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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

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“Hide me hide me hide me hide me hide me.”

Nico blinks, watching blankly as Will ducks under his arm, situating himself behind the door and peeking around it. When Nico doesn’t move, he cranes his neck to look at him, face urgent, and says, “Close it, dude, hurry up!

“Solace!”

“Fuck,” Will curses.

Nico blinks again. He squints across the common, trying to suss out what Will’s staring at. It doesn’t take long. She’s hard to miss, especially in full armour.

“Are you…hiding from Clarisse?”

“Am I hiding from —” He scoffs. “No, I’m just behind this door for fun. Fucking obviously I’m hiding from Clarisse, Nico, now get with the program and close the damn —”

“Solace!”

Both of them jump. When Nico looks, Clarisse is already way closer than she should be. Before he can process enough to slam the door, and heedless of Will’s increasingly-harried oh my gods oh my gods oh my gods fuck fuck fuck fuck, Clarisse is closer, and closer, and then suddenly she’s barging inside, pushing Nico aside like it’s not his damn cabin.

Will groans. “Aw, come on, Clarisse!”

She doesn’t bother to humour him with words, choosing instead to grab him by the collar and drag him bodily out. Will does not make it easy, going completely limp and getting his clothes grass-stained beyond belief, because Clarisse tugs him along like a sled behind her, bouncing over every stone. Nico follows, on the grounds that it’s not being nosy if Will dragged him into it technically.

“You have siblings! You have a boyfriend!”

“And yet I’m choosing you,” Clarisse says easily. “I’ve already told Chiron. It’s a done deal, weatherboy. You’re chariot racing with me.”

Will groans, trying in vain to squirm out of Clarisse’s grip. “There is no reason for me to be your partner in the stupid chariot race, I am a healer, I am at camp to heal —”

She shakes him a little to shut him up. “All the more reason. You focus too much on one thing, brat. All you do is heal and study like a big nerd. You need to get out of your comfort zone.”

“Um, no way. I’m very comfortable in it. That’s why it’s called a comfort zone.”

“You could use some training,” Nico pipes up, and the betrayed look Will gives him would be more effective at making him feel bad if it wasn’t so funny. “Last time I tried to teach you how to use a sword you almost sliced off your own face, so.”

Clarisse looks at him with appraisal. “Maybe you do have some sense in you, di Angelo.”

Nico chooses to take that as the compliment it is.

“Ugh,” Will says dramatically, and finally manages to wrench out of Clarisse’s grip in order to embed the appropriate level of drama in his face-down flop to the floor.

Clarisse kicks him. “You’re pathetic.”

“Ugh.”

Notably, he stops protesting. She kicks him again, affectionately this time, and stomps away.

———

“If I work myself into another coma, I don’t have to chariot race,” Will says gleefully, shoving the bottles of nectar Nico hands him onto a shelf. He’s been buzzing around the infirmary all day, healing things he is meant to be healing with a band-aid and a stop being a clumsy dumbass, dumbass with hymns and salves. “I’m gonna try to cure cancer again.”

Kayla, walking by, reaches out and smacks him. “Try it and I’m crack your country CDs in half.”

Will turns to her, opening his mouth —

“Every single one of them,” she stresses, green eyes narrowed.

— and closes it again, huffing.

“I’ll find a way,” he says glumly.

Nico pats him delicately on the back. “There, there.” A pause. “I mean, personally, I can’t wait to watch you fall out of a chariot.”

The look Will shoots him is nothing short of wounded. “You think I’m so uncoordinated I’m gonna fall out of the chariot?”

“Gracefully!” assures Austin from across the infirmary, smiling supportively. He grins brightly when they turn to look, nose scrunching with the force of his smile. “I’m sure!”

Will’s scowl twitches in the face of his brother’s blind enthusiasm. (It is impossible not to be endeared by Austin. He is genuinely the sweetest kid in the entire universe. Nico even gets, to his horror, the occasional urge to squish him. Gently.) He sighs.

“Thanks, Austin.”

“Of course! Love you Will!”

The twitching scowl melts into a full smile. “Love you too, kiddo.”

———

Watching chariot race practices, very quickly, becomes Nico’s favourite pastime.

He sees, now, why Achilles would bring them up, unprompted, wistful look in his eye, every time Nico visited. There’s a beauty in the rawness of it; the whipping winds, wild horses. Squealing wheels and bending axels, open-backed and inches from death at all time. Dangerous, exhilarating. Humanity, at it’s most thrilling and old — some of the first tools, the first domestic animals, the first machines, all at once. It’s pure, raw excitement.

Also, Will falls out of the chariot, like, eight whole times. And there’s nothing funnier than watching him lose his shit at a splintered pile of wood that was once a carriage, helmet thrown to the ground in a fit of rage, accent so thick he’s literally incomprehensible. Nico never gets to see him like this. His stomach actually hurts from laughter on several occasions.

Slowly, though, he starts to get the hang of it. He’s smart — incredibly so — and when he stops spending half his time complaining, and the other half pouting, he actually gets pretty decent. He’s fast, after all, and quick to observe, to respond; the other teams struggle to land hits on him, in practice runs, and sabotage is difficult when your opponent seems to have an almost prophetic gift to see things coming.

He can’t, however, steel himself to hit back.

And therein lies the trouble.

“For fuck’s sake, Will, I’m not asking you to kill anybody,” Clarrise snaps. “You need to get your head in the game!”

Will’s shoulders curl defensively. “I know! I’m trying! It’s just —” He kicks at their broken wheel, in two clean pieces on the ground. “Do no harm.”

“Do some harm. Or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Will brightens. “And then ask somebody else to be your partner?”

“No, and then make you my partner forever.”

“Oh.”

Will’s sullen face is hard to look at. He’s got those big, puppy dog eyes, round and sad and pouty. Not even Clarisse is immune. (And certainly not Nico, who finds himself halfway off the spectator’s stands and jogging to the tracks before he wonders what exactly, the fresh fuck, he is doing, and sprints right back.)

“Shit, Solace, don’t look like I killed your goddamn mother.” She cuffs him on the shoulder, sending him sprawling with a muffled oof. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s go again.”

Accepting the spare chariot someone wheels towards her, she pulls herself up, making space for Will to do the same. He doesn’t get on immediately, still looking miserable, but concedes eventually.

His forearms look kind of nice when he grips onto the rails for dear life, Nico notices. From a totally objective perspective.

The four practicing teams guide their horses to the starting line, running a few last minute checks. To avoid spilling any secrets or strategies, everyone uses the same practice-issue wooden chariot and wears the same armour, but it’s still obvious who’s who.

The Hephaestus team’s chariot, despite being standard issue, gleams like it’s brand-new. The wood is polished and looks to be altered, barely; a carved groove here, a sharper wing there. Nothing that could really be considered an upgrade, but definitely making the whole thing look smoother. The spears they hold promise a plethora of untold ability hidden within.

The Hermes chariot looks deceptively beat up. There’s a chunk missing from the top of the left side, and one of the wheels appears to be just slightly out of alignment. Upon careful inspection, though, Nico can see clear, hollow tubing attached along the rails and open to the back — definitely a quick rig of some sort. Base (not acid, Cecil had happily lectured him on the benefits of using a base rather than an acid when dissolving anything from steel to human flesh), if Nico has to guess, or maybe Greek fire.

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot doesn’t have to do much to look great. The whole thing seems to coast gracefully to the beginner line, and neither charioteer looks particularly bothered or preoccupied with the competition — if Nico recalls correctly, and he does, their goal is to win through “gay audacity”, which Nico does not understand but supports wholeheartedly.

Will and Clarisse’s chariot, by comparison, is pretty run-of-the-mill. They haven’t done much training with the Ares horses or the Apollo flying chariot, because Clarisse is primarily concerned with training Will — she knows the equipment is fine.

Lacy, standing at the edge of the track, puts a sparkly pink whistle to her lips and blows loudly. It’s not nearly as loud as one of Will’s sonic whistles, but it does the trick, and the teams are off in a blur of movement; Will and Clarisse in the lead, Hephaestus behind them, Aphrodite-Iris in third, and Hermes lagging slightly behind.

As they turn their first corner, positions largely unchanging, Nico hears footsteps from his left — Lou Ellen smiles at him as she climbs the stand, settling into the space he makes next to him.

“What’d I miss?” she asks, brushing dust off her hands.

He shrugs. “Not much. They were in the lead the last practice round, too, but on the last lap Hermes caught up.” He gestures to the heap that was once their practice chariot. “Julia had her sword at their wheels. They were on the inner ring, nowhere to move; the only way to get rid of them would have been to knock her arm, probably dislocate her shoulder. Will couldn’t do it.”

Lou Ellen winces. “Ah.”

There’s a ripping sound, followed by cackling — the Hermes chariot has finally made use of their hasty rigging, setting off an explosion behind them that rockets them forward. It has the added bonus of shaking the ground, slightly, unsettling the other drivers for just barely long enough for them to pull into third place. Far ahead, still in first, Nico can see Clarisse yelling instructions at Will, although he can’t hear what they are. His grip on the rail has tightened.

“Why,” starts Nico carefully, and based on Lou Ellen’s pinched face she knows exactly where he’s going, “does she make him — well, you know.”

Lou Ellen is silent for a good long while, watching the practice chariot race with eyes that aren’t paying attention. Hermes is gaining, but Hephaestus is gaining faster.

“Clarisse has always liked Will,” she says eventually. She meets Nico’s incredulous expression, snorting. “Well, as much as Clarisse can like people. I got here way after he did, so I don’t have any more details there than you do, but he’s never been afraid of her, and she likes that. He’s never been mean to her, either. I mean, I know she can be a bully, but people aren’t exactly light on her, to be fair.”

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot turns out to have some tricks up its sleeve — it starts to glow; barely at first, but quickly blinding. At its crux, everyone has to look away, allowing them to pull into first.

Well, except that Will doesn’t seem nearly as staggered as everyone else. In fact, he doesn’t look bothered at all — for the first time that Nico has seen, there’s something like competition pulling a crooked smile on his face. He stares straight at the still-too-bright chariot, reigns wrapped around his arms as he yanks them forward.

“Is that why she drags him away sometimes?” Nico asks. “To train?”

“Something like that. Most of his training was with —” she falters. “Well, you know who. Medicine and some archery.”

They’re both quiet for a while. Neither of them ever knew Lee or Michael well, if at all, but over time Nico has found himself almost clamming up at the mere thought of them, the way one might tiptoe around an authority figure when they have something to hide. Forbidden subjects, where before Nico simply didn’t think of them often.

“You can’t just not train, though,” Lou Ellen murmurs, eyes trained on the chariots. Hephaestus throws one of their spears, lodging it in the spokes of the Aphrodite-Iris chariot. They come to a very abrupt and very screechy halt, knocking them out of the race in any real capacity. “Not at Camp Half-Blood. She taught him hand-to-hand because she was the only one strong enough to physically drag him to the arena. Everyone else gave up after the first few tantrums — I think she was kind of amused by the challenge. Or something.”

“Or something,” Nico agrees. Privately, he thinks that there is something about Will Solace that makes you want to protect him. Not frailty — he is not by any means incapable — but something about his smile, his genuineness. The stubborn belief that people are good and kind and worthy of everything he has to give. A naivety, except someone who’s been through what he has (what they all have) cannot be naive — his hope in the world is hard-earned and well-won. It makes people want to protect his hold on it, by any means necessary.

Even, Nico reasons, ornery old fuckers like Clarisse LaRue.

The three remaining chariots start the last leg of the race — Apollo-Ares, barely squeezing out in front; then Hephaestus, quickly gaining; and finally Hermes, lagging slightly but not to be discarded. As they round the bend, Nico watches as Clarisse cuffs Will briefly on the arm, clearly proud. This is the farthest they’ve made in first so far, after two weeks of training. Will, reigns safely transferred back to Clarisse, beams at her — bright enough that Nico can see it from dozens of yards away.

With sudden, calculated speed, the Hephaestus chariot surges forward.

As if coordinated, Nico and Lou Ellen inhale sharply, leaning forward. He sees the scattered few other campers so the same in his peripherals, watching with single minded focus as the chariot levels exactly with Will and Clarisse. Nico eyes the spear nervously — of all weapons, they’re the easiest for Will to dodge, to fight off. More impersonal.

But the sons of the smartest god around would know that.

For at least a hundred feet, nothing happens. Ares-Apollo and Hephaestus stay neck in neck, every urge forward matched, every pesky road-blocking stone avoided. The finish line is dangerously close, but no one pulls ahead, nothing changes. Four shoulders remain tense, four helmets stare resolutely forward.

Then, in a quick movement, the taller Hephaestus charioteer hands the spear off to the shorter, swiftly taking the reigns, and the shorter lunges — aiming right for Will’s shoulder. Will’s quick, though, and has his own spear poised to parry in an instant. There’s a barely perceptible nudge from Clarisse, and then Will’s eyes harden, and he lifts his spear to jab right back, needle-thin tip gleaming in the late afternoon sun, right for the chink in the charioteer’s armour and then —

The charioteer rips their helmet off, dropping it at their feet.

It’s Harley.

Hephaestus’ darling; hell, the camp’s darling. One of their youngest and brightest, with big, mischievous brown eyes, contagious smiles, endless enthusiasm. Cute, clumsy Harley, the only one of Hephaestus’ children Will doesn’t have to nag to get treated, who walks dutifully over the infirmary every time he gets so much as a second-degree burn and treats each one of Will’s overcautious instructions with utmost seriousness. Who Will sends away each time with an affectionate kiss on the forehead and a prized purple sucker — who Will, frankly, favours. Who Will would never, in a million years, even consider hurting.

A dirty trick by the Hephaestus cabin.

But an effective one.

Immediately, Will flinches back, spear dropping from his hand and splintering under thundering hooves and spinning wheels. Without a second of hesitation, Harley launches his spear in the same move as before — sticking it in the wheel’s spokes, inertia sending the charioteer’s sprawling, knocking them out of the race.

Except, maybe it’s different when the chariots are so close. Or maybe the chariot was faulty to begin with. Because as soon as the spear gets wedged, the fragile floor of the chariot seems to implode — sending Will and Clarisse under the still-moving machine, instead of flying over. The horses, disoriented from the sudden change, rip free of their harness, adding more force to the already precarious tumble.

There’s a sharp, sickening crack, so loud Nico can hear it as if it’s next to him. In the brief nanosecond immediately afterwords, he closes his eyes, sending a prayer to his father: please be the axle. Please be the axle. Please be the axle.

As the Hephaestus and Hermes chariots rocket past the finish line, Clarisse lets out a shrill, blood-curdling scream.

———

Nico’s off the bench and halfway towards the crashed chariot before he can blink. He’s not the only one — he processes, barely, everyone else’s quick convergence, including the remaining charioteers — but he’s there first, diving into the wreckage seconds before anyone else is close enough.

There’s not a lot of actual debris, chariots being as small as they are, but the dust cloud from the track is so huge and the pieces of wood are so splintered that it feels like there is. As the dust settles, and he kicks some debris out of the way, he starts to see the shape of Will, kneeling, in front of a prone Clarisse and an ever-growing pool of blood.

There’s a bone sticking straight out of her thigh.

As the rest of the campers converge upon them, Will looks up and meets Nico’s eyes. His own blue eyes are dark, steely — determined, but afraid.

“I don’t have time,” is the only thing out of his mouth before he braces both hands on Clarisse’s leg, immediately starting to sing urgent hymns.

Nico understands.

“Lou, Julia, Chiara,” he barks, taking charge in absence of Will’s voice. The three girls snap forward to him immediately. “Sprint the the infirmary and tell them what happened. Austin’s on duty — make sure he doesn’t come with you, we need him to prep a surgical suite. Send everyone else and send them fast. Bring a stretcher.”

He turns to the Hephaestus kids. “Jake, Harley, start clearing the debris to make space. Damien, join them; move the big stuff first, small stuff is secondary. We need a space for Will to work and a space to lay the stretcher. Jen, Butch, Lacy —”

He barks off a list of orders, doing his best to channel the commands he’s watched Will give dozens and dozens of times. In minutes, he has the track cleared, Will’s medical bag dragged over from the stands, and everyone who is not helping stabilize out to the infirmary to help as needed.

As soon as there’s an opening, he rushes over to Will and Clarisse, kneeling by her head.

“Help is coming,” he promises, watching the glow dim and flicker in time with the rhythm of Will’s chanting. The bleeding has slowed, marginally, but he can tell from the volume of blood alone that this was an arterial hit. It’s going to take more than Will’s raw healing power, although there is a lot of it, to keep Clarisse alive and keep her leg functioning in recovery. He needs tools, he needs nectar and ambrosia; he needs the surgery suite. He needs time.

“Is it helpful for me to knock her out?”

Clarisse, of course, is still conscious. Barely — and in so much pain Nico will be surprised if she’s processing anything at all — but enough that every few seconds she lets out an agonised shout of pain, writhing and flinching so hard Will has to focus on steadying her as much as healing her.

Without breaking his song, eyes still trained on the injury, Will nods. Nico breathes, squaring his shoulders, then shuffled forward to rest Clarisse’s head gently in his lap, fingers pressed to her temples. He presses, hard enough to feel the beat of her heart — weak — through his fingertips, and squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s no son of Hypnos, but dreams are the Underworld’s domain. Are his domain, as heir and prince of the Underworld, in every way that matters, that can be counted.

He lets himself sink into careful limbo; body in physical space, mind and soul elsewhere. Not too much — he’s no use if he falls unconscious — but enough to slip into Clarisse’s mindscape, step into her subconscious.

The whole place bleeds white, hot anguish.

Nico stumbles when he first walks in, nauseous despite being nothing but his own mind. It’s been a while since he’s experienced this kind of pain, his own or not, and he has to consciously beat back memories of brimstone and rot; liquid fire, endless red, red, red.

“Clarisse?” he calls, softly as he dares.

She doesn’t respond. He’s not sure she knows how to respond, even if she could. Cautious of the memory and emotion swirling around him, he steps forward. If he focuses, her anguish is pointed — is central. She will be at the centre of it.

He has volunteered, but he’s not sure he wants to follow.

Steeling himself, he shoulders through swirling masses of pain, of hurt, of fear. It’s blisteringly hot, and feels not unlike the sandstorm he was once stranded within, in the middle of the New Mexico desert four years ago. His face prickles; he’s blinded.

He trudges forward.

“Clarisse? Clarisse! Can you hear me? It’s Nico!”

Desperately and uselessly, he wishes he had more practice. Will has offered, the few times he’s needed to anaesthetize someone, but for the most time Nico has foolishly declined. Why on Earth he would pass up a much easier mindscape to navigate through in preparation for something like this is a mystery to him. Fuck.

“Clarisse! Try to — focus on me, can you hear me?”

He forces himself forward, a few more — well, there’s no distance in a mindscape, nothing measurable, anyway. He forces himself to look up, braving the assault to his face, and try to scan his surroundings. The swirling mass is more centralized, now, almost hurricane-like and conal. He’s closer than he was before, but if he can only find…

He looks up, and almost cries in relief: weak against the roaring storm, but still present, is a flickering, golden light. A very familiar light. Nico squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting out his own energy in an uncoordinated mass — boy, is that going to be uncomfortable to extract later — and flails wildly until he finally feels the warmth of Will’s energy entangling with his own, grounding him. He opens his eyes, and suddenly everything is clearer.

Clarisse kneels in the centre of her mindscape, hands pressed tightly to her ears, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a silent scream.

“Hey,” Nico murmurs, kneeling in front of her. It takes a few seconds, and a few moments of gentle coaxing, before she looks up.

“It hurts,” she croaks.

She’s more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her — eyes brown and big and wet, pained, face twisted and chin trembling and achingly, unbelievably young. She is nineteen years old, but in that moment she appears almost childlike. The years of warrior’s hardness has abandoned her; she is armourless.

Nico swallows the lump in his throat. “I know.”

“Help me. Please.”

“Come here, Clarisse.” He reaches out and wraps a gentle hand around hers, tugging her close. The knee jerk discomfort at close contact is barely a flicker — he is so entwined in her right now that her fear has started to bleed into his; her rawness. He needs this comfort almost as much as she does. Right now she is a person, in agony, and so is he, and it is unbearable.

He holds her until the pain slowly stops.

———

Will is in the surgical suite for seven straight hours.

“Bed,” Nico says softly, rising up to meet him as he exits. It says something about how exhausted he is that he doesn’t even protest, letting Nico place a hand on the small of his back and guide him past the on-call room, past the patient cots, past the Big House living room couches, past Cabin 7. He leads him across the common and right into Cabin 13, with its double beds and blackout curtains, with its insulated, soundproof walls. With Nico.

He helps him out of his bloodstained scrubs, peeling them off his skin and tossing them directly into a trash can. He’d guide him to the shower, usually, but there’s a — glassiness, to his eyes, that there usually isn’t after surgery. Nico chooses instead to skip it, guiding him into the sweatpants he left behind the last time he was here and an oversized The Doors t-shirt of Nico’s, and then to the spare bed he always uses, across from Nico’s. He peels the covers back for him like he’s a child, tucking him in, brushing the hair out of his eyes. He’s asleep in minutes, curled tightly around a pillow, furrowed crease not leaving the space between his eyebrows, even in sleep. Nico smooths it away with his thumb.

“Goodnight, Will,” he murmurs, brushing the backs of his knuckles across his forehead.

He watches him sleep far past what is normal, and then slips back out of the cabin.

———

“On the bright side,” Will says, squeezing the hand that has left to leave Clarisse’s arm, “you’re free from your chariot race obligation! As am I!”

Predictably, she only glowers.

“Not a chance, Solace,” she rasps.

Will helpfully gets her a glass of water, fussing over her blankets while she drinks until she bats him away. Chris watches the whole thing with great amusement, shoulders brushing Nico’s.

“He’s a mother hen, isn’t he,” he comments, tilting his head in Will’s direction, who narrowly avoids having his fingers bitten off trying to feed her a square of ambrosia.

Nico snorts. “Yeah.” He watches the fussing for a few more seconds, making note of Will’s shaking hands, his shakier smile. “He’s guilty.”

“He didn’t do anything. She doesn’t blame him.”

Nico meets his dark look, mouth twisted in understanding. They both know this logic is futile.

“Yeah, well, someone tell him that.”

“Will — stop it.” In a startlingly quick move for someone on as much morphine as she is, Clarisse darts out and clutches Will’s fluttering hands. He hesitates, wondering if it’s worth it to pull out of her hold and possibly jostle her leg. “I’m fine. And you’re still charioting.”

“You’re not fine,” Will frowns, conveniently ignoring the part of the sentence he doesn’t want to deal with. “Your femur snapped in half and tore through your femoral artery on its way out of your leg. You’re going to be on bedrest for a week at least, and it’ll be tender for a good long while besides. That’s what we in the medical business call a Big Fucking Deal.”

She tightens her hold, staring at him until he finally meets her eyes.

“Will.” She narrows her eyes. “You are still participating in the chariot race. I’m not asking.”

“It’ll have to wait until you’re better,” he says lightly. “Besides, we’re focusing on you right now.”

Nico can see in her face when she decides to switch strategies.

“Okay,” she says, stubborn glean in her eye, “then I’m asking you, as a personal request, to stay in the race. Or else I’ll drag myself onto a goddamn horse myself, killing myself in the process, and that will be on your head.”

The tactic works.

Will scowls. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

Clarisse doesn’t bother repeating herself, letting go of his wrists and readjusting her blankets.

“I am done talking now. I believe it’s time for morphine-induced unconsciousness. Please remember that I took down a drakon with my own bare hands; it is well within my abilities to drag myself out of heroin-haze and onto a chariot with no legs, let alone one. Good talk.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she leans back on her pillows and passes out. Genuinely, actually passes out — not closes her eyes, not behind to fall asleep; she is unconscious. Snores ring through the air.

“Well,” Chris says carefully, unfolding his arms. “It might be time to let Clarisse rest for a while.”

Will, healer that he is, cannot exactly argue with that. Will, drama queen that he is, decides to make his fury known by stomping out of the room, a feat in flip-flips possible by him alone.

“She is so infuriating!” he shouts the second they’re in the main room, startling several people. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I put effort in! I failed! She can’t even — it’s not even about spending time together, obviously, since I still have to do it! What does she want from me?!”

Chris, like Nico, has wisely decided to let the hypothetical questions remain hypothetical and stay silent, lest his fury be turned onto them. Ten minutes into Will’s rant, Chris excuses himself to go sit by Clarisse. Nico waves him off.

“Will,” Nico suggests the next time he takes a breath, “let’s maybe go for a walk.” He glances at the group of wide-eyed patients. “I think you’re scaring people.”

Deflating, Will nods, following Nico out the door. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go for a walk.”

The fresh air probably doesn’t fix things, per se, but as they lap around the cabins, Will seems to droop further and further, curling in on himself. The anger recedes from his features.

“I feel really shitty,” he admits softly. “Just, like, generally.”

Nico softens like a goddamn slab of ice cream on hot pavement. For the second time in three days, he opens his arms in offering, although this time it’s significantly less difficult.

“Come here.”

Without even a beat of hesitation, Will collapses into him, arms around his waist, head tucked under his chin. Nico fights the urge to wince — Will, usually, takes quite a bit of pride in his height. He likes to be the one to wrap around people, not the other way around. Nico has been indoctrinated into Will-affection, in the time since the Giant War, and if Will is the one curling into him, seeking comfort, than he is struggling.

Nico hates it when Will struggles. He always feels out of his depth.

“There, there,” he hedges, feeling a good bit like an NPC. “It’ll be okay.”

Will makes a small, wounded noise. “You don’t know that.”

“Um, yes I do, I know everything forever. I’ve never been wrong even one time in my life.”

His awkward attempt at lightening the mood is rewarded by Will’s laugh. It’s slight, and nowhere near the brightness it usually is, but it’s there and it’s genuine and that’s all Nico wanted, really.

“You good?” Nico asks softly, squeezing his arms.

Will nods. “Yes.” He hesitates. “Can I stay here a little longer?”

Nico wraps his arms impossibly tighter, aching at the quiet vulnerability in his voice.

“As long as you need.”

———

The last practice before the chariot race is nowhere near as fun to watch as the others. In fact, it’s not fun at all.

Clarisse, casted and upright, appoints her brother Sherman to race in her place, much to both his and Will’s very vocal complaints. Will’s, because he still doesn’t want to race at all and especially not now that Clarisse is out of the running, and Sherman’s because, well, when isn’t Sherman complaining about having to breathe the same air as someone or whatever.

Clarisse silences both of them with a glare. “Do it,” she orders.

They comply, stomping over to their practice chariot.

The practice race is awful. Nico is surprised, frankly, that they managed to finish at all, as badly behind as they managed. He could practically hear their squabbling all the way from the stands. For as much as Will is generally easy to get along with, he’s impossible when he’s stubborn, and worse when he’s petulant. He takes every command from Sherman like it’s a personal offence, and Sherman, being who he is, does too. Every shout to veer right or deflect an attack somehow sounds like a jab at Will’s speed, or a remark about his general intelligence. When they stomp off the track, helmets thrown in a heap with the rickety chariot, Nico is almost relieved.

“We’re going to lose, tomorrow, and I can’t wait,” hisses Will darkly, fists curled at his sides.

Nico watches him warily. “You’re not even going to try?”

“What, so he can remind me that even when I’m trying I’m a useless idiot? Not a chance.”

Nico has to almost jog to keep up with him, striding as powerfully as he is. He’s not even sure where he’s going — he seems to be, mostly, going away from the track and from Sherman, wherever that may be.

“You’re not a useless idiot,” Nico offers, when some of the stormcloud has lessened its hold on Will’s usually sunny face. “Nobody thinks you’re a useless idiot.”

Will closes his eyes, sighing. “I know.”

“And Sherman is just a generally grouchy person.”

“I know.”

“It feels very, very weird to be the optimistic and comforting one, right now.”

Will snorts, finally meeting his eyes. “I know.” He flops onto the ground, cheek resting in his knees, and pats the space next to him. Nico sits much more delicately. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole lately.”

“You’ve been stressed,” Nico points out. “A little assholery is warranted.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Nico knocks their shoulders together. “I forgive you, then.”

Will smiles. “Thank you.”

For a while they sit in comfortable silence, watching the hustle and bustle of camp. Will’s presence is a comforting one, even though Nico can feel the turmoil leeching off of him. Strangely because of that, actually — sometimes Nico feels like he’s the only one who struggles out of the two of them. Will spends so much of his time smiling and joking and lecturing, hands on his hips, that Nico had almost forgotten that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, either. He’s just good at faking it.

“I’ll be watching, tomorrow.” He bites his lip. “And I won’t, like, bring pom-poms, or anything, but I’ll be cheering you on.”

Will grins tiredly. “Silently and in your head?”

“Uh-huh.”

His smile softens considerably, melting into something almost shy, before he turns back to face forward.

“Well, then, damn. I guess I’ll have to try.”

———

On the morning of the chariot race, Will acts like Nico is escorting him to his goddamn execution.

“It is a race that will last a maximum of twenty minutes,” Nico says with no small amount of exasperation, “including prep time.”

Will looks no less grim. “A twenty minutes that will never be returned to me.”

Nico rolls his eyes and decides to stop humouring him.

He drops him off at his chariot with a quick pat on the shoulder, jogging back to the stands. They’re full, today, as expected, with every camper and countless others cramped into the minimal space. Nico looks at the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, and is about to consider breaking his promise and fleeing back to his cabin before he sees a doodled-on hand stick in the air, waving wildly. He exhales in relief and heads over to sit in the spot Kayla and Austin have cleared between them.

“How miserable is he?” Kayla asks brightly, tapping her purple shoes. “He left before we woke up this morning. Assumedly to sprint around camp a few times like a feral cat.”

“Pretty miserable,” Nico answers. He reaches over to pat Austin’s head when he rests on his shoulder, knowing he’s nervous even if he tries not to show it. “A lot of it is self-induced, though. Like, yeah, Sherman is going to be a dick and it’s going to be stressful, but I feel like, in the grand scheme of things, this is among the least stressful things he’s ever been forced to deal with.”

“There was that one time he had to remove a brain tumour in the middle of the forest,” Austin muses. “I think that was probably pretty stressful for him.”

Nico opens his mouth. He closes it again.

“Demigod life is a nightmare,” he settles on eventually.

“Hear, hear,” both siblings mutter.

They lapse into silence as they turn back to the racetrack, evaluating the turnout.

Competition will be hefty.

Sherman has finally arrived, Ares horses in tow. The garish things look almost wrong next to the brightness off the flying Apollo chariot, but that may just be the tension between the team’s charioteers that’s so potent it seems to warp the air around them. Nico is vaguely surprised that they’re managing to stand so civilly next to each other, even if they could not be more visibly uncomfortable. Will, at least, tries for a smile, which drops immediately when Sherman mutters something too quiet to be picked up this far.

Nico sighs. This is going to be hard to watch.

There are about twenty other chariots lines up. Hermes, Hephaestus, and Aphrodite-Iris, like at practice, but Athena is competing too, as well as Nike, as per usual, and Tyche. In fact Nico, and by extension Hades, is one of the few cabins not participating — everyone else seems primed and ready for a chance of laurels and extra dessert. And, of course, settling personal rivalries via bloodshed, et cetera, et cetera.

The biggest competition, if Nico had to quantify it, will be Hephaestus, tricky as they were during practice; Athena, for obvious reasons; and Will and Sherman themselves will be their own worst enemy. He can’t tell if it would be better for them to fail out early to avoid racketing tension up further, or last close to the end to keep things at a healthy simmer.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. The second warning whistle goes off, and the chariots rush to the starting line — Will and Sherman at third position, Demeter to their left, Dionysus-Hypnos to their right. The stands go silent, the charioteers get in position, and with a sharp, shrill whistle, they’re off.

The first few seconds, as always, are chaotic.

In the ground with the settling dust are three separate chariots, including, surprisingly, Hermes, whose rigging backfired and sent their entire chariot up in smoke. They are luckily unharmed due to their unusually well-prepared fireproof armour, but neither Julia nor Connor seem too pleased about being out so soon.

The rest of the race continues on without them. Athena has a decent stretch of first place, but Nike is following fast. Behind them, barely a hair’s breadth of distance, is Will and Sherman, rocketing forward smoothly. Unlike Clarisse, Sherman does not care for giving Will any learning opportunities — despite the horses being Ares’, Will is on the reigns. Sherman is armed with his sword and his spear, slashing and jabbing at anyone who gets too close. Neither Ares or Apollo is big on tricks, not like some of the craftier cabins, but together they’re fast and strong and make a formidable opponent.

Or, well, they would. If they were working together, rather than two people simply being in the same chariot.

They cross into the second lap, Will guiding them across the innermost ring to move them up past Nike. They’re gaining on Athena, now, but that won’t be an easy task — challenging the camp’s wisest never is.

Kayla hisses through her teeth. “Shit.” She purses her lip at the trailing Nike chariot — they’re gaining, and they’re seething. Damien — at least Nico thinks it’s Damien, it’s hard to tell with the helmets — has an arsenal of throwing knives poised in his left hand, and as his teammate steers them steady, he takes aim. Nico has to resist the urge to shout a warning.

As the short knife sails towards the reigns wrapped around Will’s hands, though, aim ringing true, Will’s spine goes ramrod straight. Almost as if he can feel it. With an eighth of a second to spare, he shifts and jerks his hands out of the way, avoiding the knife and managing, somehow, to stay on track.

With a skill and ferocity that has Nico’s jaw brushing his toes, Will dodges all eight of the knives lobbed in his direction. In one memorable manoeuvre, he rips his left hand from the reigns, holding them in his teeth, and uses it to shove Sherman down behind the wall of the chariot right before a knife would have lodged itself in his uncovered cheek. Out of weapons, he steers their chariot right next to Nike, allowing Sherman to sever their reigns and send them rolling to a sad, victory-less stop.

Without pausing to look behind them, they race on.

Athena’s chariot has a lead, but their chariot is built for stability, not speed. They’ve accounted for every possible sabotage and built accordingly. They have not accounted for, however, stubbornness and sheer force of Will. The Ares-Apollo chariot gains on them, helmets glinting, skeletal horses gaining faster, faster, faster. Both Sherman and Malcom, Nico believes, have their spears drawn, ready, as the space between them gets smaller and smaller, to fight barbarically for first — for honour.

Nico doubts even Rachel, powers of prophecy fully restored, could predict what happens next.

Either too furious to accept a loss or simply deciding to throw the game, one of the Nike charioteers crawls out from their carriage, darting onto the live track. They scan the ground, looking for something. When they stand in the dead centre of the track, body perfectly tense, gripping something glinting in their hand, Nico gets it.

Austin gasps, nails digging into Nico’s arm. “Oh, no.”

Before anyone can say anything, they take aim. They measure once, twice, and then let the knife loose with deadly precision, knife cutting through the air with ease and hurdling with impossible power towards to two finalists chariots.

If the knife hits the Athena chariot, it will slice clean through the axle. Architectural wonder it may be, the chariot cannot withstand Celestial bronze at terminal velocity, and it will give, and the chariot will crumple. In an effort to lesson the chariot’s load, the Athena charioteers have largely forgone armour. Their fall will be painful and disastrous; as deadly as Clarisse’s, if not moreso. A hit to the Ares-Apollo chariot will be similarly as race-ending, but both Will and Sherman are in full armour. It will be bruising, but not deadly. They will lose, but they will survive.

All they need to do to win is shift, just slightly, so that the knife hits the Athena chariot.

Will, like with all the others before it, seems to feel this knife coming. Unlike the others, he glances backwards, looking at the knife, looking back at the Athena chariot. Sherman follows his gaze, and seems to realize what Will has calculated a split second after he does. He shouts something — presumably an order to move, to shift, to sabotage.

Will hesitates.

The knife hits the Ares-Apollo chariot, slicing through the left wheel.

It careens around, unbalanced, dragged into a heap by untethered horses.

The Athena chariot pulls forward to victory, the remaining functioning chariots quickly following.

The Ares-Apollo canon is left broken and humiliated only a few feet from victory, the almost-first-place.

———

As soon as they come off the track, things get messy. Both Will and Sherman are covered in dirt and grime, striped with grease from the broken wheels, bleeding sluggishly from various scraps. Sherman has his non-flailing hand clamped to an oozing wound on the side of his neck, and Will is limping.

“—and I cannot fucking believe you, Solace! All I asked for was effort!”

“Oh, forgive me,” Will says sarcastically, finally close enough to hear. “In the hustle and bustle of being shot at, I made a couple errors.”

“That gonna be your attitude in battle? ‘Oh, sorry, there was a monster chasing me so I lost all focus —’”

“Battles are not usually fought on a chariot going a hundred fucking miles per hour!”

“That’s no excuse! You need to be —”

“What, Sherman, fucking what? What indisputable flaw do I have, oh great one, that needs to be so desperately remedied?”

It’s startling when Will’s composure cracks. When he goes from bitey and sarcastic, eye-rolling from his usual distance, to right in Sherman’s face. It’s eerie to see him at his full height, no slouching, reminding anyone watching that yeah, actually, their laidback medic is six-two, strong, capable, in more ways than what they’re used to.

Sherman, in usual Ares kid fashion, doesn’t even flinch.

“Your reflexes, for starters,” he says coolly. “No matter what you do, Solace, you’re always one second too fucking late.”

A collective gasp ricochets through the gathered campers. The tension rackets up so rapidly that Nico coughs, lungs suddenly constricted. Will rears back so violently Nico is half-convinced Sherman actual punched him.

Sherman, for his part, seems to realise he’s crossed some kind of line. The cold look on his face twists into a scowl, uncomfortable and apologetic at once. “Look, Will, I just mean —”

“You don’t get to say that to me.”

Will’s quiet voice seems to echo through the entirety of the valley, cutting through laboured breathing of charioteers, pegasus neighing, even the crashing of the waves in the distant shore — everything goes silent.

Nico likes to think he knows Will pretty well. He knows what he sounds like when he’s giggly, watching his siblings argue about nothing; when he’s excitable, rambling about his newest obsession; when he can’t choose between amused and stern at whatever dumb thing Nico has gotten himself into. He knows what he sounds like when he’s exhausted, too, overworked and done with everything; when he’s annoyed, when he’s hurt and sad.

But he’s never heard Will sound so dangerous.

“Of all people.” His words are articulated, deliberate. The usual warmth of his eyes is gone. He’s completely still in a way he never is outside of surgery — no shaking in his perpetually trembling hands, no bounce to his curls, none of the constant energy that seems to constantly exude off him. Still, cold. Icy. “You do not get to talk to me about being one second too late.”

Sherman looks stricken. Guilt is written across each of his features, and for a second he steps back — as if afraid.

“Will, I —”

The son of Apollo turns without another word, striding over to the distant tree line and disappearing into the woods. No one chases after him.

No one even moves.

———

Predictably, the silence does not last long.

“You fucking idiot!” Clarisse explodes, the second Will is out of eyesight. She bats Chris’s hand away from her, and he, surprisingly, lets her go easily — his usually understanding face has hardened. She hobbles towards her brother, remarkably quick with her clunky cast, and starts truly tearing into him. “I asked you to do one fucking thing! One!”

Sherman quickly gets defensive under the scrutiny. “Well, you didn’t make it fucking easy! Just because he’s your protege doesn’t mean he’s my fucking problem —”

Nico doesn’t stick around to listen to their argument. He searches around the gathered crowd until he meets Kayla’s eyes, flicking his head towards the woods. She nods frantically. Knowing he’ll make sure they have privacy, he takes off, aiming for the same place Will went, barely slowing down once he enters the forest.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Will?” he calls, well aware he’s not going to get an answer. “Where are you?”

While there’s definitely no response from Will, he damn near jumps out of his skin when a dryad melts from her tree, shuffling towards him.

“Blond boy?” she asks, leaning close so he can hear her whisper. “Tall? Crying?”

Nico swallows. Fuck. “Yeah.”

“Headed down southeast, ways past Zeus’ fist.“

“Thank you,” he says, hoping she understands how much he means it.

She nods, then disappears back into her tree.

Following her directions, Nico jogs down beaten paths, heading in the direction that he is vaguely sure is southeast and mostly praying that he’ll find Will eventually. He shouldn’t have that much of a head start, since Nico left maybe five minutes after he did, but who knows. Will’s fast, and sometimes this forest seems bigger than it really is. It’s easy to get lost.

He searches for what feels like hours, and might actually be hours; sky darkening as the sun disappears into the lake. The temperature drops significantly. Nico is hoping that he won’t be spending the night sleeping in the dirt when he hears sniffling.

Heart pounding, he freezes, focusing on the sound. It’s muffled, sobs choked-off and sound hidden behind cupped hands. The echo sounds strange, too; it’s close, that much is obvious, but Nico almost can’t tell if it’s coming from the left or the right. Truthfully, it doesn’t sound like either.

On impulse, he looks up. Almost invisible in the branches of a large oak tree is Will, stained clothes blending in with the scratchy bark, leaves covering the rest of him.

Except, perhaps fittingly, his bright, golden hair.

Worried that calling out to him might startle him right off the tree, Nico begins to climb. He’s not great at climbing — he doesn’t have a natural sense of what is and isn’t a good foothold — but oak trees are easy. Every half-step has a branch, and this tree is old enough that the branches are thick, sturdy. He’s twenty feet up before he even realizes, barely breaking a sweat.

He pauses a few feet shy of his target, straightening until he’s standing on an almost flat branch, arm looped tightly around the trunk.

“Will.”

Will startles. He looks around frantically, struggling in the dark, until his bloodshot eyes finally land on Nico. He bursts into more tears, shoulders shaking as he sobs.

Alarmed, Nico crawls all the way up.

“Woah, Will, breathe, vita, breathe —”

He’s not sure what tree-sobbing etiquette is, but regular sobbing etiquette often involves some kind of comforting physical touch, so he goes with that. And Will, he knows, likes to be crowded, likes to be almost suffocated with the sights and touch and smells of other people, to remind him he’s not alone, even if he feels it. So Nico scoots as closely as he dares, legs wrapped around the branch, and slides one arm around Will’s back, one against his chest, and tugs him closely.

Will comes easily.

With a bit of manoeuvring, he’s tucked under Nico’s chin, shoulders hunched and shaking, enveloped entirely in Nico’s arms. He can feel a wet spot growing on his left sleeve, and honestly he should be at least a little bit disgusted, but he barely even notices. He’s too busy fighting the lump in his own throat, blinking back his own tears.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Will’s curls. “Let it out, Will. You’re allowed.”

Will wails, a deep, choking, broken sound, and Nico loses the battle with his own tears. He’s never heard Will like this. He’s never heard anyone like this, except himself, in the echo of this same forest, years ago. It hurts like biting ice.

“It hurts, they’re gone, they’re gone, and I hate them, I hate them so much —” he heaves, dragging in breath like it cost him to say it, like part of his soul was dragged out of his vocal chords — “and I hate myself for hating them, I hate, they’re gone, I’m never —”

He dissolves into sobs, again, words breaking into nothing understandable, crying around the same repetitions over and over again. Nico hides his crumpling face in Will’s hair, wincing at every broken cry, every hitched breath, every moaned word. His heart feels like it’s breaking into a million fractals. He’s never felt so out of depth in his life.

“Let it out,” he whispers again, for a lack of anything else to say. “Let it out, sweetheart, let it out.”

For a long time, Nico had no one to hold him.

When he lost Bianca, he was by himself. And when he thought he had someone to guide him, someone to fix him, he was wrong — he was vulnerable and easy to manipulate. He had no one to hold him until he was too bitter and too closed off to let himself fall apart, anyway, and losing Bianca stayed somewhere rotten inside him, a bruise that never, ever stopped aching.

Until Will.

Last December he had cracked like an egg. He hadn’t meant to — it wasn’t even in the back of his mind — but he’d opened the door to Will’s smiling face on the morning, cold and sad as it was, and just started bawling. Some part of him, some deep, buried part, stomped it’s way from the prison Nico had kept it in and took the hell over, yanking open the floodgates, forcing him to expel every last drop of shadowy, strangling pain that had stayed inside him so long. He thought he was going to die. His entire body shook and jerked like a rowboat in a deep ocean storm, and it had been Will’s lighthouse, his endless, light eyes, his warm hands, his firm hold that had held him steady until he’d dragged himself out to the other side. It was and is the most painful thing he’d ever done in his life. And the most important.

He doesn’t think Will has had anyone to hold him, before, either. Not ‘til right this moment. Not Chiron, not his mother, and certainly not an older sibling. Will has been running on empty for as long as Nico has known him. Longer.

“Let it out,” Nico whispers again, and holds him tighter.

———

By the time either of them move again, it’s pale, early morning, and they’re damp from the dew and Will’s tears. Nico is as stiff as the tree he’s sitting on, but doesn’t dare say a word about it.

“I don’t want to go back,” Will croaks, the first either of them have spoken in hours.

Nico tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, resting a gentle hand on his cheek. “Okay.”

“We can’t stay here forever.”

“We can stay a while.” Nico pulls away slightly, just enough so that he can cradle Will’s face in both hands, tilting his chin up to meet his gaze. “I mean it, Will. As long as you need.”

“What if I’ll never have enough time?”

“Then I’ll stay with you until time runs out.” He presses a tentative, careful kiss to the centre of his freckled forehead; staying when Will shudders, leaning into it. Against his skin, he murmurs, “But you’ll have enough time, vita. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I don’t want to be strong.”

“So don’t, I gotcha.” He presses another kiss slightly above the first, and another, resting again at the crown of his head. “But you can be.”

They stay like that until Nico’s face starts to go numb, and even then he doesn’t go far, shifting so his cheek lays on the top of Will’s skull. He ignores the slight tickle of his curls against his nose, focusing instead on the brand of his hands on his waist, the shakey but constant inhales, holds, exhales, again, again, again.

“Clarisse is my friend,” Will starts. “She was as important to me as — as Cass, before the war.”

Nico hums. “But she betrayed you.”

“All of us.”

“And you resent her for it, a little.”

Will nods. “It’s disgusting.”

“It’s human, Will, Christ.” He moves them around so they’re both sitting facing each other, Nico’s eyes firmly meeting Will’s. “I will never fully forgive Percy for letting Bianca die. Never. It’s not fair to him, and I love him anyway, and I am choosing to move past it. But I will carry that burden. Am I disgusting for that?”

Will glances away. “No.”

“Will, you — look at me.”

He does.

“Clarisse actively chose her pride over her people. So did the rest of her cabin. She’s not fully responsible for that choice, and the blame, as always, lands on Kronos’ shoulders, but —” Nico laughs, a bitter, defeated sound. “Out of all of us, you lost the most. No one lost as many as Apollo. No one burned as many shrouds. You’re allowed to be hurt, allowed to be angry.”

“I forgave them,” Will admits. “I did it publicly and called off the stupid rivalry right after the war. It was the first thing I did as head counsellor.”

“Trying to do what Michael would have done?”

“Are you kidding me, he —” Will scoffs, swiping at the tears trickling down the corners of his eyes. “If Michael were alive, and he found out I forgave them after what happened to Lee, too Diana — he would have been furious. He would stop speaking to me. If I was trying to be like Michael, I might’ve refused them treatment.”

Nico tries to imagine that for a second — Will refusing anyone treatment. It makes something sour uncurl in his stomach, something unsettling.

“You would never refuse someone treatment. I didn’t even — I didn’t think you guys were allowed.”

Will shrugs. “There are no rules to our practice. I just never made refusal an option, and the kids are too young to know any different.”

‘The kids’ — as if Kayla and Austin aren’t as old or older than Will was when he was in charge, when he held the bashed pieces of his brother’s brain as it oozed out of his skull. As he sat, exhausted, hands shaking, next to Nico, and embroidered twelve shrouds. As if Yan and Gracie are his, rather than Apollo’s.

“You forgave them so your siblings wouldn’t grow up bitter,” Nico realises. “Oh, gods, Will.”

He shrugs again, picking at his nails. “For me too. Grudges aren’t healthy.” He tries for a teasing smile. “You’d know.”

“I would.” Nico tries to smile back. It’s easier than he thought it would be, although it fades back into something serious quickly. He reaches out, linking his hands with Will’s to stop him picking before he bleeds. “You can be selfish sometimes, you know.”

“Not in front of anyone.”

“You’re admitting it in front of me,” Nico points out.

Will hesitates. “That’s — different.”

“How?”

“You get it.” He looks down, voice quiet. “You get me. I can —” He meets Nico’s eyes again, a kind of helpless smile on his face. “I dunno. You’re safe. You’re okay with me, even when I’m ugly.”

“Even then,” Nico echoes quietly. He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Will’s ear again, even though none were loose. His fingertips linger, and the skin under his touch warms. “Especially then.”

“You can, too, you know, I lo —”

“I know.”

Will exhales in relief. “Good.”

He slumps forward until his forehead rests on the swell of Nico’s shoulder, breaths warming the air between them. Nico tries to match his rhythm — in, out, in, out. Hold. Out, in.

“Can we — hide here, for a little bit? Just a little longer.”

“Of course,” Nico murmurs, squeezing his wrists. “I’ll hide you as long as you need.”

609 notes · View notes

targaryen-dynasty · 24 days

Text

STRESS RELIEF.

Daemon Targaryen x female!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; implied canon typical incest/ targcest (no named relationship other than husband & wife but reader speaks high valyrian), oral (m receiving), balls sucking, balls worship, cock slapping, breeding kink, fem reader (no mentions of appearance)

WORDS: 2.9 K

NOTES: I KNOW I said you won't get anything from me for the next two weeks, but this is an old story I love and edited, and I'm always in the mood to suck his balls. Ty Lana @zaldritzosrose 🤍

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

The door to your chambers bursting open with a thud, the thick wood slamming against the old masonry of Maegor’s Holdfast, is what forcefully pulls you out of your slumber.

As your eyes shoot open, you need a few seconds to adjust to the dim light of your chambers, the flame of the fireplace long extinguished and indicating it’s been a while since you found sleep.

Every sense of tiredness that has lingered in your bones vanishes suddenly at the noisy intrusion, more so as you spot the armor-clad silhouette of your husband standing at the threshold of your marital quarters.

He appears to be even more bulky and bull-like with the natural broadness of his shoulders accentuated by the heavy armor and the golden cloak, and just that sight alone has an aching desire filling your veins.

It’s the closer look you take that makes you aware of his labored breathing, chest rising and falling with heaving breaths, almost seeming as though he’s in great stress.

Whenever Daemon barges into your chambers at this hour, still wearing his armor, you know he needs to be consoled and pampered.

“Husband?” Your soft voice finally pierces through the silence, still thick with sleep from being awoken so abruptly.

A few, determined strides is all it takes him to enter the room, closing the door behind him as loudly as he’s opened it before. Although you know something is plaquing his mind, and that he’s not usually as harsh towards you as this, you still flinch at the thud.

Sitting up straight with the bedcovers bunched in front of your breasts, you have a puzzled look on your face. One of the few things Daemon has established fairly early into your marriage was the strict prohibition of you wearing any kind of smallclothes or nightgowns to bed, as he wants you to lie just as bare next to him as he always does.

He always states that there are quite a few practical reasons for it, with easier and quicker access to your cunt being the main one of them. Albeit you know for certain that he just loves to feel your skin on his when he falls asleep, solely embraced by the warmth and softness of your body snuggled up against his.

Clashing of metal accompanies his heavy footsteps as he approaches you, stern gaze fixed on your small frame.

The closer he gets, the more you are able to make out his chiseled features with long strands of his silver-blonde hair framing them perfectly. Even in the almost non-existent light of your chambers you notice the dark blown eyes, the adored lilac almost fully eclipsed by pitch black.

“Va aōha ybon,” he rasps, voice deep and commanding, and leaving no space for any kind of objection. On your knees.

You comply swiftly, the bedcovers thrown aside to reveal your naked form. A somewhat feral growl ripples through your husband’s chest at the sight, the curves and dips of your body enhanced by the light the moon casts through the windows.

The stone floor feels cold and hard as you sink to your knees, causing you to shift your weight from one knee to the other and back, trying to mend the discomfort at least slightly.

It usually requires your help to strip him off his heavy armor, but much to your surprise, Daemon manages to shred himself out of the majority of it all by himself, driven by sheer lust and hunger for you.

Where his silver hair is usually well combed and neat, the loose tresses now cascade down his shoulders and back visibly tousled and dirty.

Your hands lie folded in your lap, thumbs brushing over each other in a way to keep yourself calm. You have been married to Daemon for two summers, but know his silence never means anything good. It is threatening, and more often than not getting you into trouble, because he always has something to say.

As he stands in front of you in his full glory, only clad in a pair of dark breeches and a loose tunic, you hesitantly reach to place a hand on his sturdy thigh while his hand cups your cheek in return. Finding yourself leaning into the touch, you’re quickly repulsed as you catch a whiff of what smells like sweat, dirt and… iron.

“What have you done today?“ you ask innocently, though you aren’t sure if you want to hear his reply – that means if you even get one.

While the pad of his thumb brushes over the curve of your lips, his other hand slowly unlaces the front of his breeches, easing the confines of his half-hard member, and causing a wave of arousal to seep out of your cunt, anticipation making it clench around nothing.

“Oh, we have restored law and order,“ he purrs, the cocky smirk on his lips indicating that he’s more than satisfied with the outcome of it all. “The Kingsguard cleaned the streets from the city‘s scum.“

Listening intently, you just nod in acknowledgement, not at all surprised by your husband‘s actions. “And does the king know you did that?“

“I do not care if the king knows or not,“ he spits, impatiently tugging the front of his breeches down just enough to free his cock and stones. “He is blind, guided by the incompetent leech that claims to be his hand.“

A musky scent hits your nose when you catch sight of his thick cock. His musky scent, mixed with the salty smell of sweat. It has you licking your lips like a greedy whore, and if anything, you love it. It’s a sharp reminder that you have married a hardworking and ambitious man, and not a boy.

Your hand instinctively curls around his member, your index finger and thumb barely touching. His girth has always been something that impresses you. He’s considerable, leaving you wondering at times how it even fits into your mouth and cunt.

You slowly tug him to full hardness, stroking him the way you know he likes, even though your pace is a bit slower than usual. You listen to him rant about his brother, and the insolence of his hand, Otto Hightower, merely humming whenever your husband expects you to.

Once his cock stands to full attention, throbbing in your hand, you release it and instead fondle his stones, heavy and hot in your hand. The fleshy pouch they sit in is a bit darker than the rest of his pale skin and visibly sagged, but doesn’t hang too low.

Your actions earn a disapproving tsk from Daemon, despite the visible twitching of his cock at the new stimulation, and he wastes no time in fisting a good bit of your hair to shove your face towards his crotch. The scent is more prominent the closer you get, but not at all repulsing. Instead, it arouses you even more.

You’re not sure if it’s Daemon‘s usual lack of patience or his abnormal obsession with the king and his entourage that makes him greedy and needy for your touch, but you decide to not give in to him so easily.

Gently squeezing and fondling the sack of his stones, your tongue licks a flat stripe from the base of his member up to the bulbous tip of it. A salty taste lingers on your tongue, the few beads of his arousal quickly gathered and swallowed by you. You hum appreciatively at the taste, seemingly pleased to witness the affect your touch and presence has on your husband‘s body.

A sharp tug on your hair catches your attention and makes you yelp, your wide eyes finding your husband‘s demanding ones. “Quit playing games,“ he growls. A warning. But he should know by now that you are not one of his hounds, and what works with them doesn’t necessarily intimidate you.

Your tongue swirls around the tip of his cock, kitten-licking it until his heavy pants are replaced by annoyed huffs and grunts. Daemon doesn’t like you teasing him – not when he craves relief.

You keep your eyes neatly trained on him, studying his changing expressions to know whenever you’re playing with fire, and when it is best to follow his commands. Switching the positions of your mouth and hand, warmth brushes your face before the familiar musk seeps into your head.

Closing your eyes as all your senses are clouded by him, you latch on Daemon’s sac of stones, nuzzling your nose into the dark, coarse hair to take one of them in your mouth. Low purrs ripple from your throat, sending vibrations through his body.

You haven’t noticed, but your thighs clench and unclench repeatedly with each suck of your mouth, trying to soothe the aching settling at the apex of your legs. However, it doesn’t grant you the friction you crave.

“My, my, now look at that,“ Daemon coos. “Sucking my stones like a common whore. So desperate to have your mouth filled by me, hm?“

The condescending tone of his voice sends shivers up your spine, and you keen at the degrading nature of his words, moaning around his slightly slacked flesh.

Daemon is unable to tear his dark blown eyes from your full mouth struggling to take both of his stones. You’re trying so hard, but your mouth isn’t slack enough, causing you to nearly choke yourself trying to please him.

Droplets of your saliva dribble from the corners of your mouth down your chin, gathering in your jugular notch, and really making you look like you belong to the Street of Silk; a common whore desperate for her mouth to be stuffed by something, and not caring if it was filled by his stones or cock.

While you are messily suckling the sack of his stones, you tease a few licks up his length, tracing the prominent vein on the underside of it with the tip of your tongue.

You relish in the way he twitches and squirms under your touch, the deep grunts only spurring you on even more. But you also are soaked for him, core clenching and aching, begging to be used.

Daemon has started to tug himself off at the sight of your lips around his flesh, big hand the perfect size for his considerable length, while his other tightly fists into your hair to keep you where he wants you.

You hollow your cheeks around him, sucking with the tip of your tongue dragging over the sensitive skin. The familiar taste of manhood lingers on your tongue, and your jaw goes slack, finally managing to engulf his whole sac with your mouth. But when you try to pull away for a breath, Daemon only snorts and pulls you right back to his stones.

He harshly tugs on your hair, tilting your head back so you are forced to look at him when he slaps his hard cock against your face. Your saliva adds a sheen to his flushed skin, making him glisten in the dim light, and catches your attention, your eyes trailing over the length of his cock – you want nothing more than to feel those veins on your tongue.

As his cock repeatedly makes contact with your swollen lips and cheeks, the indecency of it all sends heat straight through your body, for it’s the first time he has ever done something like that.

Daemon bows forward, looming over your frame but coming close enough for you to feel his breath fanning over your face. Goosebumps prickle on your skin, and his intense lilac eyes send desire straight to your jumbled mind.

“What a wanton harlot you are,” his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Whores of the Silk Street do such things.”

While his degrading words go straight to your head, making you eager for more, you still cower beneath his dominating presence. “Yn ao hae ziry,” you reply, cocking your head sideways in an innocent way. But you like it.

It seems that your feigned innocence doesn’t convince him, because you suddenly feel something warm and wet dripping down your cheeks; his saliva. He has spat on your cheek, spreading it over your heated skin with a satisfied smirk ghosting over his features. Daemon rarely enjoys having you talk back at him, to tease him, and right now clearly isn’t one of those moments.

At the realization of what he’s just done, you feel your voice tighten in your throat, your lips pressing into a thin line as embarrassment floods your veins.

“Gaoman, yn…,” he muses, bending back and tracing the tip of his length along the slit of your pouty lips. “...nyke hae ziry tolī skori gaomā daor ȳdragon rȳ mirre.” With these words leaving his lips, his cock hits your cheek once again, almost as if he’s making fun of you. I do, but I like it more when you do not speak at all.

The grip on your hair loosens only for him to cup your cheek, fingertips digging sharply into the flushed skin of your cheeks. His other hand repeatedly taps the tip of his cock against your swollen lips in a demanding manner, begging for entrance.

“Open your mouth, or else I am opening it for you.”

You wet your lips, just the mere thought of having him down your throat causes a sense of soreness to linger in the back of it, and Daemon seems to notice your apprehension.

“I see your mouth begging for my cock, you filthy slut. Don’t act like an insufficient brat for you have done this plenty of times before.” He is right, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever get used to his sheer size. Your thoughts, however, are cut short because Daemon isn’t Daemon, if he doesn’t take matters into his own hands.

The tip of his cock prods against your lips, and with the grip on your face tightening, you are all but forced to part them for him. There’s only little to no time to adjust to his size granted to you, because he sheaths himself inside of you in one, swift thrust.

A few seconds pass in which neither of you moves. Your nose is nuzzled against his pubic bone, the tip of it brushing the wispy trail of his hair, and you try to stifle the urge to gag and choke around him, your hands getting ahead with clutching his muscular thighs to keep yourself grounded.

Every muscle of his body twitches with pleasure as he grows accustomed to the warmth and tightness of you, his head tipping back to release a bawdy groan.

And then his hips start to buck into your mouth, allowing a wave of fresh air to fill your lungs when he almost completely pulls out; only the tip remaining embraced between your lips. A firm hand locks behind your head to stop you from pulling back.

Daemon’s hips thrust into your mouth with reckless abandon like he belonged into it, the bulbous tip hitting the back of your throat but never giving you anything you can’t handle. He knows you can take it, and that you like it.

The lewd noises of his soaked cock easing in and out of your warm mouth fill the room, spurring him on even more. At this point, you are soaking wet for him, droplets of your arousal leaking onto the stone floor beneath your legs.

Your cheeks hollow around him as you choke and sputter around his length, spit dribbling down your chin and bosom. His stones tighten with his cock throbbing on your tongue, ready to spend himself down your throat at any given moment, your previous teasing clearly coming in handy.

There are tears brimming in your eyes, unhelpful when all you want is to look up at him, watch how he scrunches his brow and puckers his lips as he gazes at you in rapture.

“That’s it,” Daemon groans, the pace of his hips faltering as he chases his release. “Take it all.” And that is when you felt it.

His hot seed spills down your throat, coating your tongue. You gag slightly when his hips start to stutter, cock twitching and pulsing with the force of his peak. Droplets of his seed spill from the corners of your mouth, mixing with your saliva and dribbling down your chin while you struggle to swallow the rest.

Nonsense spews out of his mouth as his groans grow more wanton, no doubt losing awareness of his volume. You are destined to be the main topic of the court's whispers in the morrow, just like your mother and father have been before you.

His fingers comb through your hair slowly, stroking your head as if he’s thanking you for a job well done, while he rides out his peak with languid thrusts of his hips.

When he finally stops to regain his composure, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath he takes, he allows you to pull back from him, a string of your saliva connecting your swollen lips with the bulbous head of his cock, only breaking as you lick your lips to gather the remnants of his spent.

“Ñuha sȳz riña,” he rasps, pulling you up on your feet to capture your lips in a heated kiss. The taste of him on your tongue spreads over his tongue and causes him to groan. My good girl.

Like a man possessed, he flips you around and easily throws you onto your marital bed. When you land on your stomach with him following closely behind, mounting you and straddling your arse, you squeal and chuckle, ecstatic that it’s finally your turn.

“Tonight is the night I shall put a child into you. I want to see your body swell with my seed.”

Daemon Taglist: @barbiedragon @hypocritic-trash-baby @schniiipsel @avalyaaa @baizzhu @yn-jackson

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wildestdreamsblog · 2 months

Text

Latibule Season 2: II

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Mafia/Detective AU)

Summary: In which he lost his latibule.

Warnings: Secret Identity, Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, Disability, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: A late valentine's gift <3 I’m so sorry for taking so long. A lot happened and work is the busiest and and and life.

Masterlist, Latibule 2.I

“Hyung, did you hear me? I said-"

Kim Namjoon sighed from the other line, headache already creeping up his temples from the boatload of information Jimin was dumping on him on the other line. As who he considered to be the only sound and sane one among the seven, Namjoon was accustomed to being the voice of reason, getting the boys out of tight illegal situations, and managing the members. Min Yoongi might be the head of the mafia, but all seven of them were leaders in their own right and fields.

Seokjin was the head of the medical field, Namjoon of the twisted world of law, Jungkook of the technology world.

And this definitely was one of Namjoon’s specialties: stopping the fearless and heart-stricken leader of Bangtan from kidnapping a woman in broad daylight. For fuck’s sake, he wasn’t even against the illegal act itself, but could he just do it when there weren’t eyes watching him?! When the sun wasn’t at its highest?! When he wouldn’t be tomorrow’s headline?!

He ran his hand through his disheveled hair, glaring at the eldest hyung who was chuckling to himself. Seriously, he thought doctors were supposed to have no life and no time to annoy their friends? Why then was the Chief of the hospital barging in his office and lounging on his fancy sofa?

“I’m glad you found this amusing, hyung,” he commented dryly which only made the eldest laughed harder. “This isn’t something to laugh about.”

“What?! We all know something is definitely wrong with Yoongi. This isn’t news to us! This only confirmed our suspicions!”

“You could at least be supportive of what he’s going through right now.”

“Namjoon,” he started when he was finally done laughing, wiping the tears from the side of his eyes. “How do you expect me to be supportive of him right now? He’s on the verge of kidnapping a woman because he thought she looked like her. Does that make sense to you?”

He tilted his head before standing up, his movement elegant as he crossed the room to where Namjoon was sitting behind his desk. He smiled down at him, his hand supporting his weight as he leaned down on his wooden desk. “Dead people don’t exactly come back to life after burning from a fire as immense as that one, do they?” he asked, his tone light yet his eyes held faux curiosity. And at that moment, an air of danger surrounded the office. He could see the coldness that reflected on Jin’s eyes.

Namjoon knew when to back down, especially when Jin was in this mood. It was almost comical how quickly Jin’s emotions could switch, and it was definitely not amusing how bloody the effects could be. He wasn’t exactly the mafia prince for nothing. He, of all people, knew how perceptive and strategic Jin was. Never once did he do anything without a reason. And precisely because of that that it took him a moment before he answered. He lowered his eyes for a second before returning to Jin’s now amused ones. “They don’t, hyung.”

Jin nodded before turning to leave, his hand was in his pocket, his stance relaxed as though nothing was amissed. He had opened the door when he paused as though he remembered something. He twisted his body, his eyes trained on the famous attorney before his lips twisted into an entertained smile. His finger was now resting on his lips.

“Ah, unless they’re actually not dead.”

—-

Min Yoongi was like a man possessed, never leaving any stones unturned as he religiously looked for his angel.

He looked at every single piece of record of the town that the town had, employed several people to look for you, searched every available CCTV to trace any evidence that you existed, that you weren’t merely a figment of his imagination, that you weren’t merely indication of his declining sanity. Yet all roads lead to nothingness.

It was like any leads he got were mere fragments, offering little clarity or direction in the investigation. Likewise, it seemed as if someone was making sure that he’d go nowhere with the little pieces of evidences he was able to gather of your existence.

As days turned to weeks and to months, he was starting to be convinced that you were just his imagination playing tricks on him, that his mind was just too cruel to conjure an image of you, that it was just too sick to think that you came back to him. In this moment of profound longing, when the ache of your absence weighed heavily on his twisted soul, he couldn’t help but ponder about his choices in life.

On some days when he missed you the most, he thought that this must have been his karma for living his fucked-up life brutally. On a day like this when he should have been celebrating your birthday, when you were supposed to turn a year older, when you were supposed to be by his side as you blew your candle, he thought that this must have been his penance, a consequence of the twisted journey he had decided to walk on.

But wasn’t this just too painful?

Wasn’t his punishment too cruel to have the world gave him you, only to wretch you away from his arms?

Wasn’t it too cruel to have loved and lost you?

Yoongi let out a humorless chuckle, the puffs of smoke coming from his lips as he looked at what once was your home. It was your birthday, and tomorrow was your second death anniversary.

How he survived the existence without you, he would never know. He decided that he would never stop looking for you because accepting that you were gone from this fucking earth was not an option. He could feel inside the dead heart of his that yours were still beating. He knew a love as immense as what he felt for you wouldn’t die as easily as that. No.

Min Yoongi would find you.

“Happy birthday, my angel,” he whispered to nothingness, only the moon bore witness to his greeting, the night enveloped him in a solitary embrace. The echoes of his sentiment lingered in the air, hoping that his words reached you where you were.

---

“Happy birthday, eomma,” Jung Hoseok finished the song lightly, clapping the chubby little hands of your son in sync with the tune of the song. Your son was giggling as he bounced him on his lap, looking over his long lashes to Hoseok.

“Careful, the candle’s just in front of you,” he warned before shuffling the cake an inch closer to you. He came home almost an hour ago from his work in the docks with a box of cake in his hands he bought. You could no longer count how many times the three of you moved over the year, the last one being the most suspicious to you when after you came home from the market, he had already packed your bags. Before you knew it, he was already driving away from the town.

You lived in so many places.

You never felt at home in any of them.

It was unfair how you only felt at home when you were in his arms.

You clutched your walking stick on one hand, the other cautiously running your hand on the table to detect the cake’s placement.

“I’m not fully blind yet, Hoseok,” you admonished him teasingly before closing your eyes and wishing with all your heart that your son grew up happy. You wished to the heavens that his fate was kinder to him, that he didn’t have to suffer the way you did. You prayed that his fate was free from the shadows that haunted your own past.

You wished that he could live the life he deserved.

“Eomma,” he called for you, lifting his chubby arms to go to you. Hoseok cooed at him before lifting him to your lap carefully. You felt the warmth of his little arms encircling your neck, tiny lips pressing sweet kisses on your cheeks before erupting into giggles. "Eomma!"

A smile graced your face as you soaked in the pure joy radiating from your beloved child. Leaning in, you planted a loving kiss on the person you now cherished most in the world. His eyes lit up in response, a mirror image of his father's, carrying the same warmth and affection he did when he looked at you.

Hoseok watched the two of you from his seat. It was almost comical how he loathed your son’s father with all his heart, only to love his son with the same intensity. If he couldn’t end that bastard brother of his, if he didn’t have it in him to finish the job and kill you, then he would just take the life Yoongi was supposed to live.

He would never let go of the two of you- not when he found peace in this little family. The only way he would let go of this was if the only person he loved came back to him. But that was impossible, right? After all, Yoongi made sure that she would cease to exist in this world.

Wasn’t this the crueler revenge, he thought. Wasn’t this what Min Yoongi deserved?

It was almost amusing to think how he could have been dead if not for one of his brothers that saved him and you that fateful night. He could have almost missed this little slice of heaven had it not been for his brother, the only one who knew that he was still alive.

---

Almost two years ago, somewhere in a small province of South Korea

You woke up with a start, your heart beating faster as evidenced by the spike in the heart monitor attached on your bruised skin. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, attached to your bruised skin, echoed in the room, its pace mirroring the accelerated beat of your heart. The sudden awareness left you momentarily disoriented, and the sterile environment around you hinted at the gravity of the situation. As your senses sharpened, you couldn't shake the feeling that the throbbing in your chest was not only from the abrupt awakening but also from the lingering echoes of a disconcerting dream or a painful reality.

Every single thing that happened went back to you.

Every single detail of that night, of the way he smiled so tenderly at you, of the way he softly told you that he would be back, of the way a strange man entered your house and threatened you.

The recollection was vivid, etched into your consciousness like a haunting melody.

You remembered the way Suga’s face became cold the moment he saw that man. You remembered not seeing even a trace of the man you loved.

You remembered the truth and the pain that came with it, and then you remembered thinking it was your end. Beyond it all, beyond all the betrayal, lies and deceit that unfolded, you remembered wishing that he would be fine after all of that like the fool you were.

Wincing, you lifted your fragile hand to your shoulder, feeling a faint pain where the bullet had pierced your skin.

“Don’t move,” a tired voice sounded on your left. Startled, you turned to look at the source, only to find the man who attempted to kill you leaning against the wall, his own arm bandaged, his handsome face colored with faint bruises.

Hoseok didn’t come out of it unscathed, no. He looked so hallow. It was like he was a lost child, like a man that lost his purpose, like he was a shell of what once was a soul.

He must have seen your alarmed expression. He waved his other arm, his jaw clenching from the events that transpired. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You blinked at him, never trusting a word that came out of his mouth. It would be difficult for you when you saw how he unleashed hell that night.

“I-I,” you swallowed, your dried throat making it harder to speak. “d-don’t believe y-you.”

He watched you for a moment before nodding his head. That was fair, he thought. “How are you feeling? You’ve been unconscious for almost a month.”

What?

“Y-you waited that long to kill me?” you asked, your voice hoarse as you sat down. If he was going to end you, then you wouldn’t take it lying down.

Wordlessly, he crossed the room, lifting the glass of water on your bedside table, the straw turned to you. “Drink.”

You glared at him, distrust and anger in your eyes as you met his emotionless ones.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

You scoffed, turning your head away from him to look at where on earth you could have been. The hospital room was small, the window offering no clue as to your whereabouts. You wondered where Suga could have been.

Did he make it out alive?

Was he hurt?

Was he looking for you?

Did you want him to after what you knew?

“I do draw the line on killing expectant mothers.”

Latibule 2.III

#bts fic #yandere bts #bts yandere #min yoongi fic #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x y/n #min yoongi x reader #yandere min yoongi #yoongi fic #mafia min yoongi #bts mafia au #suga x you #suga x reader

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quintinh43 · 2 months

Text

Simple Truths Pt. 1 | Quinn Hughes

Summary: Quinns got some feelings, and so does y/n.

Pairings: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, depictions of anxiety, food, sickeningly fluffy domesticity. Use of the name Olivia.

Wc: 7.2k

Notes at the end!!

---

Quinn was the only other person who had a key to your apartment—given to him to use in case of emergency only. So when the front door burst open at 10 pm on a Tuesday, and Quinn barged in, suit askew and hair a mess, looking very frazzled, you dropped your bowl of ice cream and paused your movie as you approached him hurriedly.

"Y/n," he breaths, doubling over and panting with his hands resting on his knees while he tried to catch his breath. Your hands hovered around his face, unsure of what was wrong. Decidedly, you sit him down on the couch and hand him a bottle of water. Kneeling in front of him with your hands on his knees.

He chugs the water like a man left out in the desert sun. "Quinn, what's wrong? Are you alright?" You question carefully as he caps the water bottle. "Did you run here?"

He nods, leaning forward, head in his hands, sighing. He looks down at you, cheeks flushed. Your apartment buildings aren't far from each other, but for him to run for three straight kilometres and practically break down your apartment door, something must be terribly wrong.

A knot of despair coils in your stomach. "Is it your family? The team? Gotta tell me what's wrong so I can help you Quinny."

"I just wanted to come over," he mumbles.

It takes a moment for his words to process, and then you are throwing his half-full water bottle at his head. He ducks, professional athlete reflexes apparent. You stand up, pushing his chest so he flops backward on your couch.

"Are you joking right now?" You say incredulously, arms crossed over your chest like a displeased coach, "You did not bust down my apartment door at 10 pm on a school night, acting like someone died cause you just wanted to come over."

"Ok I wasn't that dramatic," Quinn says, loosening his tie and dropping it on your floor.

You glare at him, as you reclaim your spot on the couch, pulling the blanket over your bare legs. "You ran here."

"Well, i-" Quinn's mouth opens and closes as he tries to formulate a response.

"Close your mouth, Quinn, you'll catch flies" you snap, grabbing your bowl of ice cream from the coffee table.

"Ok, maybe I was being dramatic," he says with a sheepish smile.

"What happened to cell phones? Are we in the Stone Age? No text? No call? Just break down my apartment door?" You ask raising an eyebrow at him.

Quinn's cheeks flush, as he suddenly realizes how absurd the situation he painted was. "I was just bored" he shrugs sheepishly.

You look at him like he has grown two extra heads. "Quinn, I cannot believe you interrupted my night, acting like it was an emergency, because you were bored"

He gives you another sheepish smile. "Get comfy or get out" you instruct poking him in the ribs with your foot.

"My clothes still in the same place?" He asks, wrapping his hand around your ankle. You nod, un-pausing the movie as he drops your foot and, grabs his tie off the floor on his way to your bedroom.

You hear him shuffling around your bedroom, presumably hanging up his suit and grabbing a change of clothes before he turns on the shower. Within ten minutes, he's joined you on the couch, freshly showered and in a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt with his own little bowl of ice cream.

He sits across from you, and you toss the blanket over his lap and tuck your feet under his thighs. You pause the movie again and stare him down with a look that demands an explanation. Because no way, he broke into your apartment and practically gave you a heart attack cause he was bored.

Quinn sighs, promptly forgetting that his hair is wet as he runs a hand through it. He makes a face at the uncomfortable feeling and wipes it dry against his shirt. You can't help but laugh at him.

"I don't know" he sighs "I just started to feel super overwhelmed, and everything felt like it was closing in on me, and I just needed to get out."

"How are you feeling now?" you ask stealing his ice cream since he's not eating it.

"Like I overreacted, because now I feel perfectly fine. I'm sorry if I disturbed you." His voice goes quiet at the end, and your heart pangs for him.

"No sweat Quinny, I'm glad you're feeling better." you hum, licking ice cream off the spoon. Quinn watches you intently, not for the reason you think as you hold out a spoon of ice cream for him. He leans in, closing his lips around the spoon, keeping eye contact with you the entire time.

Your stomach somersaults and you quickly look away, pulling the spoon back. After nearly six years of friendship, two of which were spent yearning for Quinn to love you as more than a friend and the other four spent accepting that he would never see you as anything more, he still sometimes stole your breath and made your heart flip when he looked at you a certain way.

You had met the first time he came to Vancouver, scoping for apartments. You were nineteen, working part-time at a coffee shop not far from Rogers arena when a frazzled-looking Quinn and his parents walked in. They had ordered coffee and pastries, and while you were serving them, you couldn't help but hear Quinn's anxieties about how he would "never find a place to stay in time for the beginning of the season" and how he would end up sleeping out of a hotel.

Ellen had sighed, trying to reassure him for the millionth time that everything would be ok, while Jim had been in contact with the real estate agent.

As nineteen-year-old you placed a spinach quiche in front of Quinn, and you spoke up. Making a decision that would change your life for the better. Your roommate had recently moved out of the apartment, and you hadn't yet found a replacement.

Ellen's eyes lit up, and you wrote down your number for her. A month later, Quinn Hughes was your new roommate. The two of you quickly became good friends, and even though you only shared an apartment for a few months, your friendship only grew stronger with time.

The rest is history.

"I think... I'm missing Jack and Luke a lot these days." Quinn says with a sigh as he takes the bowl of ice cream from you. You cross your arms with a fake pout, and Quinn rolls his eyes, feeding you a spoon.

You don't say anything yet. He's not done talking, and you don't wanna scare him away by interrupting too soon, or saying the wrong thing before he's done talking.

"And I think, with this being the worst we've done all season, everything just feels like a jumbled foggy mess."

Quinn sighs for the millionth time. He places the empty bowl on the coffee table and wishes he could sink deeper into the couch. You yelp as he yanks your legs apart and crawls between them, laying his head on your chest. It wasn't uncommon for the two of you to cuddle, but the manner in which he just did so has you turning red, you're glad he can't see your face right now.

One of your arms comes around his back, your fingers making patterns, while the other delves into his hair. "You can't make fun of me" he whispers.

"Never Quinny," you say resting your chin atop his head.

"I feel like I'm failing" he sighs, "I feel like I'm failing the team, and my brothers and my parents and you. And I just- it's hard. Its all so hard"

Your heart hurts for Quinn at his confession.

"Quinn you could never fail me. Or your parents or your brothers, or your team," you say softly, fingers scratching his scalp lightly. He hums, eyes fluttering closed. You can feel his eyelashes tickle your collarbones.

"I love you, your parents' love, and your brothers love you, and no matter what, we are here for you. Just because you are having a bad stint doesn't mean you are failing as a captain. You are a team. You win together, and you lose together, and it's not all on you."

Quinn sighs again, pulling away from you. He sits on his knees facing you, tongue darting against his lips in nervous habit. "But what if-"

"Hush, Quinny" you pull him back on top of you, wrapping him in the safe cocoon of your arms "There's no But what ifs. You are an amazing captain and brother and son and leader. Everyone in your life is so lucky to have you. You are doing so so brilliantly."

You lay in comfortable silence, stroking his hair softly. Holding him close and listened to his breathing. What you would give to keep him in the safety of your arms forever. To grind all his insecurities into dust, and show him what a brilliant human he is.

"Move in with me" he speaks so quietly, that you don't know if you heard him right. "It'll be just like old times."

"I'll think about it" you say softly. He breathes out a relieved sigh and plays the movie. The dull ache in your chest turns sharp. After four fucking years of getting over him, he comes to you with vulnerability stark in his baby blues, and that's all it takes to undo the last four years of work. Damn him. Damn it all.

The two of you fall asleep tangled on the couch, with the movie playing in the background. You wake with a crick in your neck and Quinn half underneath you, an arm around your waist holding you close to him. It isn't unusual, but after last night it fills you with such a feeling of uncertainty that it's borderline uncomfortable.

Your phone reads 5:00 am, and you huff, prying his arm off of you. He groans, arm tightening around your waist, so you can't escape his hold.

"Let me up Quinn," you say, tapping his cheek.

"Don' wanna," he grumbles, "so warm."

"I'll bite you," you warn.

"No, you won't," Quinn says against your hair, sounding slightly more awake. You smirk, turning your head and biting his Bicep.

"Ow! Y/n/n, what the hell!" He groans, shooting up into sitting position. His arm is still around you, and you bump your head against his with a laugh, "I warned you."

You get up from on top of him, grabbing the ice cream bowls from the coffee table and discarding them in the sink. "Get your ass up Quintin. We're going on a run."

"I don't have clothes" he tries as an excuse, flopping back down on the couch. You snort at the lamest excuse he has ever made. He has nearly everything at your apartment. It was basically as if he lived with you already.

Hell, there was even an extra pair of his skates in your coat closet. Honestly moving in wouldn't even be that hard. He'd probably just have to bring his hockey bag over. Except, he had the nicer apartment. So logically it would make more sense for you to move into his place.

"Nice try Quinn, get up and get changed or I'm coming back with a bucket of ice water," you say, going to your bathroom to brush your teeth and get ready for your run. It takes you less than fifteen minutes to be fully dressed, and by the time you're done, Quinn is up and ready, tossing you a protein bar.

"I forgot my phone at home," he says sheepishly, taking a bite out of his own protein bar.

"You'll live," you say patting his chest as you pass him to put on your runners.

"I can't believe you want me to run without music, you heathen" he gasps offendedly, grabbing his pair of runners that he keeps at your house.

"We can share," you say, tossing him an air pod, a gift he had given you a while back. He catches it and tucks it into his ear without complaint. That is until you turn on the music.

"I'll never understand the music you run to" he grumbles, and you take the elevator down to the main floor.

"It's about the beat of the music" you sigh, probably for the millionth time. For all his complaining, he doesn't actually mind it. The elevator stops and the main floor, and you and Quinn both wave to the doorman as you head out.

As soon as you exit the building, you take off. Quinn is unprepared. "Hey! What- wait up!" He calls, taking off after you. You cackle as you run farther away from him. Albeit you only sprint away from him for less than a block, and then you are stopped by a red light. He is by your side before the light turns green and you grin at him, keeping your feet moving.

"Ready Freddy?" You grin, as the seconds count down before the light turn green.

"Yes, I am Sam," he responds with a dopey smile so blinding you feel your heart go faint.

The light turns green, and the two of you take off together this time. Although you technically have to run just a little faster, because Quinn's legs are longer. After two more stop lights, you cut into the park, and this is where the real view began. You run along the coastline, the fogginess of the morning clinging to the surface of the ocean. The mountains loom in the background, and you sigh. Vancouver's scenery couldn't be beat.

After 45 minutes and roughly seven-ish kilometres, you've both worked up a good sweat as you enter your apartment building. "What do you have today?" You ask Quinn, in between deep breaths as you being your heart rate back down.

"Practice at 8:00 and that's it for the day," he says, handing you back your air pod.

"I'll drive you back to yours, on my way to work?"

"Yeah that's good" he hums as you unlock your door.

"I'm gonna shower, and get dressed, do what you will," you say, toeing off your shoes and kicking them haphazardly into the closet. Quinn rolls his eyes as he straightens them out and puts his beside them.

You strip your sweaty clothes off and make sure your hair is out if the way, before hopping into the steamy shower. You're in there long enough to make sure you are clean, and then you're getting dressed. Brushing your hair into a neat bun, you pick out an easy outfit, that you know won't make you hate your life as the day drags on, and with that, you're back in the kitchen.

Quinn hums to himself as he flips eggs for breakfast. There's a glass waiting for you on the counter, with a pink straw sticking out of it. Quinn's own glass is sitting on the counter beside him half finished. He spots you coming out of your room and smiles, sliding the glass towards you. "Smoothie," he says.

"Oh, also, I didn't know what you wanted for lunch. You have some salmon and potatoes in the fridge, and some Thai chicken or I can make you something quick if you want?" He offers, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of you.

There's a smiley face in your toast. The domesticity of it all makes your chest ache. He's in your kitchen, making you breakfast, and packing you lunch. "Oh!" His eyes light up as he slides onto the barstool beside you, "And I made your coffee" he points to your trusty travel mug that you never go to work without, that's filled to the brim with coffee.

"Thanks, Quinn" you mumble around your mouthful of eggs. The overwhelming feeling of if only this was real takes root in your chest, and you take a deep breath fighting off the urge to cry. It could be real, but not in the way you want it.

You eat your breakfast silently, completely forgetting that Quinn had asked you a question until he nudges your knee. "You're thinking loud," he says softly, "wanna get it off your mind?"

"Oh, it’s nothing" you smile, albeit unconvincingly, but Quinn doesn't push.

"So...Lunch?" He asks, taking both your empty plates and putting them in the dishwasher.

"Oh, actually I was thinking why don't you spin by for lunch? The kids haven't seen you in a while, and if practice is at 8 then you'll get off at the perfect time to come have lunch with me and spend the rest of your day pestering me at work?" You say, all trace of your anxious stupor gone.

Quinn lights up at the idea. "Yeah, of course, that sounds like fun."

Visiting you at work is one of his favourite things, especially when he gets to have lunch with you and hang around afterwards. And as an elementary school teacher, whenever Superstar Canuck Captain Quinn Hughes is in your classroom, it becomes the most popular room in the building. With students and staff.

"That still doesn't answer what you want for lunch," he says poking you with his foot.

"Surprise me" you shrug. You finish off your smoothie with a slurp and put it in the dishwasher before gathering your things.

Quinn is still doddling around your kitchen, "Alright, let's go, I don't wanna make you late for practice" you say slipping on your shoes.

"I'm coming, I'm coming" he slips on his shoes, and tucks a bag of snacks into your school bag, grinning at you knowingly. You roll your eyes at him, locking your apartment door behind you. The drive to his place is less than five minutes, and Quinn spends the whole drive criticizing your music.

By the time you stop in front of his building, you're ready to smite him. "Get out of my car Hughes or I'll throw you out." He sticks his tongue out at you and you roll your eyes, unlocking it for him to get out. Sometimes you think the only reason your friendship has lasted so long is because you are good at dealing with children, and sometimes Quinn acts just like a child.

"See you later Y/n/n" he grins.

"Text me when you get in!" You say, before he shuts the door.

He salutes you with two fingers and jogs into his building. You wait until you receive a text from him before pulling out of the parking spot and heading to school.

The hours leading to lunch are excruciatingly long. The temptation to spill the surprise that Quinn is coming to visit today is nearly worth the excitement the kids will have. But you know the looks on their faces will be so much more worth it when he shows up unannounced.

As you mark assignments, and the kids silently read, your phone buzzes with a text from him. It's as if he can sense when you're thinking about him.

Q: I'm out front when you're ready.

You glance at the clock: two minutes until the bell rings, and then you're free.

You: Be out in 5

You stand up, addressing your class "Everyone can put their books away, and go get your jackets and outdoor shoes on, and as soon as the bell rings, you may go."

The scramble to the cubbies is immediate, as kids kick off their shoes and yank on their jackets. They line up at the door, bouncing on their toes. You pull on your own light jacket and wait at the front of your class with them, chatting to the talkative ones. The bell rings and they run from the classroom like it's on fire.

Rolling your eyes at their enthusiasm, you grab the sign that says "Ms. Y/l/n has left the building" so that your kids know to ask Mr. Farmer if they need anything from the classroom and lock the doors. You let the office know that you'll be gone for the duration of lunch and with that, you escape the building.

Quinn is waiting out front in his car. The one he drives when he wants to look less suspicious. You snort to yourself, as you open the door and slide into the passenger seat.

"What's funny?" Quinn asks immediately, raising an eyebrow at you as you do your seat belt.

"I was just thinking that it's funny you have two cars, one that you bought to drive specifically when you don't wanna be easily recognizable"

"Oh I'm sorry," Quinn teases, pulling out of his parking spot carefully "Have I offended the lady by not picking you up in my Porsche?"

Something about watching him drive makes your stomach flutter. The slope of his neck as he looks over his shoulder, the prominence of the veins in his hands as he grips the steering wheel. Your throat goes dry, and you look away quickly as the thoughts spiral darker, into thoughts you should not be having, about your best friend and his car. Especially not while sitting beside him, in said car.

"Earth to Y/n?" Quinn says, poking you in the cheek, you turn your head, instinctively biting his finger. He hisses and yanks it away. "You've been spacey since this morning, what's up?"

"Nothing," you sigh, "just thinking."

"Well don't think too hard, I wouldn't wanna strain your limited brain cells" he teases, flicking you on the forehead. You glare at him, crossing your arms like a child. His demeanour from last night has done a complete 180°. You know he feels bad for telling you all his feelings, but you also know that he'll bring it up again when he's ready.

There's silence between you two, accompanied by the base of a pop song that plays low through his speakers. It's uncomfortable. And that's scary because silence with Quinn isn't supposed to be uncomfortable. He's supposed to be the one constant in your life. Solid, sturdy and unchanging in the face of the unknown. And somehow, in the course of one night and weighty conversation, he has become the unknown. Why did he have to come into your life and unearth all these feelings?

His hand is reaching for yours, and he laces your fingers together, stopping the nervous twitch of your fingers, and your heart stutters even more.

"If it's about moving in with me, don't overthink it," he says with all the simplicity in the world "I'll understand if you don't wanna do it. I mean, we aren't nineteen anymore, you are your own person."

And before you really know you are saying,"I'll do it!" Comes spilling from your lips. Quinn looks at you, eyes hopefully like you've never seen before, and he squeezes your hand.

"You will?"

You nod, and he squeezes your hand again, the grin on his face so bright it could light up the darkest of nights. And at that moment, the only thing you know is that Quinn was derived from whatever Divine power there was because no smile should be able to chase away all premonitions of darkness like his does.

Lunch is burgers and fries, at some high-end restaurant that Quinn likes. You talk about everything, and nothing all at once, and once more comfort settles in your bones like an old friend.

"Did you tell the kids I'm coming?" Quinn asks, stealing a fry off your plate. You smack his hand with a glare and he simply steals another one.

"No, I was thinking you could pop out from behind my desk or something."

Quinn rolls his eyes with a smile. "Sure, that'll be fun" he'd be lying if he said the way you talked about the kids didn't stir something funny in his chest. "Is Olivia there today?" He asks casually.

Something not akin to jealousy sparks under your skin. Olivia Daunt. A teacher down the hall who enjoyed making underhanded comments about you to anyone who would listen. And Somehow she was always needing to borrow stuff from your room, whenever Quinn was around.

"Unfortunately" you grumble, pushing away your clean plate. Quinn finishes a second after you, and he's signalling the Waiter for the cheque. You slap your card on the table, and Quinn shoots you a look so disbelieving someone would think you just plucked a live fish out of the tank and ate it like candy.

He snatches your card off the table and shoves it in his pocket.

"Quinn," it sounds like you're scolding a child.

"Y/n," he parrots.

"Seriously, let me get it this time."

He snorts like you've made a particularly funny joke. "Not a chance, sweetheart"

"Quinn, please."

"Y/n, I was the one who took you out legally that means I have to pay."

"Legally?" You scoff as he puts his card on the table.

"Mhm," you steal his move, snatching his card off the table and sticking it in your pocket.

"Y/n" he warns, hand inching towards you across the table.

"I was the one who asked you to get lunch with me, so I think that means, legally, I have to pay. Now put my card on the table Quinn"

"Don't play with me, Y/n" he says, voice low, eyes demanding. A shiver runs down your spine, and the yearning that floods you is overwhelming. Oh, how you wish he was looking at you like that in a different scenario. Without a table separating you. Maybe with less clothing, too.

Your cheeks turn red as you realize that for the second time today, your thoughts towards Quinn have taken an unholy route. Unintelligible grumbles fall from your lips as you put his card on the table, hoping he stops looking at you like that right now.

The smile that lights his face is worth losing the battle. He doesn't give you back your card until he's paid, and the two of you are walking out of the restaurant side by side. You make it back to the school just before lunch is over, with just enough time to hide Quinn under your desk to surprise the kids.

As the kids settle in before the last bell rings, your eyes flick to Quinn, crouched under your desk. He looks up at you from where he's sitting between your legs under your desk. Hands braced on your knees.

The sight of him kneeling under your desk, has you thinking downright sinful things. You look away quickly. He squeezes your knee, and you stand up, unable to deal with the burn of his palm through your pants any longer without combusting.

"Alright, kids," you clap, "before we bring out our science books, I have a surprise for y'all." the room immediately explodes in excitement.

"Is it donuts?" One kid screams, sending the other kids into a frenzy.

You laugh as they scream their theories at you, and let them get it out of their system.

"Alright!" You yell over their voices with a smile, "drumroll, please," you say, walking to the light switch animatedly as the kids tap their hands on their desks rapidly. The plan was you would flip off the light dramatically, pretend your surprise hadn't worked when you turned the lights back on, get everyone to take out their science books and then Quinn would jump out before you started teaching.

You flick off the lights, and the drumming gets louder. Then the lights turn on, and the noise ceases abruptly while the kids look around.

"Oh man!" You sigh dramatically, "it didn't work," you pout, walking to the front of the class.

There's a mixture of sighs and groans as everyone gets out their science books. Your back is to the class, as you write the beginning of today's science lesson on the board. You crook your fingers at your side, signalling for Quinn to show himself.

He jumps out from under your desk with a "boo!" And chaos unfolds. You grin as the kids scream, some of them launching out of their chairs to attack Quinn with hugs. "MR. HUGHES!!" They yell as they crowd around him, jumping up and down.

The first time he'd come to the classroom, they were mostly starstruck and too nervous to talk to him very much. Now, whenever you brought him in, they had the biggest smiles and were armed with non-stop stories to bombard him with.

Quinn looks at you, mouthing, "Can I do it?"

You nod, and he grins as brightly as the Kids. He claps his hands three times. "One two three, eyes on me!"

The kids respond in kind, with two claps, saying, "One, two, eyes on you."

"Alright, everyone, listen to Ms. Y/l/n," he grins, hands on his hips.

The kids all turn to you for instruction. "Ok, everyone, please take your seat. Mr. Hughes will be here for the rest of the day, so you all will have plenty of time to bug him."

The kids take their seats happily, unwilling to lose their Mr. Hughes privileges. At that moment, Olivia chooses to appear at your classroom door, a scowl on her lips. "Some of us are trying to teach, so if you keep it down, that would be-"

She stops mid-sentence as she notices Quinn. Her voice turned sickly sweet. "Oh! Quinn! I didn't know you were dropping by today. How have you been?"

Quinn gives her a polite smile. "I'm alright," he says curtly. You can't help but smirk as Olivia's jaw clenches.

"Did you leave your class alone?" You ask, brows raised. She huffs as if remembering she has a job to do and all but storms out of your room without finishing what she came to say in the first place.

The remainder of the day goes by smoothly; your class is on extra good behaviour, because Quinn is there. As predicted, Olivia has all of a sudden forgotten all of her teaching supplies and, over the course of the next hour, comes into your room to borrow a white board marker, a stapler, post-it notes, a pen and a couple of other things you know she has.

Olivia also definitely opened her big mouth because a few other teachers dropped by under the guise of needing to borrow something or other lame excuses. They say hi to Quinn, like they didn't know he was there, and linger a little too long.

When the bell rings for third recess, you cherish your time alone with Quinn before all the teachers who don't have hall patrol have somehow found themselves in your classroom.

"Do you ever wear my jerseys to school?" Quinn asks, offering you slices of the tangerine he just peeled as he sits on your desk while you lesson plan.

"Usually if I'm coming to a game after, or if your games are on Fridays," you say, absent-mindedly opening your mouth for him to feed you. He pops the orange slice in, not even questioning it.

"Why Fridays?" He asks, placing another orange slice in your mouth.

"Cause Friday is the last day of the week, so it deserves some celebration."

Quinn's smile is shy. He doesn't understand why you would associate him with celebration, but warmth floods his chest, and he basks in it.

As if Olivia can sense that you are enjoying your peaceful moment with Quinn, she walks in, hips swishing and voice dripping with false sweetness. "Y/nnn," she whines, drawing out the last syllable of your name, "Hi Quinny," she giggles.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. Quinn looks uncomfortable. "Ok, firstly, his name is not Quinny, so don't call him that." You say, crossing your arms over your chest, but before you can get to your second point, she cuts you off.

"Fiesty!" She mocks, and your cheeks burn. At that moment, three more teachers enter, and you sigh, knowing they are all here to ogle and flirt with Quinn. Unfortunately for them, you do not have the patience to deal with this right now.

"Alright, everyone out. I'm busy."

Olivia is the first to protest, "But I need-"

"Get out." You grind, glaring at her. She rolled her eyes and hurried out with the other teachers close behind. Quinn sighs a breath of relief as the door shuts behind them. Sometimes, you forget that he isn't a people person, and the way he is around you is reserved for you and you only.

"Sorry," you mumble out, tucking your lesson plan into your binder.

"S' not your fault," he smiles

"Wanna help me set up for the last activity for today?" you ask, holding out a stack of papers in a sort of peace offering.

"Sure," Quinn smiles, taking the stack of papers. He places one on each desk, inspecting it as he goes, "What's this for?"

"It's part one of our compassion project," you say, pulling the example paper out of your binder. It was a piece of paper titled 'Who I admire' The assignment was for each student to pick someone they admired, and write down a little bit about what they mean to you and why they inspire you. Part two of the project would be to make a little photo collage of their inspirational person.

"Can I see your example?" Quinn asks curiously, joining you back at your desk; you hand it over to him, the tips of your ears going red with embarrassment. Your paper reads:

'Who I admire'

One of the people I admire most is Quinn Hughes. He is my best friend and the person I love to spend time with the most. I admire Quinn because he is a hard worker and a natural leader who cares about everyone before himself. Quinn inspires me because he is a kind and caring person who always tries his hardest and can get back up no matter how hard he falls.

"You...admire me?"

"Of course, I do," You answer softly, "I don't think there's anyone I admire more."

Quinn's breath is caught in his throat. The sentences are worded for elementary schoolers, yet the weight they hold is unmatched to him. Sometimes, simplicity meant the most. Just as Quinn is about to say more, the bell rings, signaling the end of recess.

While you wait at the door to greet your class as they file in, you don't notice that Quinn is scribbling furiously on one of the many extra sheets you printed for the inevitable mistakes and overthinkers. After the class is settled and you explain the assignment, they get to work.

A low buzz of chatter fills the room as the kids work, asking each other who they will write about. Quinn took your chair while you were explaining the assignment, so you sat on your desk in front of him.

"Here's another example sheet," He says, handing you the sheet he was working on. You glance over it quickly, your smile growing softer as you read what he wrote.

One of the people I admire most is Y/n Y/l/n. She is my best friend and one of my favourite people. I admire her because she is kind and funny and always believes in me. She inspires me because knows what she wants, and she isn't afraid to put in work to get what she wants.

The irony of the last sentence is not lost on you. Years of wanting Quinn, and you never put in the work to get him. You buried your feelings in hopes that they would go away. The fear of losing Quinn all too prominent to risk the friendship over some silly little feelings.

"I love it," you smile, pinning it on the board next to yours so the kids have another example to look at. You and Quinn sit together at your desk, chatting about mundane things here and there while kids come up to ask questions. On more than one occasion, you got asked if they could use Quinn as their person, to which your answer was no because he was your example. Quinn laughed about it every time.

"What do you want for dinner?" Quinn asks, absent-mindedly scrolling through recipes on his phone.

"I've got leftovers in my fridge. I'll eat those."

Quinn looks at you, face scrunched in displeasure. "Don't be silly, we are having dinner together. What do you want? And don't say surprise me."

Well damn. He took the words right out of your mouth. You tap your fingers in thought. "Steak," you grin.

"Steak?"

"Steak." You nod. If there's one thing Quinn can cook absolutely magnificently, it's steak.

"OK, what should we do on the side?" He hums, presumably checking his grocery list.

"Let's do that spinach fruit salad and roasted potatoes and asparagus?"

"Sounds peachy. I'll stop and get groceries when we leave. My place or yours?"

Soon, you will be able to say Our place you sigh. Being with him, but not with him is eating you from the inside out. Six years of friendship be damned. Living like this was killing you.

"Mine," you glance at the clock, ready to get this day over with and get home. You stand up, putting in your teacher's voice, "Alright, class, we have fifteen minutes till home time. Five to clean, five to get ready, and the last five to talk to Mr. Hughes!"

The kids cheer, and you dismiss them to clean. Within ten minutes, everyone is sitting in a circle on the carpet around you and Quinn, asking him questions.

"Mr. Hughes?" A little girl named Meredith raises her hand.

"yeah?"

"When are you gonna Marry Ms. Y/l/n?"

Your face turns red faster than you thought possible. Quinn looks at you with a glimmer in his eyes, a dusting of pink on the tips of his ears. Before Quinn can answer, you cut in, "Oh honey, we're just best friends." You say softly. It's physically painful for the words to come out of your mouth, but unfortunately, it's the truth.

Quinn looks at you, eyes swimming with emotions you can't discern. The bell finally rings, signalling the day is over. Usually, you would hang around for another hour, preparing for the next day, but with the promise of Quinn making dinner, you want to get home as soon as possible.

After making sure there are no more stragglers, you practically drag Quinn out of the building before anyone can stop him from flirting. "I'll meet you back at your place in a little." He says, walking you to your car.

"Yeah, I'll see you in a bit." You watch as he walks to his car and gets in before pulling out of the parking lot and heading home.

Less than an hour later, Quinn is opening your apartment door with a few grocery bags in hand. He places them on the counter, hands you the latte he brought you, and changes into a more comfortable set of clothes before starting dinner.

"Take a break and come give me a hand?" Quinn suggests, from where you've been marking and planning since you got home.

"I'm almost done," you grumble, wanting to finish so you don't have to think about work for the rest of the night. Quinn glances at the clock, "You're getting huffy," he says fondly.

"I'll be done in ten," you sigh.

"Alright," Quinn hums, "I'm physically removing your work from in front of you in ten minutes."

You glare at him, knowing he will make good on his threat and get back to work, doing only the stuff that needs to be done for tomorrow. As promised, you put everything away in ten minutes, and wash your hands to help Quinn in the kitchen.

"Where do you want me, Chef?" You ask, drying your hands on the kitchen towel.

"Salad," he grins, nodding his head towards the salad stuff on the counter. Grabbing a knife and a cutting board, you stand beside him and prep the stuff. Your hips bump and your arms brush as you work in the comfort of each other's space, chatting about whatever comes to mind.

And when dinner is ready, and Quinn pours the wine, your heart aches. The steak tastes like ash on your tongue, and you feel the tears welling behind your eyes.

"Y/n? What's wrong? Are you ok?"

You sigh out a deep breath, and six years of friendship be damned because you just can't do this anymore. Your fork clangs against your plate, and you look at Quinn with a gut-wrenching sadness in your eyes.

"I can't do this anymore," you say softly, eyes downcast. You can't look at him. You can't. Your heart would break, and you know it.

"Do what? What's wrong? I don't understand." his voice is desperate, pleading, worried. Then he's abandoning his plate and kneeling by your chair, a comforting hand on your knee. "Please," he whispers, squeezing your knee, "let me help you. Tell me what's wrong."

The outline of his palm burns against your leg. You stand quickly, the chair sliding backwards. Your head swims, and you don't know what to do next. You want to tell him he can't help because it's his damn fault. You want to say you can't do this. You want to scream.

"What can't you do Y/n? Let me in. Let me help." He says, standing, stepping into your space. For all the times it felt comforting to have him in your space now it feels like misery.

"Quinn," you sigh, "I can't do this," you motion between you at the dinner. "I can't do it anymore. I just can't. It's killing me from the inside out."

Quinn is in utter disbelief. He looks so so hurt. You can't believe you caused him to look like that. A bitter laugh bubbles in your throat because fuck. His voice sounds foreign and far away. "I- what? Did I do something wrong?"

You sigh, running a hand down your face. "You know," you start knowing you'll regret it, that this will be the end of your friendship. Six wonderful, glorious, beautiful years. The memories would be there, but the bitterness of an ended friendship would taint them.

"I have loved you for six years." It comes out quiet. So utterly quiet, like raising your voice any louder, will shatter both of you into a million irreparable pieces. Quinn stares. The silence is worse than anything he could've said. It's all-consuming, crawling under your skin with whispers of it over. It's done. You've lost him.

Something snaps, and you can't take it anymore. You run to the front door, slip on a pair of shoes and run down the hall, down the stairs and out of the building. Away from Quinn and his suffocating silence.

---

Hello hello my loves. I hope yall are doing good on this Saturday night. So, as you can tell, this is a very long one. A whopping 7.2 k words! I definitely didn't mean for it to get this long. And you know what's funny?? I cut soooo much out. Originally, this fic was supposed to be completely different lmao. Not sure what happened but here we are! I'm probably gonna make this an Au, cause the amount of stuff I thought up while I was writing Quinn x Elementary school teacher, is unhinged. Anyways I hope yall enjoy!! Love Soph.

Find Pt.2 Here

#qh43 #quinn hughes #nhl imagine #quinn hughes x reader #nhl x reader #quinn hughes x y/n #hughes brothers #domesticity #angst #fluff #vancover canucks #captain quinn #loving you is as easy as abc 123

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chaedomi · 9 months

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LITTLE MERMAID

SUMMARY . unable to witness your death a second time, your sister desperately strives to change your fate, even if it meant ridding of others to prevent it.

CHARACTERS . ARIADNE VALENTINE

WARNINGS . YANDERE, female child reader, platonic, ooc, violence, abuse, death, unhealthy relationships (if i missed any, kindly alert me)

WORDCOUNT . 1.8k+ / MASTERLIST.

LETTERS . i have only read up to chapter 17 in Becoming The Villain's Family when this idea just spawned. so, the timeline in which i wrote this fic will focus more so on the scenes in the beginning.

HERE’S A fun fact. Did you know that if you were to encounter a Mermaid, the higher the chances are of encountering a Siren as well? In addition to the creatures viewing each other as family, because of a mermaid’s delicate nature, sirens are naturally possessive of them. They become drunk and hypnotized by a mermaid’s affection, and thus, diligently fulfill a mermaid’s desires to preserve the shine they thrive off of. It’s an interesting tale, to learn the charmers become the charmed. However… if The Mermaid were to ever fall, so will The Siren as their main source of warmth has died. They will descend into madness and become the hostile nature they are known for or even worse, willingly succumb to the hands of death.

In the past, both you and your half-sister, ARIA, led a pitiful life. Throughout your years, your stepmother would force your sister to consume a potion, rendering her speechless, whereas yours will gently hug you, encouraging you to always remain neutral. It was confusing and painful, as it seemed those were the only moments your mothers cared about you both. Your stepmother, quiet as a mouse, and your mother, apathetic as a heart of stone.

During those times, you and Aria were grateful for each other, more so Aria, as she would cling to your tiny body crying and trembling while you tenderly kissed her cheeks and wiped away her tears.

Eventually, the truth came to light when you were the age of five, and your sister, ten. Through the season of spring, your mother passed, inclusive of your stepmother, who apparently went mad and took her own life after hearing of your mother’s death. By eavesdropping on the maids, it was then you both learned of each other’s identities, Aria, a Siren, and you, a Mermaid.

Sirens, gaining the name of the ancient monster, that flowed through your stepmother’s blood, through their songs, they possessed people, treated them, controlled them, and shook their emotions. Mermaids, gaining the name of the mythical creature, that flowed through your mother’s blood, through their tears, they shed milky crystals that held the power to repel a siren’s song. With those tears too, they were capable of granting grand wishes whether great or small, destructive or creative. Despite how dangerous their power was, they were harmless and good-natured.

Twelve years ago, your father had kidnapped a Mermaid and a Siren, presenting them to the world as they were originally known as myth. That Mermaid was your mother, and The Siren, your stepmother.

Your mind was too young to understand the information told and realize how dire the situation was. So, it worried you to see your sister in a constant state of panic and tears every now and then. You had asked her several times for the reason for her grief, but she brushed your concerns off each time, snuggling closer to you. And your worries slowly diminished as well as you returned the hug. Till… it happened one night when your father was unbelievably drunk out of his mind.

It was sudden, you were telling a story to your sister while she clung to you before your father barged inside the room, a wave of hatred visible in his eyes. One thing led to another and your sister was dragged outside the room by the hair. Even though you couldn’t make sense of what was happening, the sword that was tightly grasped in his hand as he took your sister away, was enough for you to spring into action. A silly game of tug-of-war it was, you, screaming your lungs out while you pulled at the hem of your sister’s nightgown, and your father, effortlessly dragging you both, to where he pleased. What it took to stop him, was the perfectly sweet voice of your sister, and the solid gems that fell from your eyes as you wept. He resembled a total madman, reaching toward you both as he cackled about the materials he could possess. You could only cry harder as your sister hugged you, burying your head against her chest.

Your lives were horrific beyond that point. Living the lives of a Mermaid and a Siren, you both were forced to mature quickly, learning and hearing unspeakable things. Becoming caged animals, you were pressured to fulfill the greed of scum. And despite all the abuse you suffered, you continued to push smiling, even when the exhaustion taking a toll on your body became more visible with each passing day.

Such a selfless soul you were too, quick to jump to others' needs instead of yours. Whenever your sister silently wept after a song, you would rub her head in comfort, sweetly hushing her as she lay in your lap. Whenever she was angry, you would squeeze her hands, attempting to calm the brewing storm in her heart. Whenever she felt as though she couldn’t make it, you would kiss her cheek, saying that she has done so well.

She, of course, soaked up every affection you provided. Too occupied wallowing in her sorrows and the comfort she will receive afterward from you, she forgot that you were also affected, dealt with the same ill-treatment, as well as that you had your limitations. So when the day arrived when you had no tears left to cry, her heart shattered.

It was a pitiful sight to witness, your sister in a mess as she cried desperately to you, begging for you to stay. You wished that you could, but the longer your head rested on her lap, and her cold hands held your cheeks, you felt more of your life fade away. So you forced yourself to cry, to shed one more tear, and it fell.

With that tear, you wished, that perhaps in another lifetime, both you and your sister could enjoy your days in endless glee, like free birds soaring in the sky.

As you drew your last breath, your sister too accepted her death, willing to perish alongside you. You were her joy, her motive to continue her days. But, when you left, so did those things. And she sang her last song, calling to whoever could come and console her weeping soul. Even when her savior came and held her in his arms, your sister’s eyes never left your corpse as she continued to sing. Maybe, if she died, she’ll be reunited with you in the depths of hell, unknowing of the white glow that shone by your corpse as she closed her eyes…

…So it came as a great surprise when she reopened her eyes not to hell, but to a lovely floral scent wafting in the air… As it dawned on her that she reverted to her ten-year-old self her head immediately snapped to the spot beside her on the bed, a lump visible under the duvets. With a shaky hand, she slightly tugged it downward… revealing your adorable face.

She almost cried there on the spot, leaning forward to press a kiss against your temple. She remembered that wish you made on your deathbed… could this outcome be a result of your wish being granted? If so, she will not take it for granted. Your father… who ruined both of your lives, she will inflict vengeance on him. She will save you from your fate no matter what it takes.

“MY YOUNG Lady, you seem upset. Is everything alright?” Dana asked, chuckling lightly. Damn right, she’s upset. And no, she’s not alright. Can’t she tell? She was considered to be weak physically, but, god, the sight in front of her filled her with so much rage that she was capable of snapping the spoon in her hand in half.

The maid assigned to you was just doing what she ought to do, heeding your commands. If you tell her to bark like a loyal dog, she will do just that and obey your orders. So, naturally, if you had instructed her to spoon-feed you the food brought to the table, the maid would oblige.

Aria's teeth sunk further into her bottom lip, listening to how you squealed and laughed in glee when the maid gently wiped the crumbs off your face, chuckling along with you. Why were you acting so sweet and loving to someone you just met? She was there longer than that maid ever was, no? She was the only one there for you when you suffered, so rightfully, whatever abnormality or emotion you may feel, she is the only one allowed to witness it.

"What is it you don't like, My Young Lady?" Tearing her eyes off the sight that sickened her greatly, she stared blankly at her caretaker, who contrasted her expression with a beaming smile. She was so focused on the scene that she hadn't realized her body moved on its own, scribbling messily on the piece of paper she used to communicate.

She slowly wrote again. “You don’t like the maid, My Young Lady?” Dana tried to hide her amusement over the situation, albeit terribly, I may add, the fingers pressed against her quivering lips a dead giveaway. “So, that’s why you have that frown… Young Lady, are you perhaps jealous?”

Jealous? The feeling inside her body burns too hot for it to be deciphered as jealousy. What she felt was a pure unspoken rage that could tip over at any given moment. Such anger she felt… was similar to the night she confronted her drunken father after she awoke as a child. In short, she didn’t want this maid to just leave. She wanted her gone. Entirely.

“Hmmm…” Dana frowned at Aria’s discontent. Pinching her chin in thought, she glanced in your direction. “The Other Young Lady does not know how to use cutlery correctly, hence why she always seeks assistance. However… Ah!” Dana snapped her fingers as a thought popped up. “Why don’t you feed The Other Young Lady instead?”

The rate at which Aria immediately perked up was comical. Eyes sparkling like fine jewels, she was practically buzzing in her seat! Satisfied that she made her Young Lady smile, Dana quickly moved to update your maid on the change of plans.

You were very confused when your maid abruptly stood from her chair, big-doe eyes staring when she stood near the doorway with a large smile plastered on her lips. But when your sister approached you, taking the spot the maid sat on to feed you, all questions vanished. You were already glad to see your sister just… there, so, think of the wave of happiness that rushed over you when she wrote she wanted to feed you!

The food served became tastier now that your sister was the one feeding you. And with a full mouth of food and eyes that glimmered in admiration of your sister, you huffed out an ‘I love you’ as best as you could. It was a bit gross to see some bits of food fly out of your mouth, but the warmth that clenched her heart from your genuineness overpowered her disgust. Smiling fondly, she wiped your messy mouth before leaning over to press a loving kiss on your forehead.

Your happiness truly is the source of her own happiness. Keep smiling for her, she will do anything to preserve it and anything for you, her little mermaid.

#🥛━ 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐄 #becoming the villain's family #btvf #btvf x reader #manhwa x reader #manhwa x you #yandere manhwa x reader #yandere x reader #platonic yandere #yandere platonic #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #child reader #female reader

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aesthetic-bbyg · 2 months

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(Smut) Loser!Luke…

who thinks your just another camper. Just another girl, normal, albeit very pretty, but normal. You prance around camp with a kind smile, wave at those you know, even at him sometimes. Nothing that makes you too special that would distract Luke from his duties.

You’re just another camper.

Or so he thought, completely unaware of the truth. The innocent, pretty girl that resided in the Hermes cabin, yet to be claimed, had a dirty secret. He discovered it purely on accident, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. When he pushed the cabin door open that morning, discovering that you were missing from the daily head count, his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

There you were, shirtless, a tight pair of low jeans stretched out as you bent over to collect the obnoxiously bright orange camp shirt that you’d discarded earlier in the night. The sound of the door being open made you immediately stand up straight, turning around as you gasped and covered your chest. Feigning a wide eyed look once you noticed who it was standing in the doorframe. Allowing a faux embarrassed look to paint your feature as he stuttered out an apology and shut the door.

Though he couldn’t get it out of his head, the sight of the black ink etched carefully on your lower back. A tramp stamp decorating your skin, half of it hidden under the jeans you wore, he wanted to slap himself for being so disgusting. The fact that it was the first thing he noticed because he was gawking at your bent over ass.

He had to collect himself. Who was he, the leader of the Hermes cabin, if he was over here, a flustering mess and potentially growing an uncomfortable bulge in his pants over what? A tattoo? He’s seen some of the campers his age with them, it’s not like it was a new thing. Perhaps it was the placement of the ink, the fact it was only visible to him through an intimate moment. He swallowed thickly, brushing a way the thoughts when he heard the door click open, slowly watching as you stepped out.

“I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in on you like that—“ The boy mentally slapped himself for babbling like an idiot, he definitely knew that his cheeks were embarrassingly pink.

“It’s totally okay, Luke.” You giggled, a smirk playing on your lips as you patted his shoulder, letting it slide down his arm slowly. You’re voice so soft and gentle, yet antagonizing. You began walking towards the others of the Hermes cabin, your eyes staying connected to his until you were fully turned away.

He just watched your figure as you disappeared into the crowd, swallowing back once more as he felt his mouth dry up. You seemed so slick, unlike the image of you he’d built in his mind. You were a sweetie, a pitifully innocent new girl that was just barley getting the grip on this whole camp life within the first month of your arrival. And yet, that smirk, and the shirt? Did you purposefully cut it up so that it was more cropped.

When he’d finally found the strength to step forward, cautiously, almost like he was learning to walk again, he found you within the crowd. The bottom of the shirt looked to be messily torn up, some parts uneven, so you did cut it up. It did it’s job of revealing your midriff, just enough so he got a glance at a gleaming stone that pierced your belly button.

Gods.

You really weren’t like anything he’d imagined, but it only made his pants even more uncomfortable. Luke couldn’t hold it any longer. Desperately, he was covering himself shamefully as he scurried back to Hermes cabin like a deer running away at the sound of a twig snapping. He needed to relieve himself before he thought of presenting himself to the others.

It was humiliating , Luke thought to himself. Having to jerk off because you. The stupid image of you shirtless, bent over. What if he was standing behind you while you were in that same position? Bent over a bed, maybe? Him just pounding you from the back as he got full view of that tramp stamp that stained your skin. It made Luke moan like a pathetic loser, which he was was, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating.

It was all part of your devious planning. To get him this vulnerable, it only took one move and it was like dominos falling perfectly atop of each other. Just a singular sight you shirtless and it had the poor boy bucking into his fist. You would’ve loved to have an image to the noises you were hearing as you pressed your ear up against the cabin door. But of course, as you twisted the doorknob, the same creak that unveiled Luke’s presence earlier that morning, ultimately revealed you entering the cabin.

Luke immediately sat up, wide eyed and hurrying to cover himself with a blanket or pillow. It was a faint sense of deja vu, now the roles reversed. You shut the door, smirking softly as you approached the bed. The boy looked up at you like a innocent little thing that could do no wrong.

“Need a hand?”

#luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #son of Hermes #percy jackson and the olympians show #Percy Jackson show #Percy Jackson #charlie bushnell #luke Castellan smut #luke Castellan imagine #luke castellan blurb #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson disney+#pjo tv show #luke castellan pjo

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illyrian-dreamer · 11 months

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Our girl – Part 1

Azriel x Cassian x Reader angst

Summary: Deeming you unfit for a mission, the Inner Circle have betrayed your trust and shattered your life’s mission to avenge you sister. And the two males you love most were at the centre of it all.

Word count: 5k

Super angsty IC dynamics, little bit of violence/blood. Injured reader.

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“It was my right!!” Your voice was shrill, breaking from the volume – but you couldn't care less.

“I understand that Y/N, but I have a duty to my court. And to you, to keep you safe.” Your Highlord was unmoved, professional and stoic, your anger washing over him like water against stone.

The thud of your heart was in your ears, the tips of them hot, and you were sure the rest of your family could hear it too. You tried to breath, to think, to let yourself see the logic in Rhys’s decision to let Azriel make the kill over you.

But it was all bullshit.

“He was mine to kill,” you seethed, your voice unrecognisable, an almost growl from the deep part of your throat that strained at you not to cry.

“Try to understand–”

“No!” you spat, marching up to the High Lord, your finger pointed at your chest. The rest of your family stiffened as you approached, untrusting of what you would do next. You could see Azriel’s shadows run down his frame, even though the male hadn't moved from his formal stance by the door. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, still unable to look you in the eye since the moment you had barged into the room. Feyre was biting the nail on her thumb, her face pained and distressed as she watched you march up to her mate. But it was Cassian who showed the least amount of trust, taking a step closer, ready to jump in if - or rather when he had to.

“She was my sister Rhysand, MY SISTER! Not yours, not anyone else's here. He took her in innocence, and his death was mine to mark.”

Rhysand’s brow clenched. “It had to be this way,” he offered softly.

You scoffed, running shaky hands through your hair as you paced backwards. “You expect me to believe that?” Sarcasm oozed from you as easily as the aggression. “I’ve only ever asked you for one thing Rhysand, one thing! Meryl’s murder was unjust, and you promised to train me to avenge her! You promised I would be the one to kill that male!”

Rhysand took a deep breath, his violet eyes pained, but his head remained high. “I’m sorry Y/N. It’s as I said, you’re not ready to execute a mission this big, and Alvar had intel on our court that we could not risk exposing.”

“I have worked my ass off for years for you Rhys. I have trained in hail, rain and shine, I’ve completed mission after mission with no complaint. I have fought for you, lied and stolen and killed for you. I have given my life to avenging Meryl, and you have the audacity to tell me I’m not ready?”

“I know it’s hard to hear. There’s no changing that you didn't have clearance.”

“From who?”

“Cassian and Azriel.”

And that was the last thing you heard before your heart broke in two.

The males you trusted most in this world, the two that had broken your walls, taught you to trust again, trained you and nurtured you, the very beings you loved most in this world,– had not only known of the task, but had been the ones to stop you from fulfilling your life’s mission?

They knew the depths of your reasoning for joining the Inner Circle, for training as a Velarian spy. They had known your one true desire to find Alvar Ashwood – Hybern’s lead assassin – and make him pay for the innocent life that he took.

You looked between the two of them now, your mouth agape as you tried to find the words, or even a sound that could come close enough to the anguish you felt. But no sound found you, even your shaking had stopped. Rhys was saying something, but his words were a world away, muffled and muted as heart-wrenching shock consumed you.

Cassian looked back at you with broken, pleading eyes. Azriel's head hung low in shame.

You would never forgive them for this.

“I-I.” You stopped yourself, gulping. You had nothing left to say. Nodding slowly, silent tears of realisation rolled down your cheeks. One thing was clear – there was no one left that you could trust.

“I’m sorry you’re hurt Y/N, truly. Please, take some time to rest, to process. We’ll discuss this further when you’re ready, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Rhys’s stance had softened at your tears, his palms open as he dared to try and slip through your mental shields to sooth you.

Gritting your teeth, you slammed your walls up as high as possible, shutting him out and throwing him from the outskirts of your mind. You whipped your head back to your High Lord, a snarl ready at your lips as you took another stride towards him.

Cassian jumped into action then, stopping you with two large hands on either of your shoulders, his back to his Rhys as he blocked your path.

“Hey, hey, how about we go talk about this outside, ok?”

“Get off me,” you spat, shaking off his hold as you tried to eye Rhys over his shoulder.

Feyre had joined her mate now, their arms linked as they stared at you with pure shock. Neither of them had anticipated just how deeply this decision would cut.

Giving up against Cassian’s hold, you looked between both of them, their figures becoming a blur as tears welled in your eyes. “How could you do this to me?” you broke, your face crumpling. “I trusted you, all of you!”

Cassian pulled you close to his chest as he walked you from the room. “Shh, its alright, c’mon, come with me.”

You had nothing left to give. No energy, no fight, certainly nothing that could resist Cassian’s strength as he dragged you from that room, weeping.

You weren't even sure how you made it to the gardens, but the bite cold of the night shocked you enough to push the General off of you.

Bending at your waist, you held yourself up by your knees, your breath shaky and uneven as you struggled to breath in between sobs. Bile rose in your mouth, and you were unsure if you were going to be sick.

“Shh, its alright Y/N. Just breath.” Cassian’s large hand framed and soothed your back.You wanted so badly to give in to him, to throw yourself at his chest and let him hold you while you cried. But no – he had betrayed you, just like the rest.

“D-don’t touch me,” you managed to gasp.

“Alright sweetheart, alright.”

“And don't call me that!” Having regained a steady breath, you straightened to look at him, disgust seeping from your expression as your eyes darted between his. “You knew?”

Cassian sighed, closing his eyes and dropping his head slightly. “Yeah, I knew.”

“How could you not tell me?”

Another sigh from the General. “We knew you’d go after him if you found out.”

You blinked back at Cassian, biting your lip as you shook your head in disbelief.

“I know it might not make sense right now doll, but we did it for your own good.”

You shook your head faster, your frown deepening as you stepped further away from your once friend. “No, no no Cassian! No! There is no excuse!”

“I’m sorry you’re hurting Y/N, really, I am. I know what it feels like to lose someone you love, to need to avenge them.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That’s right Cass, you do. So where was our family to lie and deceive you all those months you spent slashing and killing to avenge your mother?”

Cassian’s eye softened as he took a deep breath. “You know that is the deepest regret of my life.”

“At least the decision was yours,” you spat, turning your heel for the gates at the back of the gardens.

Cassian was on your tail. “Please, Y/N. We did it out of care for your safety, try to understand.” You kept a stubborn chin forward, picking up your pace as you sought any kind of exit from this Gods-forsaken home that had once been your haven.

You had finally reached the gates, magic willing them to open on their own accord. You steered straight ahead – to the thick of the woods that bordered the house

“Where are you going?” Cassian asked.

You didn't answer the General. Before you, your destination lay clear.

“Y/N. The woods are dangerous.”

You scoffed, your pace and direction unchanged. A strong hand caught your wrist.

“Get off me Cassian,” you snarled.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I can't let you.”

“I said get off!”

Cassian snatched his hand back, a sharp breath drawn as he winced in pain. Your power – that unpredictable, uncontrollable current of energy now swarmed your skin like an electric coating. It was moments like this that your gift found you, unpredictable and dangerous, much like yourself. Surely part of the reason your family had decided you weren't good enough to find and kill Alvar on your own.

You had no room in your heart to care if you hurt Cassian. This was your window to flee, so you did, escaping him and heading to the depths of the woods.

————

The woods were crisp and dark, the usual brilliant array of stars hidden by tree tops. But you didn't care, your own discomfort numbed from the sheer rage that fuelled your every step.

Your breath was a smoky puff against the cold, twigs and branches crunching underneath the stomp of your boots while circular thoughts reeled in your mind, over and over again.

Rhysand had ordered Azriel to kill Alvar. Cassian and Azriel didn’t give you clearance and kept the mission a secret. Alvar was dead. You would never avenge your sister.

It was done. It was over. The last tether to your sister, buried forever. Everything you had worked for, the one motivation that kept you from falling apart at her death, that got you out of bed on those days when grief was an excruciating ache on your stomach – gone in an instant. And the people you loved the most were to blame.

Deep within your turmoil of thoughts, the shadows that slinked over your footprints went unnoticed, and the figure that flew overhead amiss.

The sound of a bubbling brook pricked your fae ears. You decided to follow it – perhaps a sip of cold water, or running your hands through a stream might calm the energy that still zapped at your skin.

Sure enough, not a short walk away was the brook. The water trickled down into a large pool, the tree tops cleared as moonlight danced in the reflection of the water. Under any other circumstance, you would have found this setting to be beautiful.

You bought shaking hands to cup at the stream, wincing as the cold stung at your power. But the liquid was quick to sooth you, and your spark began to fizzle as you bought your hand to your mouth, drinking intently.

After a few more sips, you sat back at the bank of the pool, closing your eyes as heavy breaths pushed through the ache in your chest. The sound of a small splash of water had you opening your eyes, and you jumped as unfeeling, black ones stared back at you from the centre of the pool.

A sickly pale face watched you unblinking, its figure still beneath the water from the nose down. Adrenaline was quick to fuel you to get the hell out of there, but you also knew better.

This was a kelpie. And it was too late to run.

The kelpie moved silently beneath the water, wading its way towards you. You took the few moments you had to scramble to your feet, patting yourself for anything to defend yourself with. Fuck – you hadn't a weapon on you.

Reaching the edge of the bank now, it stood on its long limbs, water trickling off its sickly figure, its own long black hair blending with the reeds that clung to its frame.

“Are you a royal?” it grinned, its pointed teeth yellow and rotted.

You forced a steady voice, calling on your power you so often stifled. “No,” was all you said, staring the creature down.

The kelpie ran an insidious tongue along its teeth, churning a nauseous feeling in your stomach. “Then why do you smell of it?”

You blinked – you hadn't realised you carried the scent of your family with you too. Perhaps a kelpie’s scent was more heightened?

“They are my family. Unrelated.” you explained, buying yourself more time for your power to gather. “They’ll fetch for me soon,” you lied.

The kelpie hissed and grinned at once, walking closer towards you. You took a few steps back, keeping your distance.

“You smell…,” the kelpie paused, its awful nostrils flaring against its face. “Delicious.”

“You best leave. They’ll kill you if you harm me,” you replied quickly, cursing yourself for the fear that you knew now tinged your scent. The kelpie caught it too, its grin growing wider.

“But I’m starrrrved,” it drawled, lowering its look to you. “I’m afraid I cannot contain myself, even if I tried.” A sickly chuckle racked through its chest.

You gulped, sizing up the creature in front of you. Ordinarily, you knew you could take down someone of his size. But you were without your weapons, and your power was unreliable at the best of times. If it took you in the water, you were sure as dead. Begging to the Gods, you clenched your fists, willing your power to find you in any shape or form.

“Any last words, non-royal?” it cackled, readying itself to attack.

You didn't have a chance to respond as shadows flooded around you, blue siphons glowing among them. The kelpie yelped and howled, and as the darkness cleared you saw its pale figure pinned to the ground.

“Are you alright?” Azriel was before you, his hands gripped at both your arms. Your eyes were wide with shock as you took him in. He had followed you?

The kelpie was deceivingly strong, and fought against his shadows, freeing itself quickly. It screeched as it lunged for you both, a darkened claw swinging for Azriel’s back. You shoved the Shadowsinger aside, the kelpie’s claws slashing across your arm as you yelped in pain. Blood began to pour from your new wound, and the kelpie hissed too, having being struck by your power on contact.

Azriel was on the kelpie in an instant, a blur shadows and muscle before you spotted the glint of truth teller. The next thing you heard was the kelpie’s final howl.

Its mouth agape, the kelpie bled black blood, crawling back to the depths of the pool, choosing to die in its element. Neither you or Azriel stopped it.

Azriel was panting, his breathing loud as the final sign of life from the kelpie bubbled to the surface of the water. You stayed still with shock.

Hazel eyes were before you now, scanning you over.

“Your arm,” Azriel said, touching you gingerly.

“I’m fine,” you said with a distant voice, your mind still with the hideous creature that attacked you. Your forearm was warm with your own blood as it gathered at your fingertips before dripping to the ground.

“Let’s get you to a healer.”

It was that instruction, that order, that snapped you out of your trance. You had heeded and trusted that voice for far too long. And in the end, it had betrayed you.

You snatched your arm away from Azriel, scowling as you met his eyes. “Do not tell me what to do.”

Azriel levelled a look at you. “This is not a regular wound, Y/N. You know a kelpie’s claw is laced with poison.”

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the burning sensation quickly spreading across your body, or the reel in your vision. How convenient that you so desperately needed his help.

“I’ll see to it myself,” you snapped, glaring deep into the Shadowsinger’s eyes. A muscle feathered in his jaw, Azriel’s tell-sign of irritation. He was far less patient than his brothers.

You made to step around him, before a strong arm circled your waist, pulling you back. Too weak to fight him off, a scarred hand covered your mouth to mute your yell of protest. Instead a quick rush of air filled your lungs as the forest folded around you, quickly revealing an infirmary wing.

Shoving yourself from Azriel’s hold the moment you landed, you stumbled forward, finding balance by clinging to the edge of an empty cot. A set of healers rushed to you, grabbing your arms and holding you up.

“A kelpie’s claw,” Azriel said before either of them could ask the question, one of the healer’s dashing for the antidote. “Where is Madja?”

“She does not work nights,” the healer’s voice was loud in your ear as you clung to her, barely able to stand. A small groan escaped you, the fire from the kelpie’s poison burning through your veins, your mobility slowing with every second.

“Fetch for her, please,” Azriel instructed, taking your limp body from the healer and placing you in the cot. A vial was bought to your lips then, the contents inside giving off a putrid smell. You jerked your head stubbornly, but the vial was tipped further against your mouth.

“Drink,” Azriel ordered, his cold hand lacing through your hair and pushing at the back of your head. You had no chose, swallowing the liquid while you still could. The fire in your veins began to dull, and you breathed, thankful for the quick relief.

“Good,” the Shadowsinger said approvingly. You hated that affirmation, but were too weak to show it.

The healers dotted around you, placing cold rags on your face and stitching your wound. Azriel watched, his arms folded and face etched with concern. Uncontrollable shakes racked through your body, your muscles jerking with pain and exhaustion.

Falling in and out of consciousness, you were too dazed to note Madja’s arrival, and with her, Cassian.

“What happened?” Cassian asked his brother, his eyes panicked.

“A kelpie,” Azriel said tightly.

Cassian clenched his eyes shut, punching the bridge of her nose. “She got away from me. I didn't want to chase her, she was already distraught.”

“I was tracking her too. I should have intervened sooner,” Azriel responded, his eyes not leaving you as a deeper frown settled on his face.

After a quick check of your vitals and words with her healers, Madja approached the two.“The antidote is working. She’ll recover soon.”

“She still looks sickly?” Cassian questioned, looking past the healer at your sagged and sweaty body.

“That is what I wanted to talk to you both about. Y/N is carrying symptoms of something else I can't place. Do either of you know if she was involved in a foreign mission lately, perhaps something of high risk or stress?”

The brothers shared a look before Azriel responded. “Not exactly Madja, but she… received some bad news today.”

“She was very upset,” Cassian added.

Madja nodded slowly, tutting softly. “Whatever has happened, it’s manifesting physically. She’s weaker than usual, and will need to rest for a few days. I suggest keeping her here, where we can tend to her.”

“Perhaps we can bring her home Madja. Would you see to her there?” Azriel asked, his arms crossing tighter. Illyrian’s being preternaturally possessive, he preferred you at home where he could keep a closer eye on you, help even.

“The choice is Y/N’s really. Let me do what I can while she rests, I’ll call for you when she wakes.” The brother’s nodded, making to leave the wing.

“Madja,” Cassian half turned, grabbing the healer by her arm. “Please, just, tell her we’re sorry.”

With a small frown, Madja reluctantly agreed.

————

When you awoke, you expected it to be light. Instead, the infirmary was dim, the soft glow of fae light warming the medical wing around you.

Memories from the night before returned, your stomach churning at the thought. The kelpie, hurting Cassian, the fight with your family. Your heart clenched as you were reminded – they had betrayed you, and you could no longer trust them.

Groaning as you turned to your side, you felt around for anything to catch the bile rising in your throat. You luckily landed on a pan, what little remained in your stomach hurled up as your gut clenched and heaved.

Madja entered at the sound, rubbing soothing pats on your back and taking the pan away when you had finished.

You fell back onto the pillows, your body clammy and weak. “What’s wrong with me?” you asked her as she checked your breathing.

“You were struck by a kelpie. Although your wounds are healing well.”

You looked at the ceiling, nodding as you recalled the horrific event. It was hard enough to almost die at the hands of a creature like that, but your heart ached at the thought that Azriel had saved you, yet you never wanted to see his face again.

“It would seem there is something else that plagues your mind, child.”

You looked at Madja now, blinking away the tears that were quickly building.

“Your family mentioned some kind of distressing news?”

Closing your lids, a silent tear rolled from each of your eyes. You merely nodded, your hands quickly brushing away the evidence.

“Its none of my business, but the General was eager that I relay their apologies.”

You froze, flashing a broken look at the healer you had known for many years. How many wounds and ailments of yours had she patched and cured in your career? But emotional wounds – this was new territory for the both of you.

As if finally in safe hands, your face crumpled, your anger and anguish overwhelming as you began to sob. Madja was ordinarily tough – she had no time for foolery and was unsympathetic for injuries of your own fault. But she comforted you now, hushing you and patting your back in a motherly way.

“What do you do when you no longer trust the people you love, Madja?” you asked through shallow cries.

She gave a small, tight smile, squeezing your hands that she now held in hers. “You spend eternity learning to forgive them.”

You bit the quiver in your lip. “I’m not sure I can,” you admitted.

She sighed softly, nodding with understanding. “You have the rest of your existence if you choose to try.”

Madja’s wisdom comforted you, your eyelids turning heavy and you fell to another bout of sleep.

————

Azriel, Cassian and Mor were eating breakfast at the House of Wind, none of them speaking as the weight of last nights events hung heavy.

With a sigh, Mor looked between the males. “She’s going to forgive you eventually, you know that right?”

Cassian gave her a sorry smile, while Azriel kept his eyes on his eggs. He gripped his fork tighter, his jaw clenched. “You didn't see the way she looked at us.”

“She just needs time,” Mor said. “This was her life’s mission after all.”

Azriel’s head snapped up, an icy cold glare fixed upon his face, a blanket over the sheer guilt he felt at Mor’s statement. “You don’t think I know that?”

Mor blinked at the Shadowsinger in shock – it was so unlike him to lose his cool.

“Easy Az, don't snap at Mor for things out of her control,” Cassian frowned at his brother, before shovelling another mouthful of oatmeal.

Azriel let out a sharp breath, clenching his eyes shut, ignoring the sting from the lack of sleep. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, still unable to unlock his tight jaw. Mor waved him off, assuring him it was no big deal.

A gust of foreign wind blew as Rhys and Feyre winnowed into the dining room. The High Lord disregarding pleasantries, his hand clutching a letter, its broken seal the unmistakable symbol of the infirmary.

“I have received news on Y/N.” The High Lord’s tone was to the point, cold even, like he was only interested in discussing the facts.

“Is she alright?” Cassian asked urgently. Azriel’s grip tightened on his knife and fork as he held his breath.

“Madja says her recovery is slow, but she is making progress. One or two more nights at the infirmary and she should be strong enough to be discharged.”

“I asked Madja about attending to her here. Has she written about that?” Azriel asked.

Rhys’s lips tightened before he loosed a deep breath. Feyre, her face pained, jumped in. “Madja has also written that at this point in time, Y/N does not wish to return to home.”

The others fell silent.

“What does that mean?” Azriel gritted.

Tears welled in their High Lady’s eyes, and Rhys slipped his hand over his mates.

“She no longer wishes to live here,” he said, his violet eyes saddened and dim.

Mor gasped, and Cassian shook his head. “Where will she go?” The General stood, his chair scraping as he pushed it out behind him.

“It’s unclear at this stage. Madja has asked that we respect her privacy while she heals. I’m hoping we can talk to her when she’s feeling better. Perhaps even convince her to stay.”

“She won't come back.” The rest of the group turned to the Shadowsinger, his gaze darkened and his shadows building to his neck. “I could sense her rage, the hate she held in her eyes. To her, what we did is unredeemable.”

“Don’t say that Az,” Feyre begged, a lone tear rolling down her cheek.

Azriel’s pounded the table with his fist, his knife now stuck upright in the mahogany wood. “Would you prefer I lied? She’s worked her whole life to avenge Meryl, and we shattered that dream. I wouldn't forgive us either.”

“Surely there is something we can do,” Cassian looked between his brother’s, eyes desperate, almost pleading.

But Azriel kept his cold glare on the couple before him. “You asked me to find Alvar first. So I did. And now we’ve lost our girl.”

Rhys’s power coursed through the room as he bought his mate closer to his side. “Watch it, Azriel,” he warned. “Alvar had intel on our wards, our home would be forever exposed if he got away. I tried my best to give Y/N the opportunity. Let’s not forget the decision you and Cass made to keep her grounded.”

“She was going to get herself killed,” Cassian muttered, not defensively, but as pure fact. “The desire to kill him – it makes her power unpredictable. She would have hurt herself, or died trying.”

“We all did what we had to do,” Feyre said softly, bringing sense back above the tension of the room. Pained, guilty expressions reflected hers.

Azriel stood now too, making his way around the table and heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Rhys asked.

“To go get Y/N.”

“She’s asked we give her some space Az,” Feyre reasoned. “We have no right to go barging in while she’s trying to recover.”

“I don't care. She’s angry, but that doesn't mean she knows what’s best. She’ll heal better here, with people that care about her. I’ll go–”

“Sit down,” Rhys interrupted the Shadowsinger, the air thickening with his power as he pulled rank.

Azriel’s shoulder’s tightened at Rhys’s order, halting his steps yet refusing to take his seat. “She belongs here, with us,” he gritted.

“We can't force her to do anything Azriel,” Mor whispered, her eyes soft as cast a sympathetic look at her friend.

There was silence in the room again, none of them knowing what to say next.

“This is my fault,” Cassian swallowed, his gaze distant in a deep frown.

“No one is to blame,” Rhys said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The situation is unfortunate, but I’m certain it will get better in time.” He breathed deeply, offering a broken smile to his mate before casting a stern look at the others. “We’ll keep you updated if we hear anything further.”

With a few quiet goodbyes, the High Lord and Lady winnowed back to their River Home.

“We–“ Cassian began.

“Don’t Cass,” Mor interrupted knowingly. “You need to leave bad enough alone.” She stood then, leaving the males to their breakfast.

Cassian cast a look to his brother, who was already looking at him. “Are we leaving now?”

“Not with all eyes on us. Wait until dark. Then we’ll go get our girl.”

“Deal.”

--------

Part 2 >>>>

AN: Ok, here’s that angsty piece I was telling you about....

I HAVE MISSED YOU GUYS!!!

Also I’ve been slack with my tag lists, very sorry! If you’d like to join a generic acotar one, drop a comment.

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