm always being shut out."

You sat down on a bench taking Kate's hand in yours as she sat next to you. You studied her face trying to figure out what she was thinking.

"I don't like shutting you out.... I just want you to be safe and to not have to deal with the things I do."

"And I do appreciate you leaving out the gruesome details truly, you don't have to tell me everything, but it would be nice if I could at least know what you are feeling sometimes. Because otherwise I have to just try and guess."

Kate nodded her head looking out into the park thoughtfully. "Well right now I'm feeling like I'm absolutely failing at everything! I spent all night tracking that son of a bitch for nothing! I've really dropped the ball on my relationship with you, like I caused a whole ass bad brain day for you! And last week I forgot about Lucky's vet appointment!"

You opened your mouth to something but Kate quickly cut you off "I swear the god Y/N if you say anything about the vet appointment I'm emailing Pepper Pots to tell her you steal all your really good ideas from your intern!"

You gasped dramatically clutching your chest for emphasis "Okay! Uncalled for! But Pepper would know you were lying because my intern, bless his heart, couldn't tell you the difference between a PDF and a JPEG with a gun to his head."

"Okay! So a bad threat but I hope I made my point clear."

"Yes, I swear to never speak or the vet incident again. And I also will apologize for being so harsh on you about it too." You said more soflty "I definitely could have handled that better, I made it a bigger deal than it needed to be and you didn't deserve that. What I was going to say is thank you for telling me how you're feeling, it helps me understand where you're heads at a bit better."

You were going to say more but Kate leaned her head on your shoulder and started playing with your fingers causing your brain to short circuit for a half second.

"Do you think I'm failing?" Kate asked in a whisper.

You stared at her hand intertwined with yours for a minute before responding. "No Kate, I don't think you're failing, I know this bad dude is giving you a run for your money, but he doesn't know who he's up against! Kate Bishop, the world's greatest archer! You're gonna get him, you always figure it out."

Kate sat up and gave you another small smile, she looked down at lucky who was now sitting at her feet enthralled with a stick he had found. "What about us? Am I failing at this relationship?"

"My love, the fact that we are sitting here having this conversation is proof that neither of us are failing." You truly did believe that, and also kind of said it to reassure yourself too because recently you'd been wondering the same thing. "I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to be your partner. I knew there would be nights spent without you, secrets I couldn't know, and the occasional missed vet appointment...."

"Y/N!" Kate said warningly

"Last time I swear!" You said quickly putting your hands up. "But recently you haven't been talking to me about.... Well... Pretty much anything. And I miss you Kate, it feels like you've been gone for weeks and I miss you."

Kate looked at you with tears in her eyes "God I've missed you too Y/N. I do want to talk to you about how I'm feeling and what I'm doing. I just don't want you to get caught up in all this. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Well right now it's hurting me to not know anything that's going on with you."

She nodded "Yeah, I understand, I feel like I don't know what's going on with you right now either, like I don't even know what your current hyper fixation food is and I always know that."

"Well right now it's those little babybel cheeses, but last week it was BBQ chicken pizza from that place down the street from us."

"I bet Lucky enjoyed that one." Kate leaned down to take Lucky's stick before he shredded it more than he already had.

"Oh he very much did! Everyday I come home without it he looks at me as if it's the greatest betrayal he's ever experienced."

Kate stood offering you her had so you could continue your walk. "Y/N I promise that as soon as I catch that bastard my first priority will be making sure we get some quality time together okay? And in the meantime I will be better at communicating."

"Okay, I love you Kate, and I know you're gonna get him!"

---

You had gotten back home a few minutes ago and you were getting Lucky his dinner. You expected Kate was in your room putting her suit on assuming she would probably be heading out soon. So you were surprised when she walked into the kitchen wearing her signature purple sweatshirt and your sweatpants.

"I do need to go back out tonight but I thought it'd be nice for both of us if we maybe watched a movie or something before you go to bed?" She asked hopefully.

This made light up instantly, but then you frowned at the prospect of having to try and pay attention to any entire feature length film. "I would love that, but seeing as I didn't complete even one task at work today I just don't think I'm gonna be able to watch a movie."

Kate looked thoughtful "Good point, should have thought of that. Okay.... How about we watch TikToks together with New Girl playing in the background?"

"And that Bishop is possible the best idea you've ever had!"

So you and Kate spent the rest of the evening cuddled up on the couch doing exactly that.

---

You and Lucky had just gotten into bed for the night and Kate was getting ready to head out. She came and sat on the edge of the bed leaning in to give you a kiss. "Y/N if I don't get this guy tonight I don't know what else I'm gonna do."

"Well, have you asked Clint for advice?"

"No, he's on vacation with his family and I don't want to bother him."

You nodded, being sure that while Clint loved Kate and was always helping her out, he probably wouldn't appreciate his family vacation being interrupted by whatever it was Kate was doing. "Okay, fair, well I'm here for whatever happens. I might not be a superhero but I do work for a very powerful company and Jerry from the biotech department owes me about 20 favors. And I'll be her to patch you up, just try not to break anything cause then I really will have to insist on taking you to the ER."

Kate gave you a massive grin as she said "You're my superhero though."

"Okay! That was so cheesy it was physically painful to hear! Imma need you to go now!"

Kate responded with the first genuine laugh you had heard from her in weeks before leaning in to give you another kiss.

As she left the room she turned to look at you and Lucky all tucked into bed. "I love you both, I'll see you in the morning?"

"We love you too! Ummm... If it's not too much to ask, do you think you could bring me breakfast in the morning? I have to do two days worth of work tomorrow and it would help a lot!"

#kate bishop fanfiction #kate bishop fic #kate bishop x reader #mcu fanfiction #kate bishop x y/n

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toshidou · 1 year

Text

Chapter One // Mouth Wide, Fangs Revealed

Series Masterlist

Pairing // Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Word Count // 7.9k

Tags // angst, descriptions of injury and violence, swearing, ghost is a little bit of a bitch but we still love him, angst, the enemies to lovers is enemies to lovering

Summary // two weeks out from an injury that left you shaken with repressed memories, it becomes apparent that soon you'll be face to face with the man who haunts your nightmares, and fuels the spite in your veins. the question is, will being confronted with him leave you broken once again, or will you rise from the ashes?

AN // honestly this is the longest thing i've ever written, and it's only chapter one. guys i'm scared. anyway this is just near 8k of build up to the girl's fighting <33 love that for them

Prologue

The deafening sound of whirring helicopter blades leaves your ears ringing, not in the slightest aiding the dull throb that builds behind your closed eyes, weary fingers reaching up to massage slow circles into either side of your temple.

“You good, Viper?”

You muster a snort, peeling open one eye to cast a glance towards the brunette man opposite you.

“Just peachy, Phoenix.” Macintosh merely grins in response, pushing himself from the thin steel bench, reaching for the handle next to your head as he yanks the sliding door open, a low whistle pushing past pursed lips as he takes in the base, bathed in darkness save for blinding flood lights that illuminate the airstrip.

“Another late one, eh?”

A new wave of pain blossoms as the chopper makes contact with the landing strip, metal foot pedals meeting rough tarmac, the action causing your aching body to jolt forward, hissing when your finger slips and digs into the scabbed cut on your forehead.

It’s been roughly two weeks since you were flung like a ragdoll by C4. Two weeks since your body was left wrought with wounds, both new and old. Much to your chagrin, your Captain had given you strict orders of bed rest, the remainder of your time in Al Mazrah had been spent tossing and turning in an uncomfortable cot, being fussed over by medics as they cleaned and stitched your wounds, badgering you at least three times a day with inane questions like, “can you tell me your name?”, and “do you know where you are?”, you had come close to tearing your own fucking hair out. But as much as you hate to admit it, even those two weeks glued to a bed weren’t enough to fully heal your body, still afflicted with lingering aches and pains that leave you wincing at every bump in the road, or supposedly ‘encouraging’ slap to your back, courtesy of one Brodie Macintosh.

“C’mon, Boss sounded pretty serious about us being on time for this meetin’, y’know what that means.” Doe huffs, shoving her hand into her trouser pocket, fingers emerging with a pack of painkillers pinched between gloved digits, thrusting them in your direction without sparing you a glance.

“Means I’ll probably get to have at least one hot shower before we’re jettin’ off to another crisis, think we’ll ever get more than one night off at a time?” You just barely make out Macintosh’s words over the thunderous roar of blades above you, not at all aided by his thick Geordie accent that blurs every syllable. You take the drugs, popping them from their casings and swallowing them dry, cringing lightly as they slowly work their way down your throat.

“Probably not Nix, turns out people are dead set on starting world war three.” With more effort than you care to admit, you heave yourself off your seat, and climb down onto the tarmac, ducking your head as you run under still whirring chopper blades. Without turning back, you begin the walk from the landing pad to your Captain’s office.

“Which means we have to deal with your ghastly stench for another fortnight.” You can practically hear the grin that stretches at Jane’s lips, don’t have to turn to know that Macintosh most definitely stuck his tongue out at her in response.

“Yeah, real mature, dickhead.”

You sigh, dropping your head to hide the laugh that threatens to spill past cracked lips.

“Shut ya gob, Bambi.”

Their banter helps lighten the anxious mood you feel clinging to your bruised form, an unease that’s been ever present since the accident. You’ve gone so many years successfully keeping him out of your thoughts, never letting an ounce of his presence creep into your memories, or haunt your dreams. For a fleeting moment, you finally felt free from the grip he’d always maintained upon you. But then Al Mazrah happened, a stone cold reminder that he will always plague your mind, hiding in the shadows, waiting to render you a puppet to his power once more.

Your squad knows your injuries surpassed the superficial, that whatever you experienced changed you somehow, made your muscles taut, your gaze sharper, like you were constantly on the defensive.

Footsteps echo through empty halls, dimly lit by cheap bulbs that cast an ugly yellow glow against the plain cream paint of the barrack halls. The silence is broken not by you, or your two companions, but from low voices that leak under the crack of your Captain’s door, the words indistinguishable, but the deep grunt that curls around intelligible syllables has the hairs on the back of your neck rising. Jane raps her knuckles against wood thrice, leaning against the door frame as she waits for permission to enter, given mere seconds later by the booming voice of the one and only Ryan Samuels.

You fight past a sudden feeling of nausea as you step past the boundary of the office door, eyes locking with the unmistakable figure that is Captain John Price, leader of Task Force 141. He’s not joined by his infamous squad, praise the Lord, but his stance carries the staunch confidence of a man who knows how much power he alone wields, hands gripping onto the leather straps of his harness where it meets at his collarbones, azure eyes narrowed as they lock onto you. He sniffs, head jolting to the side as he motions for Macintosh to close the door behind him. Only once the click of the lock sounds does he speak, turning back to your Captain, who sits at his desk, his broad back ramrod straight against the spine of the imposing black leather chair.

“Let’s get started then, shall we?” Gruff words accompanied by the slam of documents as they’re tossed onto the mahogany desk below, each stamped with a bold red “CLASSIFIED”. You try with every ounce of residual energy you can muster to pay attention, to follow along with the rough drawl of the man before you, but it’s near impossible to hear him over the hammering of your heart against your fractured rib cage at the sheer thought of who exactly it is that works under his command. Though you knew this day was coming, the inevitability of bumping into him grew nearer with each day you became stronger, knowing that climbing the ranks in this institution could only ever end with one outcome: working with the Ghost.

It’s something every other soldier in these barracks waited for with baited breath, grown adults huddled in groups and whispering to each other as soon as a mere rumour of Ghost’s presence at camp began circulating, all counting down to the day that they could brag about having worked with one of the most revered, and feared soldiers known to the SAS, if not the world.

But you? You turn your nose at the notion of enduring his company, professionally or otherwise. You’ve never shared the reason, never trusting anyone enough to tear out your own threadbare sutures and show them the ugly truth that hides behind military garb, not even your squad. It feels wrong, revealing that you not only knew Ghost, but had once known him intimately. Romantically. It’s always been unbearably uncomfortable to hear strangers hypothesise about his past, crafting theories on why he wears the mask, but especially when they gossip about his possible romantic or sexual endeavours; revealing in hushed whispers about an encounter they witnessed where he leaned a little too close to a nurse in the medic’s bay, or when they swore they saw him take a lady home from the bar in the rec centre.

It leaves you shaking every time, fists clenched so tightly part of you fears the bones may shatter under the pressure. And it’s pathetic really, that you let clearly erroneous rumours get the better of your carefully crafted composure, but if you’re being honest with yourself, he has always been an outlier. Different from the rest in a way that drove you insane, that still gets under your skin half a decade after you last saw his face. He knew you like no one else ever bothered to, peeled back the layers of your brain until he was left with the core of who you were; he could predict your every movement, holding out a tissue before you even knew you were going to sneeze. It ended up being both the biggest blessing, and most detrimental of curses.

You zone back into the conversation just as Price has finished his spiel, hands coming down to collect the files spread sporadically across Samuels’ desk. One look at both Doe and Phoenix confirms the dread in your stomach is not misplaced, twin pairs of eyes gleaming in the twilight, giddy hands wrung behind their backs as if that hides obvious excitement, like children on Christmas morning.

But the final nail in the coffin comes from your superior, the man who took the broken remnants of your psyche and crafted a monster, forged a weapon from bitter resentment and all-consuming spite, now unwittingly handing you the ultimate challenge to your hardy resolve.

“Looking forward to working with you, Captain.”

— — — —

Just one mission. A collaboration between the SAS’s most successful counterterrorism task forces, a decision that apparently “felt natural”, two groups fighting a common enemy are best working together, Macintosh accentuates an exaggerated rough timbre as he quotes Price’s earlier speech. If this were any other circumstance, you wouldn’t hesitate to poke fun at his clear idolisation of the 141’s Captain, instead, you’re left to amble two paces behind, feet dragging against dirt laden tiles, like a woman walking to her own execution.

You have 12 hours to prepare yourself, to concoct your own mask, moulded from false confidence and an exaggerated bravado, rather than reinforced plastic in the shape of a skull.

A mere 12 hours until you see him for the first time in 5 years, in full military attire, large, imposing, and hauntingly familiar. The idea of the Ghost doesn’t intimidate you the way it does everyone else. No, what terrifies you most is looking at him and knowing that just under his left eye, concealed by hard white plastic, is a small mole. That his nose and cheeks are dusted with light freckles, barely visible until your forehead brushes his. You're scared shitless of looking at the monster and seeing the man behind it, the man you once forced to dance around the kitchen, strong arms nestling you safely to his chest, white flour smeared across cheeks, his lips stretched wide with an adoring smile saved only for you.

The same man who turned on his heel and so casually removed himself from your life. No, the only Ghost you’ve ever feared was the one he left behind, haunting the corner of every room in the house you once owned, turning precious memories into taunting nightmares. He never came back to collect his belongings, cruelty to the nth degree; you spent too many nights huddled on his side of the bed, nose pushed into a sweatshirt that no longer bore his scent and wondering if he longed for you too.

Joining the SAS had given you the opportunity to move on, to push those things behind you, to sell the house and everything in it, leaving the new owners to throw out the things you could never bring yourself to. But despite longing for nothing more than a new beginning, you only felt like you had finally been gifted the chance for a new life when you met Captain Ryan “Tiny” Samuels. An ironic name for such a mountain of a man.

It still seems so fresh in your mind, the memory of you meeting your current Captain. It had been during sparring practice, Lieutenant Phillips giving half-assed commands with a nonchalant wave of his hand, too busy nursing a thermos flask full of God knows what to even spare a glance at the makeshift fighting ring comprised of a patchwork of padded mats. Sweat had dripped down your forehead in a near constant stream, but despite your bone-deep exhaustion, you never once relented. It was a classic game of King of the Castle, one person stays on the mat until they’re pinned, or yield, replaced by the victor. You had been undefeated for a period of 45 minutes, and all because one corporal had been stupid enough to call you out first, mistaking you for an easy target. It had taken roughly 10 seconds before he was face down into the mat, slapping his free hand against the PVC as you held him in an arm bar. You hadn’t left the mat since.

Little did you know that lurking in the dim corner of the gym, watching every soldier fall to your unshakable resolve and instinctual ability to fight, was the man you would soon call your superior. You had finally fallen 20 minutes later, a swift kick to the gut that sent you spluttering to the floor, chest heaving with built up fatigue. The winner extended their hand out, aided you to your unsteady feet with a supportive clap on the back, your lungs still burning with the lingering embers of enervation. You hadn’t even made it to the changing rooms before he emerged from the shadows, hardened hazel eyes locked to yours as he told you, with no room for possible argument, that you would be transferred to his troop.

You’ve been firmly under his wing ever since, transformed from a Corporal fighting just to feel something, to a Sergeant, a weapon within your own right. The soldier no one sees coming, a viper. He taught you how to hone your rage, your sadness, your guilt, and reshape it into clean strikes and a sharp mind.

The door to your quarters shuts with a definitive bang, the click of the lock automatically sliding into place has you blinking the sheen from your eyes, mind reeling as you rouse from your daydreams. The low echoes of voices from Macintosh and Davies slowly drift until you’re met with silence, a silence that should feel like an old friend, yet feels just as oppressive as the office you’ve just come from. There are so many reasons that you hate him, but it’s your relationship with the quiet that he so efficiently destroyed that you despise him for the most. You used to bask in quietude, used it to recalibrate your mind, let the silence soothe your anxiety-addled thoughts. But you can’t fucking stand it now, whispers of the past reverberate through your skull in neverending droves, memories you wish were long forgotten playing on loop, inescapable, and downright harrowing.

You only feel the tension seep from your rigid muscles when the sound of the radio fills the bare four walls you’ve learned to call home. It’s like a cold compress to a pounding head, the way it has your shoulders melting down from where they were hunched at your ears, finally alone in a way you can tolerate, mind vacant of its usual intrusive thoughts. The bed creaks as you perch on the edge, fingers gripping the thin mattress either side of your thighs. Blinking red lights illuminating your room with a taunting flash of the time, 1:58 AM.

10 hours.

Fuck.

— — — —

Somehow, you must have fallen asleep, joints creaking as you shift and peel open your eyes; squinting as the dawn leaks through open curtains, dousing your room in rich tones of burnt orange and deep amber.

‘Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.’ Even the sun is supplying you with its judgement upon the day ahead, and its forecast is foreboding at best.

Crackled voices continue to emanate from the radio that remains perched on your dresser, a reliable and constant source of companionship, as pathetic as that may seem. You allow yourself a few minutes of slumber, never sinking into the deep of restful sleep, instead you simply lay there and listen to radio hosts chatter about blissful nothingness. But seared behind your eyelids is the clock.

6:13 AM.

You meet with Price and his squad at 12, a quick ‘hello’ on the tarmac before being shoved into a helo and sent back off into the fray. Fighting side by side with the once love of your life, turned bitter, repressed memory. You can’t hold back the snort of disbelief, unable to comprehend the car crash that is your life. With a crack of your neck, you set about your usual morning routine with little enthusiasm, blank eyes darkened around the sockets meet yours in the mirror.

You should be a little more concerned about the stranger you see in the reflection, but you can’t bring yourself to care. If you’re unknown to even yourself, what chance does he have of recognising you? In a fucked up way, it’s that thought that has your chin lifting, your shoulders squared, watching as you sharpen from the weary Sergeant to the snake. You’re not the same person who he left to shrivel up and die all those years ago, your wounds long since patched up. Sure, he left you without a heart to pound beneath scarred skin, but you never needed one of those in your line of work anyway; he’ll find out soon enough just what kind of monstrosity he helped create.

You spend the next few hours gathering your belongings together, a small duffle bag filled with a couple of spare uniforms, some loose tops and shorts for the restless sleep you’re sure to be suffering through for the next few weeks. The biggest bag is still empty, sunken where it slumps next to the door, ready to be filled to the brim with an array of weapons. You haul the duffle over your shoulder, sneaking one final glance at your reflection in the full length mirror.

A black halter vest tucked into military cargo trousers, sunglasses perched on the end of your nose, steely irises just visible over the top of solid black frames. You clench your jaw, and feel the last section of your mask slide into place, crushing any remaining trepidation you let linger at the back of your mind. Nothing will get in the way of you maintaining the reputation you’ve earned, especially not him. Never him.

Your steel capped boots pound against the vinyl flooring, each stride bringing you ever closer to the armoury, your hastened pace faltering when you hear a low whistle from your right.

“Now there’s the Viper I remember.”

“Don’t be weird, Brodie, you saw me yesterday.” Despite your faux irate tone, you can’t help the smug grin that tugs at the edges of your lips.

“Ouch, bringin’ out the first name, you wound me, noodle.”

Fucking noodle. He’s been calling you that ever since you were given the alias ‘Viper’, you can still see the playful glint in his eye when he pulled up the google search ‘danger noodle’ on his phone, pointing to the first image and just barely dodging the slap to his arm as he told everyone, ‘Look, identical right?’.

“Not my fault your ego is so easily damaged,” your neck twists towards him, your spare hand coming up to gesture to the open door of the armoury, “Ladies first.” He sweeps by you with an exaggerated coquettish smile, fluttering his eyelashes so fast you’re scared he might be having a seizure.

“Such a gentleman.”

You tip your head down in response, letting yourself enjoy the banter that always flows so easily between the two of you. You still can’t quite pinpoint when Macintosh had gone from your over-eager colleague to a firm and loyal friend, a brother in arms. But truth be told, you’re not sure if you’d have made it to the position you’re in today without him and his unwavering support and steadfast humour, never dwindling no matter how dire the situation.

You send a nod to the soldier at the front desk, enduring minimal pleasantries as he quickly locates both yours and Phoenix’s keys to your weapon lockers, tossing them over the desk into eagerly awaiting hands. All it takes is a swift glance to your side to notice the way Macintosh is practically vibrating out of his own skin. It’s unsurprising, really, you’ve spent many a long night listening to the stories he’d heard about the 141, the bitter reminder of him numbed by the glint in your friend’s eyes, a look you recognised immediately as immense admiration. He’s wanted to work alongside them for as long as you’ve known him, and you let that desire to see his dreams fulfilled settle alongside the volatile thrum of pent up apprehension, if only to pacify the feeling for a moment long enough that you can truly be happy that Price showed up in your Captain’s office.

You set the empty bag at the foot of a red steel locker, your name clearly labelled across the front in bold black letters, and twist the key where it resides in the lock, sighing happily when you’re met with the sight of your beloved gear. You waste no time unhooking the brown leather harness and fixing it in place across your torso, loading each holster with your pistol, and an assortment of knives. With a firm tug, you tighten the straps until they’re secured against your chest, the familiar feeling of leather digging into your shoulders shouldn’t make you as happy as it does; maybe it’s the knowledge that you’re fully suited up, any crack in the armour is patched up with the weighted security of weaponry within immediate reach.

It’s only once you’ve zipped up your rifles that Jane finally saunters into view, sending both you and Brodie a two fingered salute before wordlessly packing up her own gear. A large sniper rifle, an SP-X 80, her angel of death, as she so morbidly refers to it. You shrug in response to Macintosh’s bemused nudge at your shoulder, leaning down to secure your fingers around the straps of your weapon bag, the cutting sting of nylon webbing eased by the black fingerless gloves you adorn.

“C’mon, shitbags, let’s get movin’, can’t keep Cap waitin’.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” You hum, barely audible over Macintosh’s booming voice as you both easily fall in step with your superior, you at her left, Phoenix at her right, a natural formation for your little trio.

Rays of light stream through scattered clouds above, casting what seems like a spotlight on the airstrip before you, the stage set for what is sure to be an explosive show to say the very least. It all seems too perfect, poetic, like this exact scenario has been written by the forces above, and they expect it to be carried out with nothing less than spectacular grandeur. Except you don’t want drama, tension, or an eager audience to make light entertainment out of your torment, you want nothing more than to put your head down, and get your hands dirty.

As much as you promised yourself to not let him cross your mind, not even your steadfast determination can stop the morbidly curious thought that surfaces once the helo appears on the near horizon.

‘How the fuck is he going to react to this?’

As far as you’re aware, your presence is unknown to him. In the many years you’ve been with the SAS, you have effectively managed to evade every room he’s bothered to grace with an ease that would rival his infamous ability to blend into the shadows. Your name is unknown to most, those outside of your squad only knowing you as the Viper, a choice you made to delay the inevitable for as long as you were physically able. So it’s you who has the element of the surprise. For once, it’s you who holds the power in your gloved grasp.

What has loose tendrils of doubt unfurling from the box you enclosed every ounce of anxiety in, however, is the complete inability to predict what exactly is going to happen the second recognition flashes behind cold chestnut eyes. All you know is that you’ve had five years to prepare yourself for this moment, and as much as you wish you could say the thought has never graced your mind, long nights spent running through this exact scenario say very much otherwise.

You’re ready.

Until blurred figures sharpen.

Until their softened edges become defined.

Until your eyes lock on harsh black, and stark white.

Until you see the spectre that’s bedevilled your existence for entirely too fucking long.

Until he provides the spark that ignites the anxiety in your stomach, blue flames scorching the blood that thrums though pulsing veins, leaving nothing but fury and ash in its wake.

Your wrath has a hunger equal to that of a forest fire, greedy and vicious, never satiated, never full. But it’s controlled within the confines of your skin, locked behind the bars of well taught self-restraint, a lesson you have Samuels to thank for as you focus your attention on said Captain, his eyes meeting yours with a barely there smile lifting at the edges of usually stoic lips.

“Here they are, fashionably late, as always.” Your Captain hums, a gleam to his eyes you’ve come to recognise as him toying with his squad. You expect Doe to pipe up, jokingly back talking to her boss that only she could ever get away with. You even suspect that Macintosh may jump in, knowing that his excitable nerves will have his lips looser than ever. What you never could have predicted, however, is Gaz.

“Viper? Damn, long time no see, eh?” It’s almost comical, how quickly your head snaps in his direction, an easy smile gracing your no doubt tense features at the sight of an old friend.

“Some might say not long enough, Garrick.” You quip, internally reminding yourself to thank whatever God has taken pity on your long-standing plight and blessed you with the distraction that is Kyle.

“Why, still need time to practise your aim?”

Ah. You’d first met Gaz on your first assignment under Captain Samuels, a god awful mission in Greenland, chasing some bastards who thought hiding their base in the middle of a snow riddled wasteland was a wise idea. In theory, of course, it had initially worked quite well, until a snowstorm had penned them into the very base they thought would protect them. Getting them to surrender had been a walk in the park. What had not been so easy, however, was leaving.

Just as they were trapped, you and your team were too. So of course as everyone waited for the storm to pass, and for the evac team to eventually clear you a route out, it had been a rough 29 hours spent huddled together for a glimpse of heat. But the boredom was as deadly as the frigid chill, until Garrick set up some targets in the form of flimsy cups from a water dispenser, and handed you the unloaded rounds from his gun. You both spent the remainder of your time throwing bullets at styrofoam, with you losing by a mere point after he jabbed your side milliseconds before the projectile left your fingertips, sending it spiralling way off your initial target.

“I hope in your old age you haven’t forgotten that you cheated to get that cheap victory, Sergeant,” You tilt your chin up, gazing at him through the darkened lens of your sunglasses, “I’d be happy to honour a rematch though, I’m nice like that.” He rewards you with a grin, any words of retaliation dying on his tongue as Price clears his throat, narrowed cobalt eyes glancing between you and Garrick with barely concealed interest.

“That’s enough chit chat,” A light chill trickling down your spine where the gruff of his voice curls around words like smoke, “Let’s get to work. Ghost, make sure we’re prepped for takeoff.”

It’s only then that the blissful banter and light mood dissipates, the moment shattered as the reminder of who else shares your presence hits you with a force akin to a freight train. It’s sheer instinct that has your gaze settling on the man in question, and it takes every fibre of self-control in your body to keep your face neutral, and your muscles relaxed.

Because there, stood but a few feet from you, wide eyes burning holes into the side of your face, is Simon motherfucking Riley.

The silence is near unbearable, although in reality it can’t have lasted any more than mere seconds, it’s more than enough to let you know your sudden appearance has truly thrown him, a feat you didn’t know were possible until this very moment. Whilst never letting his gaze leave yours, he slowly begins to stalk backwards towards the helo door.

“Affirmative.”

Rough. Rumbling. Sonorous. His truly unforgettable cadence rattles through your bones, shakes you to your core. It’s like suddenly you’re transported back to five years prior, like no time has passed at all and you’re still the lovesick fool who so desperately wanted his approval, craved his unwavering support that you’d grown wholly too reliant on. But somehow, despite the flood of once buried feelings, you maintain eye contact, refusing to back down from whatever this moment between the two of you is.

“Well, that was weird.” A new voice chimes in, steeped in a Scottish timbre, one you connect with the infamous ‘Soap’.

“Tell me about it.” When you turn to face Macintosh at his abrupt inclusion, you’re met with a rare stern expression, one that contorts his eyebrows until they’re nearly pinched at the top of his nose. A face that promises to ask you plenty of questions regarding the tense moment that transpired between you, and a man that you should have no connection to.

A short shake of your head conveys your message to him well enough, a sharp ‘I’ll tell you later’, it’ll be enough to get him off your back for now. Though you know that no amount of time will ever be enough to figure out how exactly you explain your relationship with the man he knows as Ghost. Samuels saves you the trouble for now, however, his baritone inflection cutting through your racing thoughts.

“By now, you should all know the mission brief, infiltrate AQ’s base in north Adal, retrieve stolen intel, and get the fuck out of there. If we do it right, they won’t have realised the intel is missing until we’re halfway across the ocean. The two task forces will be split into three teams,” Samuels crooks a finger at Davies, “Lieutenant Doe and Captain Price will be providing sniper support from the surrounding hills. Soap, Viper, you’ll be on the ground clearing the way and ensuring there’s a safe path in and out of the encampment for Ghost to safely retrieve the stolen data, and return it back to us. Gaz, Phoenix, and I will be creating a diversion outside the perimeter, should keep them busy enough that the ground team shouldn’t incur too many issues. Understood?”

A cacophony of ‘Affirmatives’ ring across the airstrip, all except yours, an exasperated huff falling from your lips in disbelief, because of course you’ve been put in a team with Simon.

“Got an issue, Sergeant?” All eyes turn to you. With a low grunt, you hike your duffle bags higher up your shoulder and begin walking onto the awaiting transport helicopter, the blades slowly beginning to turn as the engine roars to life, with one last glance, your eyes lock with Samuels’, and you send him a forced grin.

“Never, Captain.”

— — — —

The ride, to be put simply, is 6 and a half hours of torturous awkwardness, the air surrounding its inhabitants remaining stilted and uncomfortable for the entire duration. You attempted to pass the time by cleaning your weapons, despite the fact that each one is already spotless, not a fleck of dust, dirt, or blood to be found on any of them. But the repetitive motion of wiping a cloth across sharpened metal, or the meticulous deconstruction of your pistol in order to reach every nook and crevice helps occupy your mind.

It doesn’t stop you from feeling every minute of the journey though, seconds dragging endlessly until eventually the chopper meets tarmac. Unsurprisingly, you’re the first one to exit, desperately needing to suck in a lungful of air that hasn’t been tainted by him. The heat of Adal is just as suffocating, however, the air dense, and claggy, each breath feels as though it sticks to your lungs. Thankfully, the three awaiting cars are parked firmly in the shade, providing momentary relief from the blistering sun in the form of air conditioning. The reprieve doesn’t last for long though, seconds after you collapse onto the seat, haphazardly throwing your bags of clothes and equipment into the boot, the light flooding in through the open door blacks out, shadowed by the eclipse that is Ghost.

The cooled car no longer feels as refreshing, your chest constricting as he takes the seat next to you, leaving Soap to awkwardly climb onto the bench opposite, sapphire eyes darting between the unlikely duo as though you're wild animals.

You’ve never minded small spaces, in some cases, they’ve almost been comforting; now, however, you’ve never felt so claustrophobic, the right side of your torso pushed as far against the opposite end of the car as your body, and unrelenting metal will allow. In your momentary panic, you almost miss the large hand that appears in your peripheral, muscles going stiff as soon as you realise that his fingers are extending towards you.

“Comms, take it.”

Harsh. He’s pissed. Or upset. In the time you’ve spent apart, it’s disconcerting how much, and yet how little has changed.

You snatch the ear piece from his grasp, not risking more contact with him than strictly necessary, and slide it into place around your left ear, threading the wire through your clothes and linking it to the device attached to the strap on your harness. It only takes a push of a button for the transmitter to spark to life, unfamiliar voices of surrounding soldiers flooding your ear, quickly amending it to receive the assigned channel for your team to avoid any risk of an ill-timed headache.

“Testing, Ground Team, do you copy?” Doe’s voice crackles, a much needed comfort when you realise this is the first mission you’ll be heading into for a long time without your team right by your side, instead having to entrust your safety into the hands of a complete stranger, and a man you’re nearly 100% sure despises you.

“We copy, just arrived at the dropoff.”

“Understood, we’re a minute off being in position. Captain, we’ll wait on your signal.”

The only response is rough static, faint voices heard just under the white noise that threatens to deafen your left eardrum. You see Soap’s lips open, mouth ready to form words, when he’s abruptly interrupted by an explosion, smoke pluming so quickly towards the sky it begins to black out the sun.

“That’s our signal.” Ghost grunts, large hands ripping open the side door and wasting not a single second to turn back to either you or Soap before he disappears.

Two can play at that game.

In your haste, the bag of rifles and shotguns you packed is left stranded in the boot, but you’ve gone into missions with much less than a handful of knives and a pistol and made it out with only a scratch to show for it.

“Soap, that’s our building there,” you hum, dragging his head to your eye level, steady arms pointing out the large blue building that sits directly in the middle of AQ’s makeshift camp, “If we make our way across the rooftops, we’ll drastically reduce the chances of bumping into any sorry fuckers who might get in our way.”

You unclasp your pistol from its holster and flick off the safety, feeling that oh-so-familiar surge of adrenaline at the echo of shouts and gunfire emanating from the front gate.

“Let’s do some parkour then, aye?” Soap straightens up, retrieving his own weapon and sending you a wink, lips curled up in a light smirk before you both set off, running towards the nearest building, guns raised as you approach an open door, just barely hung on by loose hinges. You can’t help but grin, watching as Soap tentatively pushes the door further ajar with his foot, gun raised and at the ready. Meanwhile, you’ve already calculated your way in.

Without so much as a word, you run at the decrepit AC just to the left of the door Soap is guarding, jumping on top of the dented metal and propelling yourself up until your fingers curl around the splintering wood of a window pane, any glass blocking your path in long since shattered. It takes little effort to pull yourself up, and jump into the second story room, just barely catching the ‘Steamin’ Jesus’ from Soap where he still stands downstairs.

Within seconds you clear the building for any possible intruders, calling out to Soap that he’s free to enter as you begin bounding up crumbling steps two at a time. You’ve already plotted out an easy path to take across the rooftops by the time Soap joins you, shallow huffs of breath pulled past cracked lips as he sidles up next to you.

“Y’know, when I said ‘let’s do some parkour’, I meant when we got to the rooftops.”

In response, you slot your gun into its holster, and stretch out your calves, your head just tilting in his direction as you slowly back up from the building’s ledge.

“Try to keep up, yeah?” This time it’s you who sends him the wink, taking great satisfaction in his surprised expression before you take off, the short run up giving you enough momentum to leap from the rooftop Soap still occupies to the next. You don’t once look back to see if he’s following, trusting the 141 are competent enough to keep up with a small amount of aerobics.

It’s moments like these when you fall in love with your job the most, rough wind driving small grains of sand against your exposed skin, fingers scraped red from gripping onto ledges and scrambling against harsh rock, knees lined with small cuts and blossoming bruises, because you’ve never felt more alive.

It’s the screaming from below that keeps you tethered to your work though, a gritty reminder that your team is down there, risking their lives to give you cover, to get the mission done.

There’s only one more building that separates you from the peeling blue paint of your target, you hardly hesitate on taking the leap onto the rooftop below, body automatically rolling to alleviate the impact. It’s only when you’ve come to a stop do you realise you’re not alone, a man with a sniper rifle lays prone against the concrete, the red of his laser focused upon the chaos below. You fingers have just wrapped around the hilt of a knife before your transmitter hisses to life.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered spidermonkey.” The impact of the bullet driving through his skull should send you to the floor, heaving whatever’s left of your breakfast onto the scorching stone. But you’ve been in this game long enough, and all you feel is relief at the sound of Doe’s jovial tone, a solid reminder that your Lieutenant is always looking out for you. You send a loose salute in what you assume is her direction just as Soap lands next to you, sparing you a withering glance before you’re both making your way to the last jump, muscles showing the first sign of exertion as you pull yourself into the vacant windowpane.

“This is Viper,” You murmur, fingers wrapped around your transmitter, “Ground Team have made it to the target building, route has been cleared for extract.”

“About time you caught up.” You hate the fact you jump, hands automatically drawing a knife until it resonates that the voice is one you’re far too familiar with, exhaling a shaky sigh as you right yourself and jam the knife back into its rightful place.

“You need to be more careful about who you sneak up on, might end up with a blade through the eye.” You can’t stop the words that spit out of you, not sure if you even tried to hold them back, eyes just barely casting over to his figure, half hidden by the shadows.

“And you need to be more careful when you’re addressing your superiors, Sergeant, might end up without a job.”

Rage flows anew within you, rabid fire rattling against the bars of its cage from where it once lay dormant under your skin, its teeth bared, saliva dripping from exposed gums peeled back in a show of nothing less than unadulterated aggression. But under your skin, it remains. Instead of throwing fists, you hurl him an unimpressed glare, only just managing to retain your composure when he tilts his head at you in response, harsh, cold eyes fixed to yours. Without so much as a sound, he pushes himself off the wall he leant on, large strides covering the distance between you both in a scarily short amount of time, your breath catching in your throat as you belatedly wonder if this is where he chooses to confront you.

Yet he breezes past you, the side of his bicep just barely grazing the skin of your shoulder as he disappears from your vision.

“Room’s this way, get a fuckin’ move on.”

And you’re left with little other option than to turn on your heel and follow him, trying to bury the hint of a reminder of how his skin felt when it used to brush yours, to take those bittersweet memories and feed them to the flames.

For the rest of the mission, you daren’t open your mouth. Not because you’re scared of Ghost, but for fear that once you let your lips part, the torrent you’ve so diligently held within you will rip itself from your grasp. Because despite any intense personal feelings, your desire to do your job, and do it fucking well, will always be your number one priority. You utter not a single word. Not when the intel is successfully obtained. Not when you make your way back back to your exfil in the searing heat. Not when the car door slams shut behind you, tires spinning against loose asphalt as the car speeds away from the scene behind you, only just able to make out dark clouds of smoke in the rearview mirror. The car is deathly silent, save for the occasional transmission between the other two teams, all members having successfully made it to safety, and are on route to the safe house, provided by a friend of Captain Price’s.

But it doesn’t matter how silent you are. You can feel the way tension builds, sporadic sparks that threaten to ignite the air that sits heavy in your lungs, so thick it risks choking you. You know that this can only end one way, that the hostility can only be stretched so far until it gives in to the force and snaps. You just weren’t expecting it to happen the moment you got out of the car.

Your eyes have only just found Macintosh’s before a hand clamps down on your shoulder, your muscles coiling in retaliation as you attempt to throw his weight off you.

“What the fuck are you doing here.”

When you turn to face him, it’s like staring into a mirror. A reflection of every ounce of rage burns within his blackened eyes, staring down at you as though he hated having to even acknowledge your existence.

“Last time I checked, I was doing my job, Lieutenant.” Try as you might to keep your voice level, you can’t help but grit out his rank, lips hissing around the syllables like it pained you to utter them.

“You know damn fuckin’ well what I meant by that.”

You leave him with a scoff, shaking his hand from your skin and storming off in the direction of the safe house, a last ditch attempt to hold off a confrontation you’ve dreaded for at least another day. You’ve almost made it to the door when you hear your name snarled into the desert, echoing between the walls of abandoned houses, blown apart by war, old blood seared into crumbling brick. It looks like the remnants of your relationship, fragile and too far gone to be repaired. Maybe this is what Simon saw before he turned his back on you, just someone who wasn't worth the effort it would take to rebuild.

It’s that lone thought that breaks you, that has the weathered bars of the cage within you finally giving in to molten heat, your skin aflame as you whirl back around on him.

“Do I though, Simon?” You stalk two steps closer, eyes narrowed to slits as your words snap through bared lips, “We both know you’re fucking awful at communicating, might have got the wrong end of the stick somewhere between your indecipherable grunts and shitty attitude.”

If you weren’t so consumed by your own anger, you may have withered under the sneer he hands you in response, almost able to see the way his face twists with rage from under unyielding white plastic.

“If you did all this just out of spite,” his finger points to your team behind you, circling back to him, “Joining the fucking military, risking your life, just to get back at me, you’re a whole lot stupider than I ever took you for.”

“Oh, because you signed up with purely heroic intent, didn’t you?” The change in his stance should give you enough warning, but he’s fanned the flames within you too much for you to back down now, the fire only rising to his straightened posture, “You weren’t using deployment as an escape at all, were you Simon?”

“Enough,” Growled words gritted out from behind clenched teeth don’t deter you in the slightest, if anything they only bolster the adrenaline that burns through shaking limbs.

“Did you ever stop and think that this is what I wanted all along? That you were only even holding me back from doing the one thing I’m fucking good at? Or do you only ever think about yourself, huh? I signed up to the SAS not because I wanted to get some petty revenge on a man who walked out on me, not because I was running away from a shitty childhood, but because I fucking wanted to! Got it?” You end your speech roaring, the words screaming from your lungs and burning past your throat, each ragged breath you take grates against raw flesh.

The flames begin to dwindle just enough for you to grab your bags from where Soap had placed them in the sand, right your posture, and turn. You can’t bring yourself to spare a glance at any of the others, where they no doubt stand dumbfounded outside the safehouse. You only grace them with sparse, stilted words, hoping to God they don’t see the red leaking through your shirt, a sign that the sutures you tried to hide for so long were finally ripped out, leaving nothing but the gnarly truth in their place.

“I’ll take first watch.”

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