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flowerandblood · 3 months

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Appearances (Oneshot)

[ canon • Aemond x little sister • female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, fingering, smut, angst, sexual tension, obsession, mention of arranged engagements ]

[ description: All Aemond cares about is the recognition and attention of his younger sister, but she seems to ignore him and shun him, driving him to an ever-increasing state of withdrawal and dark, grim agony. Something inside him snaps when his grandsire announces that it is time to marry her off. Sexual tension, understatements due to lack of communication, obsession. ]

This oneshot has its sequels: Experience, but can be read as a stand-alone story.

My other works: Masterlist

_____

It seemed to him, though because of this his throat squeezed in pain and rage, that his little sister was simply afraid of him. He couldn't explain her behaviour otherwise – the way she quickly looked away, meekly lowering her eyelids adorned with her long, dark lashes, playing with her fingers in a nervous gesture as she met his gaze.

She was the only one who didn't have their pearly white hair, the only one who didn't have the eye colour due to the gods.

Even when she witnessed his duels with Criston Cole, when she could see how much he had changed, how skilful he was in wielding his sword, defeating him again and again, she did not congratulate him – she turned and left the square, no longer bestowing even a single glance on him.

Confronted again with her wordless rejection, he thought in the back of his head that she was disgustingly ordinary with her dark hair and eyes inherited from their mother, that she could be the daughter of some commoner walking up to his knees in the mud feeding his pigs.

However, his great annoyance usually lasted only a moment, after which he went back to his state of despair.

He didn't follow her, wanting to spare himself this humiliation and discomfort, feeling his heart twitching in rage, in shame that he so desperately desired her attention, a few words of recognition, one warm look.

He saw her one morning through the window speaking to her servant, gesturing vigorously and laughing pearly, joyful; he thought with regret that she was consorting with people who might take advantage of her, who cared only about her position.

That if she were his he would protect her from them.

She would be safe.

She was so careless, innocent, wise and naïve at the same time, looking at him with those big dark eyes of hers when someone in her presence annoyed him, begging him with her gaze not to explode.

His tongue was like a blade, cutting anyone who approached him – she knew this and was afraid to open her mouth in front of him, imagining for sure how cruel his reaction would be.

He didn't know how to explain to her that he would never hurt her, his sweetest little sister, his greatest joy.

He watched from the distance like a cool, sinister shadow as her fingers intertwined with Helaena's, stretched out side by side on their armrests during supper, observed her leaning towards her with a sweet smile, whispering something tenderly, from which their older sister giggled quietly – there was something mythological in these scenes, making a shiver run down his spine.

He knew that they sometimes met in her chamber and even slept together, confiding in each other about their feminine affairs that were beyond his comprehension, however, he couldn't stop the feeling of burning jealousy that filled his chest when he thought of how he wished it was him she visited at night.

He thought then of how tender he would be towards her, how his arms would enclose her warm, delicate body in his tight, firm embrace, protecting her from anything that might frighten her.

He imagined how wonderful she would smell, her oils teasing his nostrils constantly, sweet and intense – looking at her figure seated next to him he felt the need to bite into her flesh like a ripe fruit.

He thought she would taste like a peach.

When at last they had finished their conversation and her beautiful, soft hand reached for her cup her gaze finally met his – her plump, glistening lips parted slightly, as if the intensity of his gaze frightened her, her breasts quivered in quick, shuddering breaths.

He felt what he saw in his breeches, his length all swollen, demanding her closeness.

Wanting to keep her attention on him he lifted the platter with her favourite dish, sweet cinnamon pie filled inside with apples; he saw that she blinked quickly, her cheeks flushed at the realisation that he knew she favoured them.

He watched her swallow with difficulty, her trembling hand set her goblet aside – his manhood throbbed hard when their fingers brushed in the air as she took the silver platter from him. She lowered her gaze, embarrassed, her sweet, plump lips parted to whisper a quiet, barely audible thank you.

He leaned back again, looking at the pleasing profile of her face, her long eyelashes gleaming under the warm candlelight, a drop of sweat on her skin shimmering like a small diamond ran down her neck.

Gods, how he craved her.

He wanted to touch her, stroke her shamelessly exposed back with his large hand, rough from holding the hilt of his sword, and dig his fingertips into her warm, smooth skin, with a subconscious gesture proving to whom she belonged, that she had been his right, his delight and his duty since she was born.

Why didn't she realize this?

He watched with a squeezed throat as she took a piece of pie into her mouth, the involuntary lick of her tongue with which she brushed her lower lip focused all his attention.

The thought that this fleshy lips could in the same way clench around his painfully swollen cock, suck it and squeeze it, barely able to fit it in with her sweet cry of effort.

He grunted, looking away, feeling his length twitching and pushing against the tight material of his breeches.

She didn't look at him again that evening, absorbed in a discussion with their mother and grandfather as he drank Dornish wine, staring dully ahead, its tart aftertaste melting on his tongue.

"I spoke to your mother about the importance of slowly deciding on a suitable candidate for your husband, my love." Began their grandsire with his eyebrow raised in satisfaction, directing his words to his younger sister, who froze in mid-motion – he saw that her hands, in an involuntary reflex of terror, clamped down on the material of her gown.

She remained silent.

"She's still too young, for god's sake." He hissed out feeling rage like a burning fire pulsing through his veins. He grew hot and took another quick, deep sip from his cup, an uncomfortable silence fell around him.

Otto grunted, turning with a creak of wood in his seat, his fingers stretched out and clenched into a fist on the table top in front of him, apparently wondering why such a sudden and aggressive reaction on his part.

"I understand that as an older brother you feel responsible for her safety, however, she is now of the right age and has begun to bleed, and that's why…"

"Father." Muttered their mother, looking at him pleadingly, clearly not wanting him to bring up such intimate and sensitive topics at the table, moreover in the presence of other men.

He saw out of the corner of his eye how his sister dropped her gaze, her dark eyes shining from the tears of shame that had gathered under her lids, her brows arched in pain.

If she had only asked him to marry her he would have done so at once, freed her from this laughable obligation that her marriage to some mere lord would be.

He felt his jaw clench at the thought that no one would ever love her as devotedly, dearly, warmly as he, her blood, her protector, her brother.

"In the coming months, we would like you to meet a few candidates we consider worthy of your hand." Concluded their grandfather, taking a deep sip of wine from his goblet; he felt rage filling his chest when he saw that his sister merely nodded her head, accepting her fate without a word of protest, looking down at her plate.

He got up from the table, bitter and furious, leaving the hall without a word, unable to look at her, once again letting his anger take over him, accusing her in his mind.

Her lack of reaction, her lack of opposition, when it was so obvious that her husband could only be him, him, him.

He walked into his chamber, undoing the buckles of his tunic, throwing it angrily to the ground, remaining in only his chemise and breeches. Although he did not usually do so, he reached for the wine jug and poured himself a full cup, grabbing it and sitting down with it in the chair by the fire, tilting his head back, letting out loud sigh.

He shuddered when he heard a quiet, tentative knock on his door – he ran his hand over his face, guessing it was his Queen, as usual wanting to be his voice of reason, to come to him with her stoic calm, explaining to him why he had to accept the responsibilities that faced their family, including those standing before his sister.

He didn't feel like having this discussion, however, he acknowledged with reluctance that he couldn't dismiss his own mother.

"Come in." He said coolly, staring into the flames.

He heard the creak of the door opening and closing a moment later – he glanced involuntarily over his shoulder and froze, feeling his heart stop in his throat at the sight of her, beautiful, teary-eyed, her face all flushed red with pain, her fleshy, plump lips parted in a hastened breath, her brow arched in pain.

"Lēkia (big brother)." She mumbled out with difficulty, choking on her own tears – he stood up at her words looking at her with eye wide open in shock, driven by some sudden emotion, moved that she had come to him as he had always imagined she would, vulnerable and desperate, seeking refuge and a reassurance in his arms.

"Come closer, hāedar (little sister). Come." He whispered softly, extending his hand to her in a gesture of encouragement; she moved tentatively towards him, looking up at him with her wonderfully dark, large eyes, tear drops glittering on her lashes like little stars.

He parted his lips and swallowed loudly when her smooth, warm hand touched his, thought with tenderness that compared to his she was so small, so fragile.

When he dared to lift his other hand to her cheek she twitched, wrinkling her eyebrows, breathing loudly, distrustful like a maiden who was afraid of a stranger's touch, simultaneously craving his closeness and fearing it.

He breathed quietly as she let his fingers touch and run over the wonderfully soft, firm skin of her pink cheek, her eyelids closed for a moment, a quiet, sweet sigh leaving her lips.

"Are you afraid of me?" He asked in a calm, low, trembling voice, ashamed of how scared he was of her answer, of her rejection.

She looked at him surprised – her lips parted in astonishment as if she didn't know what to reply to his words, her quivering fingers touched his hand stroking her cheek.

"I fear your harsh judgment, brother. It seems to me that my person often arouses your frustration and impatience." She muttered in shame, lowering her gaze; he felt a squeeze in his throat at her words, not believing what he heard, what she confessed to him.

I am afraid of your harsh judgment, brother.

It seems to me that my person often arouses your frustration and impatience.

How could she think so? Was his eternal desire, his suffering so expressed in his gaze, his facial expressions, his gestures?

Did she perceive his rage at the lack of her closeness as his constant displeasure at the sight of her?

He was horrified by how deep the misunderstanding reached – he didn't know what he should do to fix it now, to reverse it, he ran out of words that could describe what he felt.

How glad he was that she was standing before him now, that she trusted him, that he had adored her from the moment she came into the world, cherished her with a love that was warm, tender and devoted, that he believed she had been born to be his, his sweet joy, his beautiful little sister.

He swallowed loudly, parting her plump, fleshy lips with his thumb, looking at her in emotion, feeling a painful tightness in his throat.

"My sweet sister, where did these words come from? How could I feel anything but adoration towards you?" He asked softly, feeling her whole body quiver at his words – her mouth parted involuntarily, letting his thumb go deeper, between her puffy, sticky lips.

Something changed in her gaze, dreamy and warm, from which he felt heat in his chest and lower abdomen, her fingertips digging into the skin of his palm.

"Ivestragī umbagon issa (let me stay)." She whispered in a trembling, uncertain voice, and he felt his breath caught in his throat, his manhood throbbed aggressively in his breeches at the thought that she wanted to stay in his bed, in his embrace.

His surprised silence made her lower her gaze, ashamed, apparently panicking at the thought of what she had suggested, of how indecent it was, surely thinking that he would now despise her.

"Very well." He muttered quickly, not wanting her to leave his side.

She lifted her hopeful gaze to him and nodded, swallowing loudly, her cheeks pink with emotion. He rubbed his thumb over her wet skin and leaned over her placing a tender, lingering kiss on her forehead, her wonderful scent filling his lungs again.

He took her small hand in his, guiding her towards his bed, sitting down on it with his face towards her, letting her stand over him and decide what would happen next, looking at her pleasant, girlish figure.

It seemed to him that she had no idea what they were doing, whether it was right – he could see thoughts and doubts running across her face, fears of what would happen if their mother found out.

"Come. Do not fret. Your big brother would never hurt you." He whispered in a voice trembling with emotion – he was hot, his heart pounding like mad in his chest, he felt butterflies in his stomach, a sweet delight of satisfaction spread through his body.

His words emboldened her; she stepped closer to him, standing between his thighs, breathing loudly. He sighed and closed his eyes as she took his face in her soft hands, stroking it for a moment with gentle, slow movements that made his throat dry up; he felt with horror that his cock was completely hard, all swollen and throbbing.

In a gesture of desperation he snuggled into her abdomen, clasping his large hands on her back – he heard her surprised gasp, her hands froze upwards for a moment before they began in a soft, calm motion to stroke his head as if he were a small child.

He closed his eyes, snuggling into her body, the material of her gown pleasantly delicate and soft; he could feel her flesh throbbing from beneath it, her womb that could swell with his inheritance, his dragon seed that could root deep inside her if only she noticed his devotion and love, if only she understood that they had always been destined for each other.

He clenched his fingers tighter on the material of her gown when he felt her lean in, enclosing him in her embrace – his face was locked between her shoulders, her womb and her breasts, enveloping him in her warmth, her hands running down his back with such tenderness and gentleness that he closed his eyes, wanting to focus only on that feeling.

"I am terrified, lēkia." She whispered softly, her breasts trembling in a broken breath – he moved away to look at her, his hand cupped her soft, warm cheek.

"Marry me, issa dōna rūklon (my sweet flower). Marry me and I will protect you. I will caress you, adore you, hold you in my arms, I will give you everything." He said in a quivering, low voice, placing the emphasis on the last word, so final, direct, betraying how desperate he was.

She looked at him for a moment, shocked, her lips twitching in disbelief, in terror and something else that shone in her dark eyes, but which he did not comprehend.

"You don't have to do this. Sacrifice yourself for me." She mumbled with a blush of shame, as if she thought his suggestion stemmed from his logic and tactics, from helping her not to leave her home, rather than from his feelings.

"How much longer do you want to torment me? Shall I fall on my knees before you and beg?" He asked resentfully, pain emerging from his throat with every word he spoke – her eyebrows arched in disbelief, her breasts began to rise and fall rapidly in accelerated, ragged breathing.

Her face expressed that only now did she realise what he meant.

"Marry me, brother. Marry me and never leave me again." She whispered so quietly that he barely heard her – they looked at each other with wide eyes, not believing what had just left their mouths, flushes of shame and doubt burning their cheeks.

He shuddered and drew in a loud breath as she placed her hands on his shoulders and climbed tentatively into his lap, startling him completely – he felt a jolt of heat, his cock so hard that he felt like it was about to explode.

All he felt was a squeeze in his throat and the heavy pounding of his heart when her soft fingers gently grasped his hand, her face blushing with embarrassment, a sigh full of arousal escaped her lips as she pulled her gown up, slipping it slowly between her legs.

They both opened their mouths wide and gasped loudly, surprised apparently at how intimate and shameless this sensation was – he thought in disbelief that she was leaking with desire, her hot opening pulsating restlessly under his fingers, her hand pressing them harder against her quivering flesh, eager to feel him deeper.

"− please − please −" She whimpered, breathing loudly, looking at him pleadingly with her dark eyes full of tears. He stared at her in shock wondering if it was possible that he had made a mistake, that he had misjudged the situation, that contrary to what he thought, she was reciprocating his affection.

His lack of hesitation, his fingertips that dug into her fleshy, hot womanhood surprised her so much that she squealed and hopped up on his lap – he put his free arm around her and held her in place, not letting her escape.

"− easy, little dove − shhhh −" He hushed her, his two fingers sinking into her plump muscles, collecting her moisture that leaked from her thirsty, throbbing core. He stared at her, seeing the expression on her face indicating that this experience had shocked her, sweet, soft moans erupted from her puffy, glistening lips, her hips involuntarily began to move to the rhythm of his hand.

"− that's it − let me take care of you − brothers know what is good for their sisters, don't they? −" He hummed low as if he were speaking to a small child and she only nodded, clearly having trouble concentrating. He sighed in pleasure as she wrapped her arms around his neck, her moist, sweet lips pressed against his in a sticky, loud kiss.

He murmured into her mouth with delight, thinking with awe that indeed her skin felt like the flesh of a fruit, wet and sticky to the touch, his fingertips teasing her bud hidden between her folds. He could feel her bouncing in his lap and trembling all over, quivering in his arms as his fingers roamed around that spot, their breaths raspy and loud, full of desire.

"− y-yes − right here, lēkia − mghmm −" She babbled in between their messy, saliva-wet kisses – he dared to slip his tongue between her plump lips answered by her sweet purr of pleasure, his hand all soaked with her juices, his long, slender fingers digging into her skin in circular, sure strokes.

"− just like that − soaking wet for me − issa dōna hāedar (my sweet little sister) −" He cooed in delight, feeling his swollen length pushing impatiently against his breeches, thinking only of how wonderful it would be to feel her, to watch his fat cock open her wide, her tight folds glistening from her moisture.

"− mhm −" She hummed between passionate, deep, ferocious kisses, a combination of their lips, teeth and tongues licking against each other.

She tilted her head back and moaned loudly as his fingers slowly made their way inside her, exploring her throbbing, swollen core – his thumb rubbed her her pearl, his fingertips searched intensely for the spot he'd read so much about in books, and when he found it her walls began to clench around him in convulsions, a pathetic whimper escaping her lips.

"− o-oh gods, brother, yes, please, please, please −" She mewled desperately, clasping her hands in his long hair, rising and falling on his fingers with a loud click of her moisture – he grasped the nape of her neck with his free hand and pulled her close, forcing her lips, swollen from his caresses, to join his in sticky, hot kiss.

"− come on, little one − I can feel you are close − thaaat's it, there we go −" He gasped out into her throat when a powerful shudder ran through her body, her moans of delight erupting from her mouth again and again as her hot muscles began to clench greedily around his fingers, sucking him inside, his hand all sticky with her fulfilment.

He was panting loudly along with her, cuddling her quivering body, thinking of how wonderfully warm and fleshy her insides were, how perfectly she would squeeze his cock once he could possess her whole, his sweet wife, filling her to the brim with his seed every night.

He intended to perform his marital duty with passionate devotion.

"− such a good girl − you did so well for me, dōna hāedar −" He praised her, wanting to reassure and soothe her, stroking her soft hair, pressing her face to the hollow of his neck, his hand between her thighs cupped over her pulsing, moist womanhood.

The smell of her wetness, of her flesh, of her sex filled his entire lungs, so lewd, ungodly and wonderfully carnal – his mouth placed involuntarily little butterfly kisses on her beautiful face, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted in delight and disbelief, her hands clenched on the material of his chemise.

He grasped her fingers in his and lifted them to his lips, kissing them with tenderness and reverence as his other hand stroked unashamedly her plump bare buttock hidden beneath the material of her gown.

"Now it's my turn."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses

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animeshotsh · 2 months

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Baby baby~ | Original Sins x Kid!Reader + Stolas x Kid!Reader + Octavia x Kid!Reader |

Summary: Lucifer finally gets his close friends to meet you!! Warnings: no one, just FLUFF.

Lucifer wanted you to meet his closest friends and sins, he had planned this day for so long. He invited Charlie and Vaggie of course, but kept Alastor away.

"Only if i get to take (Y/N) out for the next two days"

And he had accepted, wanting nothing more but to kill the sinner.

~☆~☆~☆

The castle was decorated, Lucifer and the rest of you wearing their best clothes. Food was served, drinks were out (no alcohol allowed) and you guiding Charlie to your room to show her your drawings.

"They are amazing (Y/N) but the rest will soon come-"

Charlie could not end her talk as a very distinct voice claimed from other room.

"Now were its your sweet new kid! Im dying to meet them" The big form of Asmodeus said the three faces looking around for you.

The left one noticed you in the corner by the hand of Charlie.

"Oh!! There they are, (Y/N) come and say Hello to Lust!!" Lucifer called you missing your scared look as you slowly approached the big Sin.

Asmodeus went down on his knee bowing to you "Its a pleassure to meet one of our King's kid, im Asmodeus, you must be (Y/N)"

You nodded looking at his 3 faces and soon smiling at them "You got 3 faces!! And you are so tall, can i get that tall too?"

Asmodeus looked over Lucifer asking for permission, once Lucifer noded Asmodeus took you and let you sit on his shoulder.

"This is great!!" You exclaimed

~☆~☆~☆~

After some more minutes you were left down on the floor when a portal opened, a tall owl dressing in a fashion way appear, behind him a smaller one. Stolas soon saw you and (wanting to show off) opened his book, dark sky appear on the ceiling, different constellations left the sky and went towards you, twirling you around and making you laught.

"Oh Stolas its so good to meet you again my friend!!" Lucifer exclaimed quickly going to shake Stolas hand. "Its has been eones indeed" Stolas agreed looking as you played with the constellation of a horse.

"And Octavia! You have grow so much, I remember when you were so tiny" Lucifer added making Octavia blush and nod at the king who then pointed at Charlie and Vaggie who went to his side. "Im not sure if you remember my daughter, but this is Charlie! and her gilrfriend Vaggie".

Charlie gave a kind smile to the goetia bowing respectfully as well towards her and Stolas "Im so glad to be meeting you again"

Soon you came to them, the horse constellation following you. You stood suprised at the tall owl who got down on his knee as well "And this must be the precious (Y/N), you father never stops talking about you" Stolas said then softly pushed Octavia "This is my daughter Octavia"

You took notice of Octavia being a bit uncomfortable under the attention "Hello! im so happy to meet more friends, i like your clothes! Dad can i get dark clothes too?" you asked to quickly switch the attention to him.

"Of course we can, anything for my small bean" Lucifer beamed.

Octavia gave off a small smile as you smiled at her then went to ask her father about his magic.

"Oh then let me start with the basics..."

~☆~☆~☆~

After what felt like hours of stories of magic a new sound was hear.

"Oh finally, she loves making a big scene" Asmodeus said looking over the flying figure surronded by smoke.

Soon the room was being filled up with music and sweet smell. A pair of hands took you and as the smoke went off you could see what you would describe as a big yellow wolf.

"Awww look at you, you look even sweeter up close!!" Bellzebub said pushing your cheeck against hers smiling. "Lucifer, you must take good care of this one or soon they will end up dating"

"NOT ON MY WATCH" Lucifer exclaimed now having an internal crisis.

Beelzebub soon let herself on the floor with you. "Im Beelzebub, but you kind soul can call me Beel"

"You are beautiful" you could only say in response seeing her hair move around with different colors.

"Aww, and i got all of you a gift"

Soon lots of bottles with orange liquid appear.

"Dont worry this ones" she pointed towards some bottles with what it was supposed to be a demon kid "has no alcohol in it"

~☆~☆~☆~

Quick Extras:

You ended up making Octavia share her music with you and her love for taxidermy.

Mammon did come but only because Lucifer forced him, he ended up liking you as you saw him as "a big huggeable clown" and "you smell like money" you did won him over and he promised to bring you something next time.

Five seconds later tons of money appear alongside a plushie of a famous demon called "Fizzarolli".

Everyone tried to prevent you from drinking too much but you ended with too much sugar and ran for the rest of the night.

Stolas gave you a book of basic magic and told you to call him if you need help with anything.

Beel made you promise that once you get older you would go to one of her parties (how no one knows since you are a sinner but anyway).

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x reader #lucifer x reader #charlie x reader #mammon x reader #asmodeus x reader #beelzebub x reader

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ectoentity · 2 months

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So, the Haunting Heroes server did a Who Wrote That game with the theme of "wingfic" a while back. I did an entry and I liked it enough that I decided to expand on it. Gonna start posting scenes here whenever I get them done, and eventually piece it together for ao3. This first part is the intro, but the rest probably won't actually be in order.

Update Mar 11, 2024: Here is the Subscription Post

Ectoplasm Gives You Wings

(Working title)

DPxDC, T-rated genfic.

Everyone knew ghosts had wings. It was in every ghost story throughout history, regardless of culture. It was one of their defining traits, like going through walls or fading into invisibility. The unquiet dead soared through the night on birdlike wings, occasionally leaving unnaturally large feathers as an omen of impending death.

As soon as the newly-working portal spat Danny out, he knew there would be no hiding what had happened. His ghostly form came with a pair of large wings that didn't go away when he turned back human. In his ghost form, they were mostly black with bars of white near the bottom edge. The reverse was true when he was human. It was an indication of what had happened to him that he couldn't escape.

Tucker and Sam tried to play it off to his parents as a meta mutation that had suddenly appeared. They'd heard of it happening before on TV and through the internet. Besides, there were winged people in the Justice League. Danny's parents had never talked about them being secret ghosts.

Danny would never forget his parents' horrified faces as they came downstairs and found him. The way their eyes skipped over his face entirely and focused on the wings behind him. His dad frozen in place, expression slack with shock. His mom's face going from horror to determination as she set her jaw and reached for a bazooka.

Danny and his friends managed to escape them and run all the way to Tucker's house. Running was harder with a new pair of limbs hanging off his back like so much dead (hah) weight. It was clear that Danny couldn't stay here. His parents might be cranks, but once they realized the portal worked they would have evidence to prove Danny was a ghost. At least, sort of. Would they try to experiment on him, or just try to help him pass on? Danny assumed it would be the latter, but he had also assumed his mom wouldn't ever draw a weapon on him.

Tucker and Sam helped him to pack a camping backpack full of spare clothes he'd left at Tucker's, a handful of important essentials like a first aid kit, and a sleeping bag. They left for a while and came back with a cheap cellphone, a handful of prepaid phone cards, and a surprising amount of cash. Who would have thought Sam was secretly loaded?

They argued all night about where he should go. Danny barely knew his Dad's side of the family, let alone whether they'd take him in. His mom's sister Alicia was somewhere in Arkansas, but Danny couldn't remember the name of the town. Besides, he hadn't seen her since he was about nine. What if she believed Maddie over him? Tucker and Sam suggested their own family members. Danny turned them down. He didn't want to be a burden to his friends' families.

In the end, they decided that he would blend in best in a big city far away from Amity. The next day, Danny climbed on a Greyhound bus headed to the East Coast. He couldn't hide the wings, no matter what he did. The best he could do was wrap the sleeping bag around himself like a blanket. Thankfully, no one on the bus seemed to care. They all had their own issues to worry about. Most seemed content to watch their phones or the scenery instead of looking too closely at the weird kid wrapped in a big, lumpy sleeping bag.

As the hours dragged on, Danny was increasingly greatful that everyone was minding their own business. There was something else wrong with him. His hands kept slipping through the sleeping bag. Going through solid objects, like a ghost.

The plan was to find a place in Metropolis that provided resources to meta kids. But by the time the bus reached Gotham Danny was exhausted and anxious. His hands had started to go through things. What if he went straight through the bus while it was driving? He had to get a handle on this. He could always go to Metropolis the next day.

Danny got off the bus. The city around him was gray and dreary, from the concrete sidewalks up to the cloud-covered sky. It felt like the sky was too close, more of a ceiling than an open expanse. Something about it gave Danny a strangely claustrophobic feeling. He tried to shrug it off as the lack of sleep catching up to him. The last time Danny slept was the night before the portal accident. That had been well over twenty-four hours ago. He needed to find a safe place to sleep.

#dpxdc #wingfic #my writing #t's writing #EGYW

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unrealcity-if · 7 months

Text

a cyberpunk interactive fiction

demo: prologue 1&2, 20k. play here.

Streets, empty - gnarled roots burying deep below the city. The gleam of teeth, an endless buzzing like flies. Dry, dead rock. There was water here once. Now toxic sludge seeps into the dirt, leeching life from the land. They staked metal, twisted it into the dead earth to block out the sky. They know that is too late, but they try to defy fate all the same.

Esurio is a city divided. You know this all too well. As a smuggler of black-market tech into the city from the outlands, you would like nothing better than to be free of Esurio once and for all. Yet the city seems to pull people in, and after a job gone wrong you find yourself entangled in a net of lies, inexplicably strange murders, and the one question that no-one knows the answer to -

What lies below Esurio?

[features]

pay off your debt through smuggling goods into the city

run from law enforcement

investigate strange murders, while trying not to end up the next victim

regret every life decision you have made

uncover what lies below the city?

meet (and optionally romance) 5 companions - 2 gender selectable

finally free yourself from Esurio?

[companions]

[ros]

Argo [nb] they/them, asexual :

If there's anyone in Esurio that you trust, it would be them. They've been by your side since you were young : first as friends and then (literal) partners in crime. When they were younger, they dreamt of changing the world. At some point they buried that dream. For now they keep to smuggling, hacking, and breaking every speed limit possible.

Appearance - shoulder-length coily dark brown hair, medium brown skin, dark brown eyes. prides themself on wearing the most colourful jacket they can find, and wouldn't know colour or outfit coordination if it hit them in the face.

Sora [f/m] she/her or he/him :

A private investigator with a moralistic streak. They attempt to fill in the gaps left by law-enforcement, dealing in all kinds of information, and know practically anything on anyone, while remaining a perpetually shadowy figure themselves. Motivated by curiousity and an alarming lack of self-preservation instincts, they're determined to uncover the truth about Esurio at all costs.

Appearance - straight, dark brown hair that flops over their brown eyes. olive skin. always wears a leather jacket and heavy boots: dresses practically. carries gadgets + a notepad in their bag: they are prepared for anything, especially a high speed pursuit across rooftops.

Brontë [f/m/nb] she/her, he/him, or he/they :

A failed musician with a trail of poor decisions behind them. They were going to make it big in the underground music scene, until, one day, they weren't. Cast-out and adrift, they're cynical and conflicted, a perfect example of a delicately poised balancing act. It's only a matter of time before they fall.

Appearance - wavy blond hair, dyed purple at the ends, reaching about chin length. pale, freckled skin and green eyes. wears light jackets, oversized tshirts, boots that are falling apart, and as many bracelets as possible.

Asha [f] she/they :

She ran with Argo, Jaya and you for several years, after her illustrious political family abruptly fell from grace and she had to look out for herself any way she could. A skilled mechanic, and never one to back down from a fight, she bounces from person to person, always living life at high speed. After Jaya's disappearance, she split from the group, and you haven't spoken to her since.

Appearance - straight, shoulder-length black hair. dark brown skin and dark brown eyes. wears work overalls most of the time, and is frequently covered in smudges of oil fromch her work as a mechanic. else, she dresses casually and comfortably - loose shirts, ripped jeans and a necklace.

Cas [m] he/him :

An artefact dealer in the outlands. You know his name, and not much else. He seems to float from place to place, avoiding strong attachments. Never talks about his past, his strange dreams, and pretty much anything personal. Knows what to do in a crisis, though, and is frequently the voice of reason.

Appearance - straight, short light brown hair, fair skin, eyepatch over his right eye - his left is brown. wears glasses. Always in a fashionable long dark coat and heavy boots: somehow manages to look constantly poised and well put together despite Esurio's characteristic humidity.

[other]

Acheron [nb] they/them :

They control much of what flows from the outlands into the city. After they rescued Argo and you from capture by law enforcement, you have been working for them in order to pay off your debt to them. They're level headed and ruthless, and you can't work out what makes them tick.

Jaya [f] she/her :

She was part of the underground smuggling group involving you, Argo and Asha, until she disappeared abruptly and everything went to shit. To this day, you've been unable to find out what happened to her. But thats in the past, right? [option to have been in a past relationship with her]

Valentine [nb] she/her and he/him :

Practically anyone in Esurio knows Valentine, or has at least heard of her. She's the person to go to for weird tech, fast cars and a way to vanish quietly. Despite her notoriety, and her fame as a guitarist, she always seems to be able to work just under the radar of the authorities.

[content warnings]

17+ (may be subject to change). violence, slight gore, horror aspects. implied sexual content.

#interactive fiction #cyberpunk #interactive novel #interactive game #twine game #twine wip #twine if #i am so nervous !!

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buckys-wintersoldier · 29 days

Text

“Did I step on your moment?” | Steve Rogers

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 -> Steve Rogers x SHIELD!Agent!Female!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 -> Natasha, Steve and you are on a mission but when you need to hide things are heated between Steve and you.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 -> 634

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 -> (G) none, just fluff

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 -> 10 Years Anniversary CA:TWS | March 29 | Theme: Natasha Romanoff | Mall, Disguise, Matchmaking, “Did I step on your moment?”, Favorite Natasha quote | @catws-anniversary

Masterlist | Steve Rogers Masterlist

Steve’s arm is around your waist; he wears a blue cap and laughs along with you when you pass a few people. Natasha talks to you over an earpiece, always telling you where the agents are and where you have to go to find out what’s on the stick. Steve and Natasha bought the stick after a mission on a SHIELD ship, which turned out wasn’t a ship belonging to SHIELD.

“To the left!” Natasha says, and the two of you do.

You walk into a small shop for phones and computers, looking around while you find a computer that could work. There are not many people around, so you pull Steve along with you. He smirks at you, even though his heart is just as much beating against his ribcage as yours. But the two of you stay professional enough to not be too nervous. You put the stick into the computer, looking around before you tap something. Just a moment later, there is a map, almost showing you the place where you find a base, which was supposed to be a SHIELD one but probably belongs to Hydra now.

“Front door, six agents; sides, two on each side; and behind the building are also six agents,” Natasha says. “Entering the building now. You have around seven minutes to get out of the store.”

You tap a few more things when a man appears next to you and talks to Steve. He asks him if he could help. Steve’s answer makes you chuckle. He tells him that you both are looking for a good spot for your honeymoon. After another comment from the man who tells Steve he has the same glasses, you almost burst out laughing.

“Siblings,” Natasha says through the earpiece, and you say that out loud.

“Model,” the guy says before he walks away to another customer.

“They are almost in the shop,” Natasha says, and you look back at the computer.

Right when Steve looks at the display as well, the coordinates appear there, and you get the stick back before the two of you make your way out of the shop. Natasha says where the agents are, while Steve and you walk close to each other on the stairs. The agents are all around the mall, and you pull your hood more into your face. Steve's eyes are focused on the ground while you pass some agents. On the stage, you inhale deeply, then you see Rumlow exhaling annoyedly before you turn to Steve.

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Now it’s going to be hot,” Nat laughs.

You grasp Steve's shirt and pull him down, pressing your lips on his, and he kisses you back. The kiss gets almost heated, but Natasha is doing a good job to make sure you both don’t get distracted from your job.

“You made a scene, didn’t you?”

You groan playfully while Steve says a quiet yes, nodding his head.

“Steve, how about y/n? You could fit really well,” Natasha says.

You hear her smirk, and when Steve turns his head toward you, his eyes are slightly widening and his cheeks are red.

“I-I mean I-“ Steve mumbles, and you laugh before you lift your hand to his cheek.

You capture it and stand on your tiptoes to reach him. When you lean closer, Steve immediately grasps your waist and pulls him closer against you. Your lips are captured by his while you hear Natasha clapping through the earpiece. You chuckle softly, deepening the kiss. You love the soft, warm feeling of Steve’s lips against yours.

“You should bring the stick now.”

Steve groans and makes both of you laugh.

“Did I step on your moment?” Natasha asks, laughing.

“No, just come and get the stick when you want it,” Steve says, playfully.

Taglist: @kandis-mom @sergeantbarnessdoll @identity2212 @km-ffluv @lunaalovesyouu @blackhawkfanatic @armystay89 @suz7days @felicitylemon @cjand10 @lives-in-midgard @casa-boiardi @cevansbaby-dove @flstrawberry @capsbestgirl77 @bookishtheaterlover7 @rogersbarber @sebastianstanisahotmf

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moonchildstyles · 8 months

Text

flâner

élan part four: wandering around Paris was just what y/n needed. and harry, of course.

wordcount: 11.2k+

—————

Foolishly, (Y/N) thought addressing Harry would make her less anxious to exist around him. She was proven wrong the next morning when she saw him emerging from the restroom and for her skin to feel a bit too warm. From his response, that furrowed brow and the fact that he didn't even seem to realize what she was trying to tell him flashed before her. That blank look in his gaze like he thought she was just as crazy as her father taunted her.

After that moment, before he spotted her, she slunk back into her room. The door shutting behind her sealed her away, the air settling around her.

That was a week ago, that first spot of him after that confrontation. Since then, with her door sealed closed, she had burrowed herself into the folds of her duvet and cushy mattress. Her pillows had been thrown askew, ruffled from her shifting in bed and tossing and turning during the hours she was able to sleep. The only times she trudged out of bed was to take a shower, or slink to the kitchen in the middle of the night for snacks. Her phone had been glued to her hand through her time, corresponding with Francesca while she refreshed her socials and news outlets as often as she could manage.

Luckily, the 132 Gala was set around the same time as a major music festival, pushing her mess to the back burner of the media rotation after a week. Unfortunately, the event wasn't close enough to have wiped everything about the Gala from people's memories or mouths.

The red carpet interview she gave had gone viral. Analyses of her body language, the way she looked at Harry, every tiny word she let out followed after. The most popular theory she'd seen was those assuming she was high on something while she was there, that would explain the jitters and the fact she couldn't calm down, apparently. Think pieces were posted, the vast majority citing her as the poster child for the "dark side" of the glamorous social scene. Edits were posted to video platforms, set to dramatic music as if this was supposed to be her third act low point in a film. The most traumatizing photo taken of her—her hair a mess, hand clinging to Harry's, her feet stumbling over one another with tears glittering over her face as she tried to get away—had been turned into a meme. She was nothing more than a caricature and a joke to anyone who had any idea who she was. At least the gossip from the festival was enough to push her out of the main publications, other appearances and performances garnering the public's attention for the time being.

In anonymous blogs, it appeared outsiders had caught on to the fact she was no longer in New York. It started when she wasn't pictured at any of the afterparties, more merit given when she was noticeably missing from group outings with Francesca and the rest of the girls, articles speculating that she was in "treatment" or hiding out from the consequences of her flip out.

Her least favorite thing was the articles popping up centering around Harry. Many dug into his background, looking into his job history, family, and small amount of social media presence he had. There was nothing to be found, nothing that could add any fuel, but that didn't stop the outlets from crafting something sensational enough to grab attention. The amount of headlines she'd seen, suggesting he was a jealous boyfriend after catching her with Barron, using a photo of him cradling her with his brow furrowed and jaw set was astounding.

In the week since she left the country and shut herself away, her father hadn't contacted her a single time. The last thing he said to her was that she was a crazy whore, just like her mother.

Tonight, she was doing much of the same as she had for the last week, eyes straining against her screen. If she were to peer over the top of her phone she would be able to spot the sparkling Eiffel Tower through her balcony.

Despite doing nothing all day everyday, her body was exhausted. There was more anxiety in her system than she ever thought she could handle. Her only hopeful thought was the reminder that there would undoubtedly be something that would happen to throw her sensationalized story through the window. Someone would do something that would be more interesting, fresher, more exciting. Then, she would be off the hook.

Until then, she would just be hiding under her covers and dodging Harry's presence.

—————

(Y/N) blinked her tired eyes as she lay bundled up in her bed, the morning light a little too bright for her. She'd stayed up most of the night, scrolling through her phone mindlessly until she managed to flop asleep for a couple of hours. The sunshine woke her, the look of the stars in the night too enticing for (Y/N) to ever remember to close her drapes before the sun rose.

It didn't make her regret it any less in this moment, though.

Turning between her sheets, she gave her back to the open balcony doors, her eyes fluttering closed. She'll wake up a little later to eat something—hopefully, Harry would be busy elsewhere.

A moment later, with (Y/N) on the edge of sleep, a knock rattled her French doors. On instinct, she squeezed her eyes shut tighter. She did her best to pretend to sleep when she heard the same door open, pacing her breathing and relaxing her features as much as she could. If only she had kept her back to the door, she would have endured another few moments of the sunshine if it would have made this moment easier.

Harry entered her room after a beat, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. (Y/N) didn't waver in her act, keeping her eyes shut and breathing easy.

"I know you're awake."

She could feel her heart racing in her chest at his words. Just keep breathing, she reminded herself, keep breathing and keep her face relaxed.

The static in the room shifted, (Y/N) assuming he stepped towards her. "(Y/N)," he said, his voice firm, "I know you're awake."

(Y/N) stayed quiet. She could only imagine the way his lips thinned and that unimpressed gaze of his stayed stitched to her face.

"I just wanted to let you know that I found a pilates studio nearby and I booked you a spot for the morning class. It starts in a couple of hours. Shower and eat if you want, but we will be going either way."

Blinking her eyes open, (Y/N) broke her act in shock. Looking up at Harry from where she was bundled in bed, her bloodshot eyes met his intense gaze.

"What?"

Raising his brow, Harry looked a little too smug.

"I found a studio nearby for you," he started simply, the moss of his eyes stuck on hers, "They had a spot available in their morning class. I signed you up for it. 'M not going to let you miss this."

Shifting between the sheets, she curled her fingers around the hem of her sheet. "I don't feel good, Harry," she croaked, "I don't really want to—"

"Y'can't stay in your room the whole time we're here, (Y/N). You know that. Hiding isn't going to fix anything."

Behind her ribs, (Y/N) felt something begin to boil. "I'm not trying to fix anything. I just want to be left alone, Harry."

"That's not going to be possible while 'm here." He matched her intensity head on, unwavering where he stood. "Now, please get up, and I will see if I can put together some breakfast for you."

With that, Harry gave her his back as he stepped out of her room. He left the door wide open behind him, a tactic that made (Y/N)'s jaw clench and skin heat. He knew she wouldn't be able to stand having the door open, forcing her to get out of bed to close it.

Looking at him through her wide open doors, she spotted him puttering about the kitchen without a care in the world. It pissed her off even more.

Can't he see she's in a state of mourning? Her reputation and chunks of her self worth died that night at the Gala. She didn't need some sunshine-y pilates class, full of breathing techniques and affirmations. What she needed was her father to respect her, and everyone to leave her alone, and her head to be fucking quiet for once.

The rage bubbling in her chest propelled her out of bed, stomping over the floor with her sheets flung behind her. She was seething as she made it to the threshold, grasping the doorknobs with her hands rolled into fists. She didn't know what she was going to say, but she just wanted him to leave her alone, understand that she was pissed off and he wasn't helping even a little. All while he was prancing around their kitchen without care in the world.

She stopped in her tracks when she took in the fact that he really was prancing around the kitchen. As much as she wanted to be angry and seethe at him, he wasn't there without a care in the world. He was in the process of making breakfast for her. Using their limited supply of food seeing as she hadn't done any grocery shopping other than a single delivery and he didn't know his way around the city at all. He was sacrificing the little rounds of bread they had left for her.

The bar of her shoulders loosened to a slope, her jaw unclenching.

None of this was Harry's fault—she knew that. She was in therapy for two years for these kinds of anxiety issues, these gut feelings that made her so frustrated she was almost paralyzed. The real problem was the fact that she was scared. She didn't want to see the world, and she didn't want the world to see her. She didn't want someone to see her face and be reminded of the mascara that was pictured running down her cheeks, her cry-swollen lips, and the messy pile of hair that had been on her head.

That was none of Harry's fault, though. He was only trying to help her. She wasn't helping anyone—especially herself—by staying cooped up in her room and running on anxiety and three sips of water. While leaving her room and doing something as annoyingly centering as pilates sounded terrible in the moment, in the long run it would help her in ways she couldn't anticipate with her brain scrambled like this.

Carefully closing the doors behind her, (Y/N) turned back to her room and set for her bathroom to get ready for the day.

—————

Two hours away from her phone, the time filled with breathing, pushing the stretch of her muscles, and kind French women asking about her cute leggings, left (Y/N) feeling... nice.

Sweat stuck to her skin, baby hairs clung to the outskirts of her features, and her thighs ached, but she didn't mind. She couldn't find it in herself to have a complaint.

She stepped out of the studio, waving goodbye to the instructor with diffused red lipstick, (Y/N) faced the street to look for Harry with a soft smile on her features. She found the sedan on the curb just a handful of spots away from the entrance to the studio. Her steps were leisurely as she made her way over the concrete.

Climbing into the passenger seat, she patiently clicked her seatbelt and waited for Harry to pull away from the curb. Maybe he would be willing to let her grab a purple smoothie from one of the cafes by the penthouse.

"How are you feeling?" Harry asked, his tone careful as he slipped into the flow of Parisian traffic.

"Really good actually. Thank you." She didn't hesitate to flash him a soft-lipped smile. "You didn't have to do any of this for me, so it really means a lot."

Something prideful entered his features as he listened to her. The green in his eyes sparkled as he canted his head. "Y'haven't even seen the best part, yet."

"What do you mean?" A pinch in her brows marred her features.

"While y'were busy," he started, his hands sliding over the steering wheel as he smoothly turned at an intersection, "I was able to find one of your purple drinks at a café."

Directing her eyes to the center console between them, (Y/N) finally spotted the clear cup with her favorite purple smoothie inside. She took in a bubbly gasp, her features blooming in excitement.

"Harry! Thank you!" she squealed, grabbing the cup from the holder with her cardigan covered hands.

Harry didn't say anything in response, instead allowing the closest thing she'd ever seen to a full smile on his face come to fruition. She swore she saw the ghost of a dimple on one of his cheeks.

All it took was a single sip, the clear acid of pomegranate seeds and bright raspberry bursting over her tongue, that practically changed her entire outlook on life.

"This is, like, the best day of my life," (Y/N) joked with a fluffy laugh, greedily fitting the straw between her lips once more.

Harry let out just the faintest huff of air through his nose, his concentration on the road before them, as she gazed at him. The scape of Paris passed behind him, sunlight shaping his silhouette.

She wasn't so sure she was joking about this being the best day, anymore.

—————

"You've never been to Paris before this? Not even with Camila and Monroe?"

Swallowing down a bite of his breakfast sandwich, Harry cleared his throat as he shook his head. "No. They preferred going through the states."

"Wow," (Y/N) sounded, slowly dragging her piece of buttery toast through the remaining hollandaise sauce on her plate. "This is your first time ever."

"Mhm," he hummed, peeking at her through the fan of his lashes, "That's what I said."

While (Y/N) didn't like to think of herself as spoiled or out of touch, she guessed maybe she forgot that international travel wasn't the norm for most people. Paris was like a second home to her, it was crazy to think that Harry hadn't had the joy of visiting, even if for a day.

"I have to show you around then," she mused, making the decision on her own. Seeing the Eiffel Tower from his balcony wasn't enough, she had to show him the real deal.

Harry raised his brows, his shoulders hunching over his plate as he took another bite of his sandwich. He waited until he had swallowed before speaking. "Show me around?"

"Yes! You need to be a tourist, a little," (Y/N) bleated, "It would be fun, don't you think? I'll show you all of the famous spots, and I can show you my favorites, too."

Sipping his coffee, Harry lingered for a moment, his eyes on her. He seemed to have brought his observing gaze along from home. "That would be really nice, actually. Thank you, (Y/N)."

Practically bouncing in her seat, she leant across as if sharing a secret. "Can we do it today, then? Or did you have other plans?"

"Seeing as how 'm here with you, I think you are my only plans."

(Y/N) didn't expect the flutter that happened in her chest. Warmth bubbled behind her cheeks when he didn't seem to be teasing her at all, instead that intensity still followed as he spoke.

He flustered her a bit.

"Good," she sounded, swallowing around her tongue as she disconnected their eye contact, "Finish eating, and then we'll go be tourists."

—————

Peering down at her phone, (Y/N) did her best to be aware of her surroundings while poking at the map of Paris on her screen.

"I think we'll start easy and see the Eiffel Tower first," (Y/N) mused, leading them in the direction of the train station that would take them to the attraction.

"Yeah?" Harry asked, looking down at her with a small kink to his brow.

"Mhm," she hummed happily, "It's way better up close and in person, honestly. We could go later to see it at night with all the twinkle lights, but I think I might be too excited to wait."

That phantom smile settled on his lips for the second time. "I think we could do that, come back and see the twinkle lights. I think it would be a lot of fun."

Eagerly nodding her head, (Y/N) couldn't wait to add the plans to the set mental itinerary she was lacing together. "If you're not too tired after the Tower, there are a few other places I wanted to visit today."

"And, what are those?"

(Y/N)'s babbling filled the air between them, her hands gesturing as she spoke. She had a list forming in her head, landmarks popping up as she went that she swore she needed to show him at least once before their time in Paris was over.

He didn't stop her as she bubbled on, dominating the conversation while only vaguely guiding her down the pedestrian path and keeping her out of danger. She was the one that knew the city, but it seemed she still didn't pay a whole lot of attention to her surroundings. His hand was a curling breeze over her back, palm grazing between her shoulder blades.

Hitting the train station, Harry didn't slack on the way he herded her around, acting as a wall between herself and the public. Even with the fact that Paris was decidedly less crazy for her, less recognition and less people bold enough to approach her (she'd only seen a handful of people take photos of her even), he didn't waver on his job.

"Careful," he told her when they stepped onto the train, him just a foot behind.

Staying quiet, (Y/N) blinked looking around the train car. It was full this morning, tourists and the like taking up each seat with others standing by the bars. She hesitated in her steps, unsure of where to go as a handful of others boarded with them. Taking over, Harry guided her inside, pushing her to an unoccupied corner by a rail.

"Hang on," he told her, huddling her into the small space.

Instantly, she had her hand wrapped around the bar, Harry grabbing the one above their heads. He stood facing her, his back to the rest of the car while she looked up at him with her phone in her free hand.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Harry gave her a small nod, his gaze looking out the window.

The intercom dinged once the doors closed, a calm female voice running over the map of the next stop in French. Pulling out her phone, she reloaded the page of all the stops and the schedules. "I think we're the last stop," she told Harry, tapping at her phone distractedly.

Suddenly, she was thrown off balance once the train shot off, the slow startup being left behind. (Y/N) stumbled, her grip on the handrail clearly not tight enough. Quick as ever, Harry stopped her with a hand on her waist, keeping her upright as her eyes widened and a gasp fell from her lips.

Harry's voice was low as he righted her, the train steadying in speed, "I told you to be careful."

Her hand with her phone continued to cling to his arm even when she was flat on her feet once more.

"I guess I forgot how these are. Sorry," she mumbled, pulling her gaze from where she centered on the dip of his throat up to his face.

Amusement laced through his features in a slight softening of the edges light in his irises. "Maybe."

Harry didn't move his hand from her waist until he ushered her to take a vacated seat.

—————

Walking down the uneven pathways, (Y/N) took the familiar route in stride. The train dropped them off near the Eiffel Tower, but there was still a short walk to be had. Harry was at her side as they mixed in with the flow of tourists and locals set around the area.

Everything was much cooler here. New York was new and eccentric, full of people setting trends with others following. It was loud and brash, full to the brim with everything and anything. Paris was different. It still moved fast—it was still a major city after all—, but cooler. There was an ease about the people, the palettes, the decorum. Everything worked on the same flow as the Seine, leisurely and winding with a cigarette in hand. She tended to travel here in the summer with lavender fields blooming, but she wondered what a Parisian winter would be like.

She imagined lots of soup and wine.

"We're almost there," she told him, casting her gaze outwards to catch the tower in the distance, "But, if we went down that way"—she pointed down another walkway—"we'd be able to see the second Statue of Liberty they have here."

"There's another one?" Harry asked, following the direction of her pointed finger.

"Mhm," she hummed, keeping them moving forward, "I can't remember his name, but a French architect designed the statue and made two—one for us and one to keep."

Harry took in the information in his silently observant ways, cataloguing it all to be filed away. "What else is around here?"

(Y/N) bounced in her steps at the question, all too excited to tell him more about the city she loved. With how widespread and different Paris was depending on the section of the city you ended up in, it was easy to forget how some of the most beautiful pieces of human culture were only planted miles apart. She could be Harry's tour guide for weeks just to get through every spot in Paris.

She took her time pointing him in every which direction, telling him more and more while glimpsing other spots she told him she wanted to stop at if they had the time. Soon enough, the Tower was before them, the lawn around the fixture lush and dotted with tourists.

In the mid-morning light, it glimmered like the lights were blinking on, shimmering and dancing under the sun.

"Wow," Harry murmured, almost breaking his neck as he looked up at it, his steps absently moving him closer.

A wink of pride touched (Y/N)'s chest. She couldn't believe with how well travelled he seemed that he never had seen a place like this, but she would take the honor of being the one to show him. Maybe it wasn't so bad that she got him exiled here if she was able to share something like this.

"It's crazy, right?" she asked, her voice a breath as if to not disturb the towering structure, "I know back home has all the skyscrapers and everything, but this just feels like it's more. Don't you think?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice floated on impressed awe. "Better than the photos, like you said."

Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, (Y/N) saw the way Harry looked up with wonder in his eyes at the Tower. She was sure he was catching every detail, ever rung, every bolt.

"So you wouldn't want a picture with it, then?" (Y/N) teased, watching the way a pinch appeared in Harry's brow.

"No, of course I want a picture." The slight pout to his lips had (Y/N)'s grin widening into a bubbling laugh. She wondered if he even knew he made a face like that.

Taking his eyes off the Tower for the first time since approaching the green, he looked to her with his own lips plucking into something amused. It wasn't a full smile, not yet, but something lopsided and reserved. She spotted that phantom dimple.

Blinking back into the moment, (Y/N) took a step back, intending to photograph Harry in front of the monument. He took his phone out from his back pocket, not even glancing at her before he was casting his gaze around elsewhere. The moment she was about to offer, reaching for his phone, he honed in on a family of tourists, the father with his own camera trained above his head as he took shot after shot of the scene.

"Excuse me," Harry started, stepping towards them, "Would y'mind taking our photo, please?"

The tourist agreed with a bright Sure!, taking Harry's phone from him once being instructed on how to use it. Guiding them back to where (Y/N) stood in wait, she saw as the rest of the family seemed to notice what was going on. The mother and the daughter of the group took in (Y/N)'s presence, eyes widening while the father went along oblivious. They recognized her, that much she could tell.

She didn't know what to process first, honestly. Harry wanting her to be in his picture, or the whispers that were currently being shared by the family in front of her, eyes glancing in her direction more often than not.

"Here, alright?" Harry asked, looking down at where she stood at his side, "Or do y'want to move?"

"Here is fine," she said, a slight smile on her features.

"Ready?" the father asked, poising Harry's phone for the best angles.

Wordlessly, Harry offered her his arm. She hesitated for only a second, turning into him with one hand fitting into the crook of her elbow with the other on the broad of his shoulder. She couldn't help the bright grin on her features, no longer a part of the pose she was giving for the camera. The whole of his side was pressed against her, reminding her of the only bright spots she experienced during the Gala: when Harry held her.

She happily posed beside him as the tourist tapped away at Harry's phone, changing the angles once or twice. "Are these alright?" he asked once he was finished, holding the phone out for Harry to take.

Breaking away from his side, (Y/N) lingered closer than she figured was probably normal as he flicked through the additions to his camera roll. She tried not to read too far into the slight smile on his lips as he did so.

"These are perfect, thank you," he responded, fitting his phone back into his pocket.

"Thank you," (Y/N) parroted, feeling the eyes of the daughter and mother on her during her brief speech.

Pleasantries were exchanged, Harry offering to take a photo of the family that was waved off before parting ways. The daughter only glanced back at her once after.

That bubbly feeling in (Y/N)'s stomach remained when she turned her gaze towards Harry. "Did you want one of just you, or anything?"

Harry shook his head, curls of brown hair fluffing over his head. "'M okay," he told her, "I like these."

(Y/N) didn't know what to say, instead allowing a small smile to settle on her lips. Redirecting her gaze to the Tower, she did her best to pretend like she wasn't hanging off of every word he was giving.

"Can we come back?"

Blinking, (Y/N) fell back into the moment, her eyes sweeping across the land on him. "Hm?"

"I want to come back at night when the lights are on, if that's alright."

This time she couldn't suppress the toothy smile that fit onto her lips.

"I think we could do that."

Maybe they could grab another photo together, the tower shimmering behind.

—————

"Are you okay with one more stop?"

Harry, now familiar with the route from the train station to the apartment, guided them back down the pedestrian streets. He looked down at her from where the sun was gliding over her skin, the late afternoon hours catching up with the sinking sun.

"I think I can handle it," he mused, maneuvering her out of the way of a large group. "What did you have in mind?"

(Y/N) perked up at his agreement. She walked with a bounce in her steps as if her muscles weren't beginning to ache from the full day of sightseeing. Despite the grumble in her stomach and her throat feeling a little too dry to be normal, she felt light. Showing Harry around and introducing him to the country's greatest landmarks was more than worth it.

His camera roll was full of photos of the day, a good handful of them including (Y/N) after he beckoned her to join him. Even the places they didn't have time to properly visit (the Lourve being the most notable one), Harry didn't seem annoyed that she wanted to spend a moment outside, instead indulging her with taking photos and asking about her own experiences. There were separate days entirely that they planned on using to visit the vast amount of libraries and museums in the area.

"There's a place by the apartment called the Les Duex Magots," she said, peering around the neighbourhood in hopes of catching sight of the awning.

"And what's special about it?"

Catching sight of it down the walkway, there was the same line down the walk that there always was at this time of day. The patio was warm and glimmering in the sunlight, tiny cups of coffee and pastries out on the tables beside people who brought their journals and laptops. Conversations in French fluttered in the wind, carrying inspiration.

"This is where a bunch of artists, and authors, and philosophers would come and sit and make some of the stuff that's now in the museums. Amazing stuff has come from here," she said, wonder in her tone. What would it have been like to be those people, scribbling away in journals or sketching on napkins unknowing of what would come later.

Looking down at her, Harry crooked an eyebrow. "Yeah?" he asked, the golden sun ferreting out the bright flecks in the moss of his eyes.

"Mhm," she hummed, a beaming smile on her face, "It's a little bit of a tourist trap now, but I still think it's special."

A beat passed, Harry's observant eyes grazing over the planes of her face. "Let's go then, yeah?"

(Y/N) felt the creases beside her eyes deepen with the width of her smile. "Yeah," she repeated, her voice sounding softer than she'd ever heard without cameras present.

Approaching the end of the line, (Y/N) could hear murmurings of the wait time. The estimates were closer to that of an hour before they would be offered a table—and that's assuming that the patio patrons don't linger.

Rolling her lips between her teeth, (Y/N) began inching around the line in hopes of catching a glimpse of those on shift. She played with the edges of her acrylics as she weighed her options.

Turning back to face Harry, she started towards the front of the line. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" Harry pressed, stepping to follow her on instinct.

"I'm just going to check on something, but wait right here. I'll be back in a second," she promised, shooting him a small smile.

After a beat, Harry stood down. "Jus' stay where I can see you, please," he conditioned, his hands coming to clasp together at his front.

With that, (Y/N) continued towards the front in hopes of seeing a familiar face. While there was a bit of guilt over the privilege of being recognized in places like these, special treatment coming around from certain people, there were days like these where she intended to bury it away. If being recognized and taking up favors allowed for Harry to have a special day, that's what she would do.

That's why she didn't feel so bad when she saw the familiar face of one of the higher ups of the cafe, his brown eyes widening when he took her in through the glass entryway.

"(Y/N), mon chéri! Bonjour, bonjour!" he bubbled off as he stepped around the awaiting patrons. He greeted her with open arms, happily wrapping her in a hug before pressing a duo of kisses to her cheeks.

(Y/N) fawned under the attention, "Bonjour, Benoit! Je suis si heureux de te voir! J'avais peur que tu me manques ce soir."

Onlookers watched their interaction, none seemingly paying much attention to who (Y/N) was other than the fact she was cozying up with someone of the establishment.

"Je ne savais même pas que tu étais à Paris, ma chérie," Benoit mused, his words tumbling over each other the way they always did with the amount of energy that seemed to always be coursing through him. He began inching her towards the entrance, soft hand on her elbow, "Je suis content que tu ne m'aies pas manqué non plus, allez allez."

"C'était un voyage de dernière minute, donc je n'ai pas eu l'occasion de le dire à beaucoup de gens," she responded, sinking her feet in before she could wander out of Harry's line of sight, "Mais, j'ai amené un ami avec moi cette fois, ça te dérange si je l'attrape d'abord?"

Benoit dropped his hand from her, "Non, non ça ne me dérange pas!"

He shooed her off with a flick of his wrist, expectantly waiting for her to return with her friend.

Stepping around the line, she beckoned Harry to her with a short smile.

"What's going on?" Harry murmured once he was close enough, head low to match his tone.

"I know someone here, and I think he's going to get us a table early," (Y/N) mumbled, molding her features into a pleasant smile as they approached Benoit.

(Y/N) just hoped Harry wouldn't think less of her for using this small advantage. She wanted to keep this special day going for him, even if that meant pulling a few strings so he would have a chance to eat sooner rather than later.

Rejoining her friend, she gestured to Harry with a flourish. "Benny, c'est Harry. C'est sa première fois à Paris, alors je lui ai montré tous les meilleurs spots aujourd'hui."

Benoit fawned under the compliments, guiding them towards the entrance as he fanned himself over his shoulder. "Oh, alors bien sûr vous l'avez amené me rencontrer. Merci ma chérie, le sentiment est réciproque."

Letting out a peal of laughter, (Y/N) took Harry's arm in her grasp and towed him behind. Following Benoit, she indulged in his idle chatter while they meandered through the full tables. Finding their way to the back, she saw as he muttered something to one of the servers, her eyes flitting over her manager's shoulder to spot her and Harry. Benoit dropped them off at a table farther in the back, as secluded as they could get in the crowded restaurant.

He looked at her with an arched brow as he pulled out a chair for her. "C'est parfait, mon amour!" she answered his unsaid question.

"Magnifique!" he cheered, pushing in her chair once she was situated against the cushioned bottom, Harry across the table. "Colette s'occupera de toi, mais dis-moi si tu as besoin de quoi que ce soit, ma chérie!"

Benoit left their table in a flourish, dramatically French as always. Directing her attention back to her companion, (Y/N) found Harry looking at her with his forearms on the table and raised brows.

She felt a bit silly now, knowing he saw the whole interaction and the specific strings she pulled to get this table. "I've known him since I started coming to Paris by myself after I turned eighteen," she started, dropping her eyes to the menu in front of her, "He would check up on me a lot and make sure I was alright. He's like my older brother."

"That's very nice of him," Harry murmured, that arch to his brow lowering, "What was his name, again?"

"Benoit," she answered, reading over the French script on her menu, "I kinda feel bad about letting him have us skip the line, but at the same time, I'm really hungry."

"I don't blame you," Harry muttered, amusement tinting his tone as he looked at his own menu.

A beat of silence passed before she heard a quiet oh from across the table.

"Hm?" (Y/N) hummed, taking her eyes off the laminate to land on Harry.

He had his menu flat on the table, the glimmering script taking her eyes while he read it over. He startled at her question, his gaze flicking up towards her.

"This place is jus'... different than what I thought," he shared.

"What do you mean?"

Rolling his neck, his head cushioned by his shoulders, she watched as he tried to find his words. "I thought this was a café, so I don't think I was expecting everything else."

Glancing down at her menu, trying to find what would have taken him by surprise, she found the context. She couldn't imagine he knew much French, especially with the way she took the lead today when speaking to locals and understanding directions. The only thing she could see him clearly understanding were the gilded numbers beside the items.

Ducking her head low, she craned her neck towards him as if they could really share a secret in this crowded restaurant.

"It's definitely overpriced," she murmured to him, flicking her eyes to the menu in his hand, "There's better stuff for cheaper around the corner, but I think it's all about the experience. We're where some of the greatest people in history have sat."

That phantom smile reached his lips once more as he looked at her over the table, buttery golden light reaching through the windows panelling the front. "I can see that," he mused, the impression of a dimple showing for just a moment to the right of his raspberry lips.

She matched his smile, though hers was decidedly less hidden. She lingered in that space for another moment before pulling back. "I'll take care of everything today, anyway. Don't worry about it."

No way was she going to let him pay for himself when this entire day was her idea, she decided. She doubted Harry would want to hear that, though, considering she was beginning to see just how seriously he took his job of her wellbeing.

When she could still feel his eyes on her, something sharper behind his usual observant gaze, she decided to ignore the protests he would give.

"Do you know what you want?" she asked instead, not taking her eyes off of the menu.

When he didn't immediately answer, she peeked over the edge of her menu through the fan of her lashes. He had his eyes trained on the script once more, a pinch between his brows. Harry canted his head as he read. "Everything's in French."

"Yeah," she responded simply.

A huff of laughter left him at her answer. "Yeah."

"Do you want me to translate anything for you?" she asked, scooting her chair in that much more as if it would make a difference.

"That might help," he accepted, "As 'm sure y'noticed today, I don't know really any French."

Reaching across the table, she pointed through the categories on the menu, listing them off for Harry in English. "And, there's croissants and pastries and stuff, here," she finished, circling out the final section on the page.

Harry squinted at the page, his head canted to the side as he examined for himself. "What's that?" he asked, pointing out one of the main courses, "That's a sandwich, right?"

"Mhm," (Y/N) chirped, tipping her head to get a chance to run over the script, "It's a smoked salmon sandwich with avocado and fries, and a bunch of other yummy stuff."

"Oh. How do you say it?"

"Club sandwich au saumon fumé 'petrossian',"(Y/N) responded simply in the French pronunciation of the meal, swirling the syllables into something fluid. Flicking her gaze up, she found his eyes trained on her.

When he was caught, he blinked down and pointed at another item on the menu. "What's that?"

Following his direction, she told him, "Snails, but they're these really big kind, an—"

"No, no—in French."

"Oh," she started, a pinch appearing in her brow. Nonetheless, she repeated her words in her alternate language, "Escargots géants et sauvages de Bourgogne."

Harry's eyes lingered on her before he pointed at the menu once more, another sandwich at the end of his finger. "This?"

Though it was clear Harry wasn't necessarily paying much attention to what she was saying, but still she humored him. "Crottin chaud sur pain Poilâne poivré—it's just goat cheese on bread."

This time, Harry didn't even look at where his finger landed randomly on the page, his eyes fixed on her. "This?"

She couldn't keep her laughter in this time. "Harry," she smiled, "That's a croissant."

Blinking with a flutter of his lashes, he finally looked at where his hand was pointing. "Oh, yeah," he agreed, a huff of soft laughter falling from his lips.

Giving up on the game, (Y/N) cradled her chin in her palm, elbow on the table. "I can teach you some French if you want?"

Looking up at her, the length of his lashes highlighted in the draping sunlight. "Yeah?"

"Of course," she agreed with a curling smile. Tracing her eyes over the menu, she randomly picked a wine from the list. Tilting the page towards him, with her finger pointing at the name. "Do you want to try saying this?"

"Maybe," Harry mused, squinting his eyelids to take in the diacritics over the letters.

"Just repeat after me: Hautes-Côtes de Beaune." She could feel Harry's eyes on her lips, her mouth wrapping around the syllables and twirling through the accent.

A beat passed before Harry seemed to snap into the moment. He clumsily attempted to pronounce the wine, struggling with the first word as if he hadn't just heard how to say it.

"No, no, like this," she said, with a soft breath of laughter, "Hautes-Côtes de Beaune." She emphasized the particle he stumbled over, dipping her chin and slowing her words.

Once again, he murmured the incorrect pronunciation though he did a hair better than before.

"Better," she praised, a caveat coming just from the tone of voice, "But try this: Hautes-Côtes de Beaune."

When he copied her once more, he somehow butchered the words that much more. (Y/N) couldn't help the peal of laughter that filled the space between them, rising over the dull roar of the restaurant. She could feel eyes flittering to her, taking in her disruptive presence with some recognizing her and others just annoyed in the most French of fashion. Though, (Y/N) didn't care.

There was a part of her that had to know that he was playing up his inability, she liked thinking his guard might have fallen some. She remembered thinking that she couldn't imagine anything Harry couldn't handle or wasn't the best at. It wasn't much, but this was the most vulnerable she'd seen him, and all it took was a shaky accent and butchered French wine.

"You'll get it soon," she breathed out a laugh, cradling her chin in her palm.

"Yeah? You'll keep helping me, then?" he pressed, that ghost dimple pressing into his cheek.

(Y/N) allowed her eyes to travel over his features. She took in the dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose, the blonde stubble over his cheeks, the gentle lines on the corners of his eyes. If she wasn't careful, her bodyguard was going to be recruited for a runway show.

"Of course," she confirmed, "You'll be like a local by the time we leave."

And for a moment, she didn't find herself itching to know when that time would be.

—————

"How do y'say that?"

"Tomate."

"That?"

"Carotte."

"That?"

"Poireau."

"That?"

Looking up from the stall of the farmer's market (Y/N) was browsing, she looked at him with raised brows and a quiet smile. "Are you even trying to learn anymore, or are you just trying to see if I actually know French?"

Quickly flicking his gaze up to match her own, Harry responded, "I mean, I think 'm learning."

"Yeah?" she pressed, examining a stalk of celery from one of the stalls, "What are we making for dinner, then?"

(Y/N) couldn't deny the tiny bit of pleasure she got over hearing him gum around the accented words she told him before they started out for the farmer's market.

"Close!" she chirped, offering a smile to the attendant of the vegetable stall.

"Yeah?" Harry asked, his features brightening from the corner of her eye.

"Mhm," she hummed, placing the onion, celery, and tomatoes she wanted on the checkout station at the end of the stall, "With an accent it would be gougeres and bisqué. But, we'll work on that."

Harry left her be as she conversed with the stall worker, working out the pricing for her ingredients before moving on with the vegetables now stowed in her tote bag.

Meandering through the stalls, Harry followed behind, diligently scanning the crowd. Even if (Y/N) had stepped out of the public eye for the time being, he didn't slack on his job. Without removing his eyes from the crowded market, he spoke to her in his smooth tone.

"And a bisque is a soup right?" he murmured.

(Y/N) hummed in confirmation, having led them to a further back stall with panels of ice spread out under an extensive tent. Spread across the ice was fresh seafood in the form of chilled crabs and bags of large prawns. Lobsters and whole fix were kept in the back, clams and mussels nestled in-between cubes of replenished ice.

"Isn’t it a little... hot for soup?" Harry prodded from behind her.

Shrugging, (Y/N) absently answered, "That's what you'd think. Then you have some soup and realize it doesn't really matter what the weather is, soup is always good." Taking a step towards the table, she looked at him, "This is the last thing we need, then we can go."

He didn't have a chance to respond before (Y/N) was selecting seafoods to be added to their bisque, the last thing on the list before they would need to head back to the apartment. He stood back as she plucked up her ingredients and spoke to the attendant, feeling his eyes on her as she went.

With her tote now filled with her finds, the shells of the crabs pinging against the bottle of white wine beside it, she gave the worker a smile before turning to Harry. Just in time with her own departure, another patron made their move through the tent, blindly crashing into her. His head of dark hair was a flash from the corner of her eye, mumbled apologies being offered in broken French. Before (Y/N) could give much of a response, Harry was at her side.

Positioning himself in between (Y/N) and the other man, Harry slipped into his bodyguard role, protecting her from even the smallest of accidents. He steadied her on her feet, ensuring she was balanced with a hand on her elbow and another slipping around her waist. The man who had bumped into her was blocked off, rushing away after another muttered apology with his eyes on the ground.

"Are y'okay?" Harry murmured, towing her to one of the further corners of the tent, away from the other shoppers.

She nodded her head, allowing him to keep his lingering hold on her before he pulled away. "I'm okay. Sorry," she told him, peering around him in hopes of finding the man to assure him it was alright. Unfortunately, he had slipped away already. Maybe it was from how quickly everything moved, the way the man appeared then seamlessly entered in with the crowd once more, but (Y/N) she recognized the flash of his features she saw. She shook her head from the though, placing her attention back on Harry. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

His observant gaze flitted over her form, his hands drifting from her. "'S alright, as long as you're okay," he assured her, "M'job has been a lot easier here, so I don't mind stepping in if y'need."

"Paris is always a little bit easier for me," she told him, following after him as he inched out of the seafood stall into the stream of patrons outside. "I don't think I'm that recognizable here, so that always helps after something like what happened at the Gala."

Harry visibly tensed as he fell into step beside her. "Have y'heard from your dad at all?" he asked, his gaze cast out ahead of them.

A beat passed.

"No. Have you?"

Harry's jaw ticked at her question. "He's talked to me some, yes."

(Y/N) left the conversation there, unwilling and uninterested in what that conversation looked like. She doubted it was positive when it came to her.

"You're ready to head back?" Harry prodded after a moment, decidedly less tense after the silence.

"Yes, please," she answered simply.

—————

Spreading her mail across the tiled counter, (Y/N) froze when she felt an envelope that was a little too heavy to belong amongst the thin slips.

While she knew it was slowly beginning to leak that she had escaped to Paris, blurry photos resurfacing with people questioning if it could really be her, she figured it would be too up in the air for a letter like this to show up.

Slipping her finger under the flap of the creamy envelope, (Y/N) couldn't help her curiosity. What kind of photos could have been obtained when she swore she didn't see a single person following her, a single professional camera aimed in her direction. Harry would have no doubt seen anything out of the ordinary. She couldn't imagine anything slipping under his watch, let alone an envelope's full.

Taking advantage of the time she had alone, Harry using the restroom before he would be used as an extra pair of hands, she pulled out the glossy photos.

Photos of her stepping into her apartment building greeted her first, her pilates uniform adorning her body. Harry had been cropped from the shot, but the edge of his arm could be seen from where he followed behind her. Others of her going to the studio, climbing into Harry's car, sightseeing around the city were in the bundle. There were shots of them at the Eiffel Tower, cruising the pedestrian walkways, catching dinner at the café. There were even pictures of them on the train together, close enough to capture her shock when she almost stumbled after the jolting take off.

It was odd to say the least. Not once in any of those places—especially on the train—had she spotted a camera that could produce the kind of quality these photos possessed.

Underneath them all was a letter. The paper was soft against the pads of her fingers, the edges of her nails catching the folded seam. She swallowed at the sight of the worn paper.

This was the first time in at least a year that she even opened one of these envelopes, she wasn't sure she could stomach reading a letter at the same time.

Just then, the sound of the sink running filtered into her brain. Harry would be out here soon, and he couldn't see this.

In a split second, she collected the photos in a jumbled mess and slipped them back inside the envelope. She practically sprinted across the apartment to her room. The letter found a new home in the bottom drawer of her vanity, under a stack of eyeshadow palettes she rarely used anymore.

She emerged from her room at the same time Harry stepped into the common room. His eyes were cast towards the kitchen where she was sure he expected to find her.

"When do y'think dinner will be ready?" he asked, flicking his eyes towards her once he caught her leaving her room.

Forgetting the letter in her room, the small fire she doused in the vanity drawer, she gave him a look with raised brows. "You don't think you're helping?"

—————

"Harry, just keep stirring. I promise it's almost done."

(Y/N) didn't have to turn to see the impatient slump of his shoulders at her words. She had tasked him with watching the bisqué while she prepped the seafood that would be plopped in at the end, and infusing the butter that was to be dropped in during serving. It wasn't a hard job he was in charge of, but it was one that she would rather be delegated to him.

"I've been stirring for thirty minutes now," he complained again, his voice closer to that of a petulant child than the calm security detail she knew him to be.

"It's been, like, five, but okay," she bubbled back, a smile audible in her tone.

It was almost endearing to see him like this, she thought. He'd never played with her before like this, given her this kind of leeway and release under his walls.

"(Y/N)," he tried again, as if saying her name was enough to convince her.

Carrying her cutting board of prepped seafood—rich crab and tiny shrimp—she came up behind him on careful steps. "Okay, okay," she relented, "We just need to put the crab and everything in, let it simmer for another five minutes since we already cooked it, and then it's done. Can you handle that?"

"Finally," Harry sighed, acting as if pounds of weight were being lifted off of his shoulders. All because he couldn't handle stirring a soup for longer than a handful of minutes.

Letting out a huff of laughter, she shook her head. From the corner of her eye, she definitely caught those dimples in his cheeks once more, this time a little less than those of a phantom.

"Go deal with the gougeres, then. I'll finish the bisqué."

"Okay," he mumbled, a little too eager to let go of the wooden spoon he had been equipped with. As he approached the cooling pan of the small savory pastries, (Y/N) could hear him attempting to pronounce the name in a proper accent.

A grin stretched across her features at the sound.

Soon enough, the bisqué was doled out between wide bowls, a dollop of butter dropped on top with Harry's arranged platter of gougeres in the middle. The balcony drapes were wide open, allowing a view over the city, buttery and warm under the waning light. The ladder of the Eiffel Tower glimmered like gold in the light, the green around it that much more vivid in the distance.

(Y/N) waited to take her first bite, resisting the lumps of crab meat and spiced broth in front of her, until Harry took his spot across. She was surely a little too eager to see him take his first bite, to catch his reaction.

"I want you to try it first," she told him once he was settled in, a toothy smile on her features.

"Yeah?" he asked, already picking up the wide spoon she had selected for him. He flicked his gaze up to match hers with raised brows.

(Y/N) only answered with a small nod, a little too distracted from the view of his eyes.

He maintained that eye contact with her as he scooped up a fruitful bite, taking to heart that she wanted him to try it first in hopes of learning his reaction. She wanted to feel unnerved by it, awkward knowing that he wasn't wavering in the contact, but she couldn't find that in her when she was glancing at the bits of sunlight amongst the green.

Taking that first bite, it took half a second before Harry was humming with his full mouth. He was impressed, that much she could tell from the reverence he gave as he looked down at his bowl. "This is good—really good."

Practically bouncing in her seat, (Y/N) bubbled, "I told you so! All the stirring was worth it, huh?"

Canting his head, Harry playfully contemplated her words. "I guess so," he relented with a heavy sigh.

A lopsided smile touched at the very corner of his mouth.

Blinking her eyes with a flutter of her lashes, (Y/N) tried not to be too fixated on the half smile he was offering her. "Try it with one of the gougeres!"

Feeling vindicated, (Y/N) began her own meal, scooping up a hearty bite of the bisqué, steam rolling off the bite. She couldn't wait for it to cool, chancing that heated bite in favor of trying it sooner rather than later.

"I don't know what you're getting at, but I have a feeling you know 'm going to say this is good, huh?" Harry teased, reaching for one of the cheese pastries from the platter.

"Sure," she said, swallowing down the rich soup, "But, I like to hear it anyway."

Shaking his head a little, he scooped up the bisqué with the help of the gougere. "Do you always cook like this?" he asked, allowing the tomato broth to soak the treat, "I didn't notice anything like this back in the States."

"Sometimes," she said in-between her own bites, savoring the spice she added to the broth, "when I have the time. But I tru to make the time whenever I can. It's one of my favorite things to do."

"Cooking?" Harry pressed, sinking into the conversation between indulgent bites of dinner.

She nodded her head with a hum, stealing her own gougere. "It's really fun to me," she explained, "When I was little, my parents were gone a lot so I spent a lot of time with the chefs we had, so I learned a lot then. When I started at my private school, though, that's when I started making my own stuff for me and my friends. It's just been one of those things that's stuck with me."

Harry watched her intently, soaking her in with those observant eyes. She could see him making connections in his head, fitting puzzle pieces of her in his head. The thought made (Y/N) want to squirm. At the same time she was itching to know what kind of picture he was threading of her, she dreaded to know any kind of detail.

"What did I tell you, though?" she started, changing the subject with her gaze falling from him, "Soup is good all the time—even in the summer."

Nodding his head, Harry pursed his lips. "Today, I will allow you to be right. Jus' today, though."

Sinking into the moment, she allowed a peal of laughter to fall from her lips. Harry looked at her with a hidden smile. his teeth keeping him from fully grinning even if (Y/N) swore she could see that kind of amusement in his eyes.

—————

Fran🫧

guess what !!!

Sipping on her purple juice, (Y/N) read her text messages before she would commit to her post-pilates shower for the morning.

what !!!???

A beat passed while (Y/N) swiped to another app, a video of a decadent dessert recipe on her screen. Francesca didn't wait very long to respond, the notification getting (Y/N)'s eyes to widen and her immediate rerouting to her message thread.

Fran🫧

im on a flight to Paris rn :)

Sitting up straight from where she was lounging on her bed, (Y/N) typed back an immediate response.

are you serious right now????

ur joking right

In response, a selfie of Francesca came through, her smiling face backed by the pristine leather of her private jet with her favorite pajama set adoring her torso.

Francesca stop

youre kidding right :(

Fran🫧

im not joking!!!!

I wanted to visit you !!! its been almost a month (Y/N):( I missed you!!!!

(Y/N) was practically thrumming with excitement. She hadn't realized how much she missed her best friend until she was presented with the opportunity to be reunited with her.

when are you landing!!!!!!

if you can we need to do dinner or something!

Fran🫧

ofc we do ! I'll text u when I land and when I get to my place and then I'll see what im doing and if im not too jet lagged

Emma was also thinking about coming this weekend too but last I checked she was seeing what stavros is doing

bc shes obsessed rn

(Y/N) huffed out laughter at her message. She missed Emma too, more than she expected to considering Emma hadn't even known she was on her way out before she had booked her flight.

at least she's happy I guess sufhsufhsu

im so excited to see you ive miss u so much!!!!!!

When Francesca's response bubble didn't immediately pop up, (Y/N) locked her phone, flouncing out of her room with a bubbling grin. Pulling open her bedroom door, she saw Harry cleaning up the kitchen from the morning's breakfast before her pilates class, his head whipping up to catch her emergence.

"Harry, guess what!"

"What?" he asked, swiping a cloth across the counter.

"Fran is coming to visit," (Y/N) rushed out, "She's on a flight right now!"

"Francesca?" he asked, his movements slowing as he looked at her with raised brows.

"Yes! She just texted me," she explained, her grin sticking to her cheeks, "And, Emma might be able to come out this weekend."

It was practically visible the way the gears in his head began turning. Apprehension appeared as he leant against the lip of the counter. "That's exciting," he granted her, "What plans do y'have with her?"

That was her security speaking then. He was the one with thinned lips and narrow eyes.

"I'm not sure yet," she said, gesturing with her smoothie and phone in hand, "I'm just thinking about dinner with Fran when she lands, but I'm sure if Emma's able to make it out, we'll want to go out together."

He gave her a slow nod, things working behind the scenes as he blinked at her. "Okay."

The longer that beat of silence rang on, (Y/N) felt unease creep in. Maybe Harry didn't trust her as much as she thought.

She'd been doing so well since he helped her out of that rut those first few days, but maybe he worried bringing her friends back into the equation would elicit something he hoped they left back in New York. She wondered if he had those pictures of her in mind, the runny mascara and panic she had in the bathroom of the gallery.

Leveling her energy, she made a point to meet his contemplative gaze. "I promise I'll behave. I won't cause any trouble or anything."

Shaking his head, Harry dismissed her in a moment. "'M not worried about that, (Y/N)."

Unable to school her features, she felt her eyes widen and posture straighten. She couldn't think of a time when she wasn't anticipated as the trouble maker.

"You're not?"

Blinking out of his head, Harry shook his head again, meeting her eyes with intention. "Don't worry about me, okay?" he told her, voice gentle in the space between, "Its m'job to think of all the scenarios and everything, but 's not something y'need to concern yourself with. Let me do that, you jus' have fun."

Though she was a bit dumbstruck, unable to really understand how to move forward without that kind of expectation following her, she still nodded her head. Nonetheless, even if Harry wasn't looking for that kind of promise, she would give it to herself. She wasn't going to stir any kind of drama or trouble.

She'd make Harry proud.

—————

Francesca, leaning over the dinner table with a makeup free face and her travel clothes on her form, gave (Y/N) a sly smile.

"So," she started, her voice low as if Harry wasn't already two rooms away from their conversation, privacy being the only other person joining their table, "your bodyguard."

Nodding her head, (Y/N) plucked a piece of brie from the cheese board they were sharing, "Yeah?"

"Did something happen?" Francesca pressed, something glimmering in her eyes.

A pinch appeared between (Y/N)'s brows. "What do you mean?"

Rolling her brown eyes, Francesca gave her an incredulous look. "Even I've seen those pics of you two at the Eiffel Tower"—honestly, (Y/N) didn't even know there were photos of them together then, having deleted her socials the day after the letter was posted to the penthouse—"and walking in here feels less like your penthouse and more like a... nest for you too. You even line your shoes up next to one another."

Taken aback, (Y/N) could feel the way her features screwed up at Fran's remarks. "You're silly, Fran," she said, focusing on the cracker she was loading with cheese.

Francesca shook her head and stood her ground, light amusement curling her lips. "You're lying, and you know it."

"I'm not, though," (Y/N) countered, covering her mouth as she took a bite of the crumbly cracker.

Shrugging, Francesca focused on her own overloaded cracker. "Maybe it's him then," she offered, looking at (Y/N) with that sly curve to her lips, "I don't know, all I'm saying is that the vibes are very different from the last time I saw you—and him. Every time he walks out here, it's like he doesn't even see me. He's only looking at you."

"He's my bodyguard," (Y/N) stated, as if Fran could forget the fact. "He checks on me."

"Checking you out," Francesca emphasized, hiding her teasing smile behind a sip of red wine.

It was (Y/N)'s turn to roll her eyes, trying her best to bite back her laughter. "You're so annoying," she teased, "I should've known you were going to say something stupid like that."

"Whatever," Francesca dismissed, reaching for her phone, "I want to make a post on my Story with you, though. So, pose cute with your wine or something. People are going to go crazy, knowing you're alive outside of blurry pics."

"People think I'm dead?" (Y/N) laughed, sipping from her wine before fluffing her hair.

Fran shook her head, swiping through her camera to find the right preset. "You'd be surprised how man people actually believe grocery store magazines. Even Damien Moore reached out to Toriana to see if she knew where you were, it's so weird."

"Damien?" she blanched, features screwing up at the mention of his name.

"That was my reaction too," Fran shared, waving her phone in her hand, "I was hoping we'd never have to hear from him again after what happened, but obviously he loves drama."

Rolling her eyes, (Y/N) couldn't agree more. Definitely the worst of the boys her father tried to set her up with.

When Francesca held her phone up, the camera facing them, (Y/N) didn't hesitate to pose. She cradled her glass of wine and got in close to Fran, curling her lips into a warm smile. The buttery lighting of the apartment with the shimmering Paris night leaking in through the windows, (Y/N) felt pretty when she glanced at the reflection.

Over the edge of Fran's phone, she could see Harry stepping out of the hallway, his steps silent. Though she tried not to pay attention, she couldn't help but to notice the way he really didn't allow his eyes to trace anywhere but her, even when they were doing something as innocent as posing for photos.

Even when Francesca lowered her phone and went about prepping the photo for posting, Harry didn't step away too quickly. He lingered, the warmth of his gaze on her.

Surely, he could just be checking on her, noticing how quiet the room became when they started whispering about him and going silent for the photos, but (Y/N) found herself not resenting the other option Francesca presented.

She didn't hate the idea of Harry looking at her just for the sake of looking at her.

Whatever that was supposed to mean for her.

—————

flâner means to wander aimlessly around a city.

a little change of scenery and time together before we get into some more fun stuff! thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and if you have any thoughts or ideas let me know!

#writing #harry #harry styles #harry one shot #harry imagine #harry blurb #harry au #bodyguard harry #harry x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles au #bodyguard harry styles #love on tour #pleasing #harrys house #as it was #satellite

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that-basic-simp · 2 months

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You're Beautiful

Mizu x Fem!Reader CW: N/A WC: 1.4k+ A/N: Inspired by the "You're Beautiful" scene from Princess Mononoke. Also uses he/him pronouns throughout the majority of this. Eventually switches over to she/her.

It started with a legend, the legend about someone having the eyes of the purest of blue. So blue that they looked like diamonds, stark like the sky, and cold as ice. Piercing that whenever they glanced your way, it was like icicles being thrown from their eyes and into the hearts of those who dared glance upon them. That their eyes looked like the onryo's. How they looked so full of hate and vengeance. So much hate could be held within their eyes that even those who dare oppose them, were struck down right where they were. There was no such thing as mercy for these demons. These monsters. Or so I thought.

"They say that this man has the eyes of a demon, that he had to wear something to cover them up," a man from my village laughed with the others.

"Did he kill anyone with just one glance?"

"He almost did, but we chased him out before anything major could happen. Thankfully, there was no harm today. But that doesn't mean there won't be any next time."

"I heard he's camping at the outskirts of the village," another man chimed in.

"Maybe we can jump him in the middle of the night. Slit his throat and let him bleed out. The world is better off without the likes of him."

Hearing this made me wonder what was so bad about this man. They were describing what he looked like, but did he do anything wrong? To me, there was no reason to want to kill him. If he was simply just passing through, let him pass through. There will be more issues with him dead than if they just let him live. Or maybe they wanted to let him die. Maybe they wanted to kill him solely because of who he is. I had to put a stop to that. Or at least see who this guy is before I make any assumptions.

Grabbing a few of my things, I walked out of the backside of the village, towards the outskirts of where we were. It was a bit of a walk since our village outskirts were well into the woods. This guy might have walked to the outskirts or has walked further past it. Either way, I was going to find him. I shouldn't have left when it was dark, but if I left when it was light out, I would have been caught and returned back to my parents. Even then, I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to live my own life and not be told how to live it.

Reaching past the outskirts and out of the woods, I was met with a marvelous sight. The coast. The moon light reflected off the dark water and it appeared to be glowing almost. The water looked so calm and as I walked towards the edge of the cliff, I heard a twig snap behind me. Quickly turning, I found someone walking out of the woods and into the clearing. They had a large hat on, navy blue cloak, a scarf tied around their neck, and their head was tilted downwards. Tilting my head to the side, was this the onryo they were talking about? Didn't seem like he was one to me. Slowly lifting his head, there were orange tinted glasses on his face. Squinting slightly, I saw it. The eye shape. They were round. They weren't typical for a Japanese person.

"Are you here to kill me?" he asked, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.

I raised my hands, showing I was defenseless.

"I am not."

"Were you followed?"

"No."

He turned and scanned the woods for a second before turning to face me once more.

"What are you doing out here?"

"My village talked about this man. About how he could kill someone with just one look from his eyes. Eyes that looked like ice. The purest of blues."

The man was silent. A small gust of wind brushed past us, making his cloak flap in the wind slightly.

"Go home," he said before he turned away, about to walk back into the woods.

"Please," I rushed towards him. "I need to know if you're that--"

I stopped abruptly as he pulled out his sword, the blade nearly a few inches from my nose.

"Go home," he said in a hushed whisper. "Or I will send you home."

"I just want to talk."

"Why?" he glared at me.

Even if I couldn't see his eye color, I could sense this was the man they were talking about. About having blue eyes like an onryo.

"I want to know if those rumors were true."

"True about what?"

"If you do have blue eyes. The eyes of an onryo."

Before I knew it, I was laying on the ground, the tip of the blade against my throat. The man was kneeling beside me, his hand tightly wrapped around the hilt. The lip of the hat was covering his eyes, but it wasn't like I could see his true eye color. The glasses were hiding them.

"Never call me that again," he said every word with venom. "Or else you will be going back to your village dead."

"They'll come and find you if you do that."

"Or, maybe I can kill you here and let your body rot until nothing but your bones are left."

"You wouldn't."

The tip of the blade sunk an inch deeper, still not drawing blood, "Try me."

"Please, I just want to see."

He sighed. Reaching up, he pushed his hat back to where the string was around his neck. Slowly raising his hand, he grabbed his glasses and removed them. Hidden underneath that orange tint were the brightest of blue I have ever seen. They were pure, too. The most pure I have ever witnessed. They were stark and piercing like the ice. It was amazing to see such a pretty color like that. Not only that, this man, he was handsome. But as I looked closer, there was something different about him. He wasn't a man at all, was he?

"You're not a man, are you?"

"How do you know?"

"I can just tell. The forced deeper voice, the shape of your face, how delicate it looks while also being sharp. Your topknot is not sitting confidently on the top of your head like other men. Not to mention when you put your hair up, you deliberately leave the sides long to act as sideburns. Because if you don't, you'll be found out."

"And what if I am a woman? It doesn't change a thing about me. I'm still an onryo," she sneered.

"So what if you are?"

"What if I'm what?"

"What if you are an onryo? They're right. You do have eyes that look like they can pierce through skin. There is emptiness in them. A rage I have never seen before."

I let out a small laugh. This next move might make or break me here. It will determine if this person lets me go with my life.

"You really are an onryo."

The blade pushed deeper to where I felt it penetrate skin, some blood tricking down my neck.

"Enough. Speak anymore about that and I will cut your throat and leave you here."

"But," I said.

The harshness in her eyes started to fade slightly as she waited to listen to the next words I say.

"They're beautiful. You're beautiful."

The hand around the hilt loosened, as well as the pressure. There was a glimmer of hope in her eyes. Like she was finally being understood by someone. Someone she never knew and will most likely never see again, giving her a compliment she probably never received in her life. If I was going to be the first, I was going to be the last.

"I-I--uhm," she shook her head. "Don't think you can try and win me over on this."

"I'm being serious."

"Y-You're not just saying that to get out of this situation?"

"No," I said. "I am speaking the truth. Your eyes are beautiful. You're beautiful."

She pulled back the sword and stood up, stretching her hand out so I could take it. Grabbing it, she pulled me onto my feet.

"T-Thanks," she said, putting her glasses and hat back on.

"What's your name?"

"Mizu," she said.

"Y/N," I said. "And your name is beautiful, too."

A small smile appeared and disappeared as quickly as it came.

"I-I must go now."

"Will you return?" I asked.

"Why?"

"I want to get to know you, Mizu."

"You're better off without knowing who I am," she said and started to walk back into the woods.

"But will I see you again?"

She stopped, her cloak flapping in the wind once more, "I highly doubt it. But it's best you forget about me."

I shook my head, "Who could forget those eyes of yours? Some may say they're empty and full of anger, but I see beauty behind them."

She stood there for a few seconds before she walked off.

"Be safe, Mizu," I called after her.

There was nothing from her, but I stood there, watching her disappear into the shadows of the woods.

#mizu x reader #bes mizu #mizu blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai

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byunpum · 1 year

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Little Gifts

Pairing: Tsu'tey x human reader

Tags: fluff, Tsutey being a little grumpy, crushes, a little angst.

Warning: None, we need more tsu'tey works.

AVATAR MASTERLIST Part 1 | Part 2

Here you are, holding out your arms with a slice of vanilla cake in your hands. You had that goofy smile that he hated so much, because it made him feel feelings he shouldn't have for you. He looked you over from head to toe, he could see you had a white spot on your face, your hair was a little messy. But you looked so happy to find him.

"You are dirty and disheveled" says Tsutey, his face is serious. He didn't know how he had gotten so close to you, or how you had gotten so close to him. After the great battle, he was badly wounded, but he knew that all his pain was worth it, most of the people in the sky were returned to their home planet. He was surprised when he found out that many humans who supported Pandora decided to stay on the planet. He knew this had to do with the new clan leader, toruk makto jake sully. But he was still grateful to be alive. And that's when he met you, you had become friends with mo'at very quickly. The woman had seen beyond your appearance, and saw the plans eywa had for you.

So she allowed you to help her with the injured. You were not very trusted by the navi, but you managed to get them to accept your help. Tsutey was lying down, badly wounded. But he had the pride of a warrior, so he had to be strong. You came up to him, with a smile from side to side. He didn't want to talk to you much, but he let you help him. And before you left, you gave him a piece of candy.

"Here" you offer him a candy. Tsutey stayed frozen, maybe you were trying to poison him or something. "Look" you open the candy and put it in your mouth and start eating it. As you pull another one out of your jacket pocket. "Here…to sweeten your life" you says as you take his hand and hand him the candy. He stands there, hand extended and looking at the candy. At night while no one was looking, he was tempted to try that rare food, and to his bad luck…he liked it.

From that moment on, you delivered small desserts to him from time to time. The humans had a small base near the village. So I used to meet you often, you used to go for a walk in the evenings, You liked to watch the pandora's wildlife, pet the passive animals and talk to the navi children. You would go and talk to mo'at about the herbs and medicines she used. Then you would find him and hand him a treat. He already knew your whole routine, he had studied you for many weeks. You were not troublesome, and you were a very quiet woman. He used to see you reading books in some corner, or looking for rocks for your 'rock friends collection'. He started to sit next to you and have long talks with you, he liked to talk to you. You had interesting topics, and you were fun.

"And that rock friends collection what is it?" he knew humans were weird, but this was too much. "Ahhhh I like to collect strange rocks, different colors and shapes. And then give them names. I don't know, it relaxes me" you say with a smile. He made a mental note, that if he found a rock he thought was strange he would give it to you.

For example, today in particular he was in a practice with some warriors, all of them were riding or feeding with their direhorse. He was distracted talking to one of his friends, until he signaled him to look back. As he turned around he saw you, you were approaching him, and you had something in your hands. He could see how his friends were approaching to watch the scene. No one knew that he had been building a friendship with a sky demon. And this was making him uncomfortable. You get close enough and raise your hands…offering him something that looked sticky, shiny and didn't smell bad. "Look…I made this for you" he could see how happy and excited you were to give him this gift.

"You are dirty and disheveled" says Tsutey, seeing how you were still smiling. "Well I've been preparing this cake all morning," you laugh a little nervously. Tsutey started to hear the comments and laughter of his colleagues and couldn't help but feel embarrassed. You noticed how his tail lowered, and his ears twitched, and how his face showed a look of concern and annoyance. You lowered your hands slowly, oh no, you had made him uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, I… I'd better go" you say as you walk away. Tsutey watches you walk away, as he laughs a little with his friends.

He felt bad for having refused your gift. But he didn't know how to react. It wasn't long before practice was over. Everyone was saying goodbye, Tsutey went ahead and went to that weird hut you humans had. He saw that the lights were on and that there were people inside. He approached slowly, it was the first time he was close. He didn't have much confidence, but he had to apologize to you.

One of the men saw the navi approaching and came out of the hut. "Excuse me…I don't want to disturb, but could I speak with Y/N" speaks Tsutey, he knew the language but didn't know how to sound formal, you had teach him a few things, but it was complicated. He watched as the man came in and called you by name. He was a bit far from the hut. He waited, until he saw you come out of it, he assumed you were upset and all. But he was surprised when he saw you, you had a smile on your face and ran to where he was.

"What are you doing here?" you ask him. "I come because of that…. I want to apologize to you for not accepting your gift" Tsutey says with a very erect posture. He saw how you smiled a little, but it was a smile of sadness. "You don't have to apologize…I know you told me not to talk to you when you were with company. So I'm the one who has to apologize" you speak, Tsutey can see how nervous you were, you were playing with your hands. "No, …. well yes, I know I said that. But I didn't mean to…" he didn't know what to say, he knew he told you that, because he didn't want the navi to know he was talking to a human. You two stood there in silence for a while. "Do you…do you want the present?" you look up to see his face, Tsutey agrees with his head and you go running to get the cake.

You get there as fast as you can and hand to him the cake, it was wrapped with a very pretty pink cloth, with strawberry designs. "That's a cake, it has flour, egg, sugar and other things. It is edible and sweet. I made it vanilla, so it wouldn't be weird for your taste " Tsutey watched as you explained everything to her, he could see how excited you were to have delivered your gift. Tsutey lifted the piece of cake and brought it up to his nose. Wow, this smelled wonderful. "Did you prepare it for me?" he asked. "Yes!!!" you laughed stupidly. "Thank you" Tsutey gives you a big smile.You had to admit, he had a charming smile. "Well… it's already that afternoon, try it and then tell me what you thought" you tell him as you say goodbye to him and walk towards the hut. He stood there for a while, until he decided to walk to his hut, when he got there he sat down and opened the cake wrapper and tasted it.

"This is delicious" he thought to himself, before he knew it, he had already eaten it all. He began to feel bad, you had prepared this for him, you were trying to feed him, you had been bringing him gifts for months… and he had rejected your offering. He didn't have to accept it if he wasn't interested, but he was very very interested. He had to find a way to reward you. If he didn't, he felt that eywa would not forgive him.

#tsu'tey x reader #tsu'tey #avatar wotw #avatar x reader #na'vi x human #na'vi x reader #tsu'tey fic #alien x human #avatar 2 #avatar 2009 #female y/n #human reader #human y/n #avatar x you #avatar x y/n #avatar 2022 #avatar the way of water #tsu'tey x human reader #navi x human reader

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libraryofloveletters · 1 year

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Daddy’s Biggest Fan

Lance Stroll x Fem!Reader

Warnings: surprise baby!, babygirl is the star of the show and the gem of the stroll family, grandpa Lawrence is besties with his granddaughter, mentions of labour and giving birth (nothing graphic!), the vettel family is the cutest, soft uncle mick, uncle estie and auntie elena, some cheesy comments from lance, auntie chloe and uncle scotty for the win!

Word Count: 6,210

Author’s Note: prompted by this video and this photo :)) enjoy soft dad lance! // also y’all know I cannot write lance without some mention of Canada lmaoooo forgive me please

---

Weekend of the Canadian Grand Prix, 2022.

The hallways were empty considering it was nearly midnight. Lance’s bag hung off of his shoulder, hitting his back as he ran towards the desk. “Y/n l/n, where is she?” He asks, fingers drumming against the counter as he waits for the nurse to tell him.

“Who are you?” She asks and he huffs a sigh. “Her boyfriend.”

“Oh, yeah okay. Uh, one sec,” she checked the charts to her left, “room 209.” She tells him and with that he’s off again, scanning all the door numbers before he finds the room.

He walks in quietly, silently hoping he hasn't missed it. “Did I miss it?” Lance asks.

He finds you still very much pregnant on the bed. “You didn’t,” you smiled, your hand stretched out for him.

The Canadian Grand Prix was this weekend which meant Lance was home in Montreal so the baby picked the perfect time to make their appearance into the world. The fact that you two were expecting was a bit of a secret, no one except your families, the Vettels along with Esteban, Elena and Mick knew.

Seb only found out because Lance went shopping with him to pick up a few things for his kids and Seb was curious as to why he was so interested in baby clothes all of a sudden. As for Esteban, Elena and Mick, the 3 drivers were close and Esteban is bad at keeping secrets so that was that.

Sunday was rolling into Monday and your contractions were closer together. Your sister in law was asleep on the chair next to your bed, Lance didn’t wake her but your groans did.

“When’d you get here?” She yawns, looking at her brother.

“An hour ago. Can you get the doctor though? Her contractions are closer together now.” Lance asked his sister, you and Chloe share a glance before laughing. Chloe squeezes her brother’s shoulder, “yeah, I'll go.”

It was a few moments before Chloe returned, your sister in law beside your boyfriend as the doctor checked how far along you were dilated. “Alright, you’re just about ready to push.” The doctor gets up, letting the sheet back down. “We’ll get you prepped, who’s staying?”

“I am.” “He is.” Chloe and Lance answer at the same time.

You smile at the Stroll siblings, Chloe comes over to kiss your forehead. “I’ll be waiting outside. You've got this,” she tells you, and you nod. “I’ll see you after.”

Chloe gives her brother a hug before stepping out.

The doctor and nurses come in, it’s an overwhelming scene to anyone on the outside but you were relaxed, surprisingly.

The room door was shut, the drape up between your lower half and you with Lance standing by your side, holding your hand the whole time. Your boyfriend whispered sweet nothings to you, praising you on what a good job you were doing.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, kissing your forehead. “Doing so good, baby. Just a few more pushes.”

“Almost here,” Your doctor calls up to you, “few more.” She confirms your boyfriend’s theory.

Within the next few minutes, you had given birth. You looked a mess, hair matted to your forehead from sweat, your eyes teary and you were beyond exhausted and yet, he looked at you like you held the sun and the stars.

“So proud of you,” Lance whispers, pushing your hair away from your face as he kisses your forehead. The doctor was right next to you two, cleaning up the baby and doing her initial tests before wrapping the little baby in a white and pink blanket.

“Congratulations,” She smiles, placing the baby in Lance’s arms. “It’s a girl.” She tells you both, giving you a moment to coo over her.

The floodgates have broken, Lance’s face covered in tears as he sits by your bedside, resting the baby on your chest gently. This was probably the first time you’ve seen Lance cry this much, it’s quite sweet to see his daughter reduce him to a puddle to tears. His arm over the top of the pillow, the two of you looking at the baby you created.

Both of you crying, the little thing on your chest had her eyes shut. “She’s got your eyes,” Lance whispers, as if he would be disturbing the baby’s rest by being any louder.

“Her eyes are barely open.” You chuckled, looking over at your boyfriend.

It was a little while with just the 3 of you. Lance already has a million and one pictures of his baby girl on the phone, changing the home screen from you to one of you and her.

There’s a knock on the door, the nurse sticking her head in to let you know that you have visitors. Lance tells her to let them in, you were sitting on the bed, a baby wrapped up in a blanket being cradled to your chest with Lance sitting on the edge of the tiny hospital bed.

Chloe held the first bag, a little stuffed lion and blanket in it and Scotty followed behind, some outfits for the baby in the bag. “When’d you get here?” you asked Scotty, the two of them coming over to see the newest addition to the Stroll family.

“Chloe called me as soon as it was time for you to push.” He asks, watching as you hand the baby over to your sister in law.

“You guys,” Chloe whispers, holding the baby like she was the most precious thing in the world. “She’s so beautiful.”

Scotty and Chloe sat on the bench next to the window, the two of them cooing over their niece.

“We didn’t tell you her name,” you look over at them, Lance snuggled in next to you on the bed. The older couple looks over, waiting for you to tell them.

“Meet Elizabeth Chloe Stroll.” You tell them, glancing between Chloe and Lance.

“Chloe?” The blonde asks, looking down at the baby in her arms.

“Mhm hm, after the best auntie in the world,” you hold Lance's hand, the woman smiles. Scotty grins at his fiancé, you and Lance chuckling at her reaction.

“Lizzie for short,” Lance says, a smile on his face.

The two of you had wanted to name her with a name that started with L but you couldn't settle on any so you went with Elizabeth, Lizzie for short. Also because Lance wanted her to have L. Stroll like him.

“She’s beautiful,” Chloe says once more, “like her mom.”

“Wow, no credit for me?” Lance asks his sister, she shrugs. “Don’t worry, mate. I think you’re handsome.” Scotty says to his brother in law, earning a few laughs.

---

The next few days had been a whirlwind of emotions. Lizzie was born on Tuesday just past midnight and you were released on the Thursday. Lance refused to leave you two, telling the team that he’d be missing media day and decided to opt out of practice on Friday as well.

Perks of your dad owning the team you drive for I suppose.

Lizzie was laying against her father’s chest, her little hand wrapped around his finger as he rubbed her back softly. You had gone to take a shower before Lance had to leave but the man was still on the couch, dressed for the track but he’s yet to move from his spot.

“Lance.” You called, your hands on your hips. “C’mon, you can’t miss qualifying.”

“Do I really have to go?” There’s a pout playing on his lips when you come over to take Lizzie from him.

You’ve got the little girl in your arms when you stand between his legs. “Yes, you have to go.”

Lance gets up, a pout on his face and you reach up to give him a kiss. You can feel his hand over yours, the one resting under Lizzie, holding her up in her little roots onesie.

“Go on,” you nudge him towards the door. Lance begrudgingly makes his way to the door, picking up his keys and his phone before turning back to face his girls once more.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“One hundred percent,” you smile at your boyfriend. You’ve got Lizzie tucked into your chest, an arm under her as your other hand rests on your boyfriend’s jaw. “We love you, now go.”

“I love you,” he smiles before giving you a kiss. Lance leans down a bit more, kissing Lizzie’s head, “I love you the most.”

You smiled at the man and his daughter, rushing him out the door before he missed the session.

Lizzie was but a few days old, much too little for you to be taking her to a race. You’re certain there were rumours floating around that you and Lance had split after you not being there for a few months. Once you hit your 5th month of pregnancy, it was hard to find the bump under clothes and your doctor suggested staying in one place or only go to races that are much shorter flights.

It was killing you to miss his home race this weekend but there was nothing you wouldn’t do for this little girl.

You two sort of lay around for a bit. You take a million and one photos of her; new parents and not wanting to miss a moment. You had the tv on, watching as the sky sports crew made their way through the paddock, asking around while they set up for qualifying.

Lizzie stretches in your arms and you decide to change her into the little outfit her grandfather had gifted her.

The day after you two told Lawrence you were expecting, you received a basket of baby things; onesies, hats, shirts, little jackets and hoodies, a blanket and even a little car stuffie all in Aston Martin green with the little logo on it.

The little girl was now in a onesie, the Aston logo across her tummy and the back had a number 18 on it.

You put her to lay on the couch so you can take a photo of her. You send that on to Lawrence with a message attached; future aston driver ?

Your father in law replied with a yes and a million emojis that he’s newly discovered and had come to love.

“Your grandad is so cheesy,” you tell her quietly, picking her back up. You held her in your arm carefully, watching as they were doing last minute checks before the cars would be pulling out for quali.

The two of you take a selfie, both you and Lizzie have on Aston Martin shirts with the matching 18 on the back.

To Lance: good luck!! <3 *1 Image Attachment*

From Lance: miss my biggest fan.

To Lance: awh you miss me? how sweet.

From Lance: you’re funny, you got booted. Lizzie is daddy’s biggest fan.

To Lance: it’s not cute when you refer to yourself as daddy.

From Lance: you love it mommy.

To Lance: you’re sooooo gross. go race, we love you.

Setting the phone down, you rocked the sleepy baby softly. The volume was low but the sound of the zooming cars and the rumbling engines lulled her back to sleep.

You managed to stay awake through qualifying; Sebastian and Lance were starting one after another with the German in P17 and the Canadian in P18.

Not the best but hopefully tomorrow will be better.

Lizzie woke up at some point after qualifying. You changed her diaper, fed her, rocked her and sang to her until you two found your way back to the couch. It had been a repeat of the same thing for the last few days; sleep, eat, sing to her, take a million photos, change her and repeat.

You tried to get a few minutes of sleep when she did which is what you were doing when your boyfriend walked into the apartment. The door shuts quietly, the man setting the keys down on the entry table softly before making his way over to his girls on the couch.

Despite changing his clothes, you could still smell the burnt rubber and gasoline on his skin. “Hey,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss Lizzie’s head before sitting next to you.

The girl in your arms and your head back against the couch cushions. Your eyes were shut but you open them when you feel him take her from you, giving you a break.

“Weren’t you sleeping?” He asks, Lizzie’s little hand wrapping around his finger when he gently rubs over her hand.

“Resting my eyes,” you hum, snuggling into his side.

The man smiles, there’s nothing better than having his two girls with him. He rocks the girl in his arms back and forth ever so softly, calming her when she stirs. “Shh, go back to sleep angel. Daddy’s here.”

You looked up from his shoulder at him, “what did I tell you about that daddy thing?”

“I was talking to Lizzie, you freak.” He chuckles, kissing your head.

----

Weekend of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, 2022.

You and Lance have finally decided to take Elizabeth to her first Grand Prix. It only made sense to take her to Abu Dhabi, seeing that it was the final race of the season, and that you would get there early enough to give her time to acclimate to the environment.

Also, you had sweet talk Lance into thinking it was a good idea because you wanted to be there for Sebastian's final weekend.

Lawrence had been asking when he was going to see his granddaughter at a race and all the things just aligned, it made the most sense to go then rather than wait for the start of next season.

Lizzie was now six months old, and she was starting to hit a few milestones. She can roll over and sit up on her own, starting to pull herself up and make efforts to crawl. She's starting to babble and make funny faces at you. She also is starting to recognize people and she loves when her auntie Chloe and uncle Scotty come over because Scotty spends 98% of the time making funny faces at her, and it causes the sweetest little giggles you’ve ever heard in your life.

You had given her a shower, getting her dressed for the day and you were about to get dressed yourself, thinking you’d be leaving her with her dad but the man was knocked out in the arm chair, the baby bottle sat on his lap and dripping on his shirt.

It was too funny to ignore so you set Lizzie in her playpen, taking a photo of Lance before posting it to your Instagram story.

It’s the first post of him you've made since you suddenly vanished from the paddock. Of course you cover the baby bottle with a little heart emoji and tagged him before setting your phone down.

“Sweetheart,” you nudged him softly. Lance stirred a bit but didn’t open his eyes. You take the baby bottle off of his lap and sit on him. “Lance, c’mon.”

The man finally opens his eyes, a scowl on his face. “Why’d you wake me?” He groans.

“You have dinner with the guys tonight.”

“Noooo,” he whines, his arms wrapped around you. “Let me stay.”

“I’ll give you Lizzie and have her drool on you if you don’t get up.” You give him a look and his brows raise, “you wouldn’t.”

You get off his lap, going to get the girl out of her playpen. “Fine!” He shouts, grabbing you by the waist when he rushes over you, his arms around you once again as he hugs you from behind. Lance's chin rests on your shoulder, “I love her but she drools soooo much.” He sighs, earning a laugh from you.

“Go change,” you wiggle him off of you. Lance nods, leaving you two to go change for dinner.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” He yells from the bedroom and you roll your eyes; you know he means well but sometimes you swear he forgets it’s just the two of you when he was away racing.

“Chloe is coming over, we’re gonna catch up on our gossip.” You tell him, picking up Lizzie and swinging her around. The little girl giggled, her big brown eyes wide and her gummy smile on display.

Lance comes out of the room, “and what do we plan to do with little missy when you two are catching up on your gossip?”

There’s a knock on the hotel door and you walk over to open it, Chloe and Scotty arriving together. Lizzie babbles when her uncle reaches for her, smothering her cheeks with kisses when you hand her over.

“Voila!” You show your boyfriend, his sister and her fiancé enamoured with their niece.

Lance shook his head, “you’re something else, babe.”

“It's called delegating, Lance.”

“Whatever,” the man nods, giving you a thumbs up with a look of fake disappointment. He gives you a kiss goodbye before saying hello to his sister and Scotty. He takes Lizzie from Scotty for a minute to say goodnight to her, knowing she'd be sleeping by the time he got back from dinner.

“I love you, sugarplum.” He whispers to his daughter, “sleep well.” He kissed her temple gently before handing her back over to her uncle.

----

The final qualifying of the season and you two had just returned to the paddock after almost an entire year of you not being there.

This time with a special guest.

Lizzie was in her dad’s arms, pulling on his sunglasses every other second as he walked through the paddock.

The little girl looked out into the swarming photographers then back to her dad who was whispering something to her. His other hand was holding yours, the obvious fact was that this was why you had vanished from the paddock.

You make it to the garage and while you two settle in, Lizzie is going from hand to hand, basking in all the attention she was getting; she gets that from you, her father wasn’t the most sociable with people he didn’t know, while you were a social butterfly.

Lizzie’s got a pair of clunky green headphones over her ears, protecting her little ears from the loud noises. She was currently on Seb’s side of the garage, Britta holding the little girl as Seb showed her something he had in his hands.

“I think Hanna’s gotta prepare herself for the ‘I think we should have one more’ talk,” you joked with Lance, nodding towards Seb who was clearly enthralled by the little girl.

Lance laughed, “Seb just loves kids, babe. He’s been asking me to bring her around.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” You smacked his arm lightly, “I would have brought her.”

“Sometimes I think you like Sebastian more than you like me,” he gives you a pointed look and you smile, “I do.” You walked off to get Lizzie before the session started.

“Hey,” you wiggled your fingers at the girl, getting her attention. Seb turns to see you, pulling you into a side hug, his arm over your shoulders. “She’s so cute, y/n.” He tells you, Britta had bent down so Seb’s daughters could talk to her.

“Thank you, Seb.” You smiled, “I think she looks like her dad.”

“No way, she's your carbon copy. She just has his eyes.” He says, “that’s why she’s cute, if she looked like him... well..”

“Sebastian!” You laughed, taking Lizzie back from Britta.

The German laughs, “I'm kidding. Hanna’s upstairs and that’s where you two are going, right?” He looks over at his daughters, the little blonde girls nod and hug their father before turning to you.

“Can we play with her later?” The oldest asks and you nod, “of course. I’ll bring her upstairs in a few minutes.”

The girls ran down the hallway hand in hand, back upstairs to their mother and little brother.

“Good luck,” you tell Seb, “say good luck to uncle Seb,” you tell Lizzie, lifting her chubby hand to wave to the man before returning to Lance’s side of the garage.

Lance takes the girl from you the moment you walk back over, sneaking in as many cuddles he can before he was needed in the car. You took a few photos of the two; Lizzie’s little green dress matches the colour of her father’s race suit and her chunky hands rested on her daddy’s cheeks, smacking his face softly as he pretended to bite her chubby cheeks.

One of his engineers gives him the signal, time for him to get in the car. “I love you sugarplum,” he whispers to the girl, handing her back over to you.

The moment Elizabeth is back in your arms, she starts crying. It was safe to say she was a daddy’s girl through and through, she had that man wrapped around her finger; Lance had a pout on his face like you had ripped his heart out and stomped on it the moment she started crying.

“Don’t,” you warn him, your hand on his cheek when you kiss him.

Neither of you seemed to notice the cameras flashing or the fact that they had gotten the whole sweet moment before Lance and his girls in camera.

“Go before she wants you again.” You tell him, shooing him off while Elizabeth was looking over your shoulder, away from her father. He blows his girls a kiss once more, walking off to get his helmet and get in the car. You bounce Lizzie in your arms until the car pulls out of the garage and then you head upstairs to find Hanna and the kids.

Quali had finished faster than expected but neither you nor Hanna were really paying attention; the woman was letting you in on the secrets of motherhood while the children played.

The little boy was laying on his mum’s lap, his eyes shut and his blonde curls all over the place. You were sitting on the floor, Elizabeth on your lap while the girls showed her their toys, putting on a show for her. Lizzie had no idea what they were on about but the expressions on their faces along with the colourful toys captured her attention enough to get her to babble along, swinging her hands happily.

Sebastian and Lance found their way upstairs to see their kids before having to go off to press.

If you had asked Sebastian if he thought both he and Lance would be going up to see their children by the time he retired when he first started at Aston, the man would have laughed in your face.

But it’s funny how life works and children change you for the better. Sebastian told his teammate as much.

Lance find his way to sit behind you and you lean back on his legs. Sebastian is next to Hanna, sinking into the couch when he lets out a big breath.

“How’d we do, boys?” You asked and Seb shrugs. “Could be better.”

“Says the man in P9,” Lance laughed, his hands coming down to rest on your shoulders. “And you?” You leaned back, your head on his knee as you looked up at him.

“P14.”

“Tomorrow will be better.” Your hand comes up to rest on his, giving it a soft squeeze.

“Ah young love,” Seb sighs, nudging Hanna. “Remember when we were like that?”

“You’re still like that, Sebastian.” The woman gives him an exasperated look, earning a few laughs.

Elizabeth was looking around now, instantly wiggling from your grasp and trying to turn when she heard Lance’s voice. You lean to the side, letting Lance hunch over and pick her up. She’s standing on his lap, hands on his face to keep her balance as she looks around. She sees Sebastian to her left who was making faces at her.

The little girl babbles, her father’s hands being the only thing keeping her up when she reaches for Sebastian. Lance hands her over to Seb, Elizabeth sitting comfortably on his lap when you lean back to take a photo of her, Seb and Hanna.

“Can’t believe both of my girls prefer Sebastian over me.” Lance grumbles, making you laugh.

“He has 4 championships, how many do you have?” You asked your boyfriend, the man rolling his eyes at your comment.

Sebastian looks down at the little girl, her hands tugging on the bracelet on his wrist. “Remember when the kids were this little?” He asked his wife and she smiled.

“You could always have one more,” Lance suggests to the older couple.

“No.” Hanna says, while Seb had a whole other answer; “yes.”

You and Lance exchange a look, laughing at them.

“Feel free to babysit Liz anytime you want another kid, she’ll change your mind.” You tell them and Seb shakes his head, lifting the girl when he looks up at her.

“Mum says you’re naughty,” he gives her a look and she giggles. “Yeah, you’re not bad, you're a good girl.” He smiles at her, “I know you are, sweetheart.” He sets her back on his lap, facing him.

At some point, Britta comes looking for Seb, both of the drivers having to up and leave for press. There’s lots of smooches, the kids wanting their fathers to stay and promises of sweets upon return.

----

P8 for Lance and P10 for Sebastian.

The Astons finishing off the season in the points and almost beating Alfa Romeo for 6th in the constructors was a good position to be in.

You had joined the mechanics on the pit wall for the final lap, watching the cars cross the finish line. Lizzie was a few feet away, her chunky green headphones over her ears as her grandfather held her.

Sebastian was currently doing his final donuts of his F1 career and you could see Hanna and the kids to your left, watching with the proudest looks on their faces. You smiled at them, a hand on your back pulling your attention away from the family.

Lance stood beside you, his arm over your shoulders and his race suit rolled down to his waist. “Back so soon?” You asked, assuming he would have still been in parc fermé and yet he was here. “Wanted to see my girls.” He smiled, letting you lean in to kiss him.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered against his lips and he kissed you once more.

“Where’s sugar plum?” He looked around when he realized you didn't have her.

You nod towards the pit wall; Elizabeth was banging on all the buttons on the table, Lawrence laughing as he watched the little girl.

The chaos on the track died down, everyone returning to their respective garages or off to watch the podium. The paddock was still packed; fans, crew, drivers, families, celebrities despite the fact that it was nearly 10pm.

The two drivers were in the garage, the Vettel children running circles around their grandparents as Seb and Hanna made the rounds, Sebastian getting into a conversation with everyone he stopped to talk too. You and Lance were soaking in the last few moments of the season on track. Elizabeth was with her granddad, the little girl being carried around the paddock as he said his goodbyes and small talk with the other team principals.

“Can I get a picture?” The photographer asks when he sees Sebastian and Hanna with you two.

The 4 of you manage to find yourselves together after the few drinks you’ve had, all adorning dopey, happy grins on your faces.

It was a bittersweet moment; the start of a new adventure for both drivers.

Sebastian navigates retired life while Lance figures out how to be a father - something he knows he’ll be turning to Seb for when he’s at a loss.

You two say your goodbyes to Sebastian, Hanna and the kids, as well as Seb’s parents and his brother. Lawrence catches the Vettels on the way out, letting Lizzie say bye to her new friends before they head out for the night.

“Can I have my baby back?” Lance asked his father and the older man shook his head, “no. She’s my granddaughter.”

“But she’s my daughter.” He bickered with his father.

You let them bicker, quietly taking Lizzie from Lawrence without either of them noticing. When they finally stop fighting and notice you’re holding the girl, you smile. “You forget she’s still my girl before either of yours.”

Lance packs up the rest of his things shortly after saying goodbye to everyone else in the garage. You three were on your way out when you got stopped by Elena shouting for you.

“Y/N!” She starts running to you three.

“ELENA!” you shout back, rushing over to give the woman a hug. Lizzie was squished between you two, Elena taking her from you. “Mon amour,” she fixed the bow on the little girl’s dress, “you’ve gotten so big.” She kisses her cheek.

Esteban and Mick weren’t far behind. The Frenchman coos over the little girl with his girlfriend and Mick joins in.

The 3 of them had come to meet Elizabeth post Canadian Grand Prix along with Sebastian. The 4 of them and Hanna, were the only ones aside from your families that knew you two had a baby hence her instant connection when she saw them again.

Once again, Elizabeth is the star of the show. Esteban is forced to take a million pictures of her and Elena. One thing with Lizzie was that she loved the attention, she always found the camera in the room. Mick was passed the phone next, taking one of Esteban with the girls. You and Lance joined the couple, all of you smiling for the camera. Elizabeth was getting fussy so you took her back but she started wiggling, her little arms stretched out for her uncle Mick.

Mick was holding the girl now and you asked one of the Alfa Romeo crew members passing by to take the photo for the 6 of you.

You smiled, watching as Mick spun around with the girl in his arms. He was telling her something, tickling her side as he did.

“We’re headed to the club, you guys want to come?” Elena asks, her fingers interlocking with her boyfriend’s.

“Uhh,” Lance looked at you and you shrugged. “We’d have to get someone to watch Liz first.” He tells his friends.

Esteban nods, “the joys of being parents.” He jokes.

“Well, I'll text you where we end up, text me if you’re coming!” Elena tells you, saying goodbye as they head out. Mick joined them once he passed Elizabeth back to Lance, giving the girl a kiss on the cheek before leaving.

“Do you want to go?” He asks you, the three of you heading out. “It’d be nice but who’s gonna look after Lizzie?” You looked over at him and he paused, literally stopped in the middle of the parking lot.

“I know exactly who.”

It’s a short walk back to the hotel, you two pack up whatever you think Elizabeth would need for the night, putting her in the stroller before heading back to the elevator. Lance hit the button for the 16th floor and you know exactly what he’s thinking. Once you got off, you followed the man to the door.

He knocks and Chloe opens the door. “Hey,” she smiles, leaning on the door frame. “Everything okay?”

“I was wondering..” Lance starts. “Since you’re my favourite sister and all-” “Your only sister but go on,” she folds her arms, waving him on.

“Can you watch sugar plum tonight? I know you two don’t have plans and we wanted to go out.”

Chloe gives her brother an obviously look but she nods, “of course we’ll watch her. Do you have her stuff?”

“Everything’s in her baby bag, thank you guys.” You tell her when Lance pushes the stroller into the suite. “No need to thank me, I know you two needed a night to relax. Go have your fun, we’ll see you in the morning.” She gives you a shove out of the room.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay ?” Lance asked his sister and she smacks his shoulder, “duh, I used to look after you. We’ll be fine, I'll call if anything but I won’t need to, so go.”

The two of you were a little hesitant to leave Elizabeth without either of you for the night, seeing that it was the first time that you've actually done that but you knew she’d be in good hands with her auntie Chloe and uncle Scotty.

You two ended up meeting Elena, Esteban and Mick at the club and had the time of your lives; dancing, doing shots, singing along to the horribly loud music that was playing.

It was the type of night that you wanted to remember forever that won’t be fully remembered. The best kind of night.

It was nearly 8am when you found yourselves back in the elevator and on your way to get your daughter. Lance wanted to go back to the hotel room and sleep off the hangover he knew was incoming but you at least wanted to see Elizabeth first.

You knocked on the door quietly, Scotty opened it with a wide awake Lizzie in his arms.

“You two look like hell,” he laughed, bouncing the girl in his arms. “Sorry we’re late,” you tell him, smiling at the girl who was still sleepy and drooling all over his shirt.

He steps aside. “It’s okay, c’mon in.”

Chloe was knocked out on the couch, the baby bottle in her hand. “Lizzie put her to sleep?” You chuckled and Scotty nodded. “It’s hard work but it's worth it, isn’t it?”

“So worth it.” You smiled.

Lance has found himself to the spot next to his sister, dropping down and his eyes already shut.

“You should stay for breakfast.” He says, sitting on the couch across from the one Lance and Chloe were on. “I doubt we’ll be having breakfast anytime soon,” You nod towards the sleeping siblings.

“That's okay,” he smiles, “you should get some rest too. I can watch her.”

“Are you sure? You guys had her all night.”

Scotty waves you off, nodding towards the bedroom. “She slept through the night like a champ, woke up like 30 minutes ago. Go get some rest.” He sends you off.

It was maybe 3 or 4 hours later when you felt the little hands on your side. Lance in bed with you and Lizzie between you two. “Hi sugar,” you picked her up, kissing her temple.

“Sleep well?” Your boyfriend asks and you nod, “good enough.”

“We ordered lunch, should be here by time Chloe gets out of the shower.” He rubs your leg, “she left some clothes for you.” He nods towards the t-shirt and pants at the end of the bed.

After a few minutes, you got out of bed and changed, making sure to wash your face and brush your teeth before joining Lance, Elizabeth and Scotty in the living room. Chloe joined a few minutes after you just in time for lunch to arrive.

All of you settled in around the table and started having breakfast, chatting away and you took a moment to make a post on Instagram for the first time in a long time.

It’s a couple photos from the last few days in Abu Dhabi.

The first one from race day, you and Lance leaning on his car with Lizzie peeking out from under the halo of the car while she sat in his seat.

The next one is Chloe, Scotty and Lizzie. The three of them laying on the floor from the night they came over while Lance was at Seb’s retirement dinner.

The next 3 are from post race before you went out; one of Elena, Esteban and Elizabeth, one of Mick and Elizabeth and finally one with all 6 of you in front of the Aston Martin garage.

Lawrence had sent you a photo of Lizzie and him sitting on the pit wall that one of the engineers took, her big chunky headphones being tugged on while her granddad tried to fix them.

The last group photo was on you, Lance, Seb and Hanna in the Aston garage before you all headed out for the night; arms wrapped around each other and big goofy grins on your faces.

There were the final two pictures; One of you and Lizzie, she’s on your lap while you do your makeup and one of her and Lance in the pool, he’s holding her while they’re laughing at each other.

The set was captioned with a perfect end to the season <3.

You set the phone down, looking back at the people sitting around the table. Your boyfriend, your daughter, your sister in law and your brother in law.

The little unit made some of the best memories and had some of the most important people in your life there.

It truly was the perfect end to the season.

-----

taglist: @timetoracewrites @diorleclerc @lickmeleclerc @dragon-of-winterfell @benedictscanvas @elisaa-shelby @hnmaga-blog @czechoslovakiandisco @dr3lover @troybolton14 @Lovingroscoee @compulsiveshit @somanyfandomsbruh @damnyoulifee @barzysreputation @vickyofalltrades @yeolsbubbles @barzysreputation @thybulleric @valkyrie418 @ricsaigaslec @idkiwantchocolatee @sessgjarg @molliemoo3 @bisexual-desi @sunf1owerrq @alwaysclassyeagle @coldmuffinbanditshoe + @lovelytsunoda because i know i love lance <3

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austinbutlerslovers · 2 months

Note

Can we get a teaser of the feyd fic

It is almost complete, minor details are subject to change. Here is the scene mentioned in the summary:

Feyd Fantasy Part II <Excerpt>

The Barons Favorite

The Baron speaks with his advisors in the morning about the upcoming gladiatorial fights around the massive table in the meeting hall. When the assembly concludes he uses his hover suit to bring the men of court to watch Feyd in combat training.

Part Two Complete✍🏼

He is proud of the accomplishments of his nephew Feyd, he is the Barons favorite over his older brother Glossu Rabban Harkonnen.

After making several public embarrassments to the family name the Baron had Feyds brother Rabban shipped to Arrakis. He gives him one last chance to prove his worth controlling their families most lucrative venture, harvesting spice.

Though ominous and foreboding the Baron is an obesely over weight man. He can no longer walk without the assistance of integrated technology to reduce the burden of his weight. His hover suit is implanted into his spine with thick tubes connected on two small orbs. The orbs float behind him carrying the chemicals which enable him to defy gravity.

They arrive to the second story of the courtyard in Feyds quarters. When the men gather looking down into the training pit on the first floor it is deserted. A low murmur begins between his advisors as to the where abouts of Feyd. Always eager to show off his knife skills Feyds absence is jarring.

The Baron immediately hovers to Feyds chambers and finds them empty as well. Feyds male Page appears at the entrance hearing the commotion.

“Well where is he?” The Baron snaps “You are to be at his side at all times have you forgotten your purpose”The Baron is fuming at the Pages insolence.

The Page trembles knowing the truth and averts his eyes from the Barons sinister Gaze “Spit it out or I cut it out” the Baron says coldly. He hovers into the young man’s personal space. The Page knows both men will readily slit his throat.

He divulges enough not to be dispatched by either “He and his lady are in the great halls of the fortress. I’m not sure where but he wanted to show her the grandeur of Geidi Prime” the Baron squints in anger how idiotic at a time like this with so much at stake to impress his new bride. His scowl deepens because Feyd above all neglected his training. For that he will be heavily punished.

The Great Meeting Hall

After touring your fifth great hall with Feyd it is readily apparent his family has amassed a great fortune with power and control over the populous of Geidi Prime.

He pushes open the large black inscribed doors of the meeting hall. There are thrones at opposite ends raised on platforms with stairs. The high floor to ceiling windows display the industrial city scape and a grand table that can seat fifty people occupies the majority of the floor space. Everything is void of color, only stone marble, black and granite can be seen in the gigantic area.

You walk over to the throne on your left “is this one yours?” Your voice echos in the large hall. Feyd nods, his hands are clasped behind his back. He follows you around the room as you study the furniture and the giant painting of his uncle and then of himself. There is a portait of a third Harkonnen male next to Feyds but he interrupts your thoughts before you can ask the identity.

“This is where the most important decisions are made on Geidi Prime, as well as another secret room with the cones of silence” he adds.

“What are cones of silence? “ you ask. The words are somewhat familiar to you.

“They are able to mute all sounds around them, only the two inside can hear each other.” He answers as he imagines himself fucking you inside of one until he makes you scream in pleasure as loud as he possibly can. He stops walking and stands behind you.

You've paused to study something that caught your eye. His eyes wander your form up to the beauty of your side profile. He can’t help himself as his hand trails down your shoulder. “Do these things in impress you?” He asks. You finally look over your shoulder at him.

You had been mesmerized studying an ancient Harkonnen sword on display. It is carved with hieroglyphs that date back centuries. It represents how his entire culture revolves around war and greed . “Yes ” you say addressing his question to be kind. You turn back to looking at the sword again. Inside you are deeply longing for your home world.

You remember the beautiful gardens, waterfalls, flowers, and colors of life. You especially miss the large atrium where you would read for hours basking in the afternoon sunlight. The warm rays would kiss your skin as it filtered through the glass dome.

Laying on a spacious out door ottoman with your fellow Bene Gesserit sisters honing your skills in the palatial gardens seemed like a dream now.

Feyd sees you lost deep in thought and softly grabs your chin “What would impress you more” he asks with intent. He knows you aren’t fond of the ways on Geidi Prime. You don’t have an answer so you remain quiet.

He knows one thing he has that impresses you on end. He gently pulls you into a kiss. His bottom lip rubs softly with yours as his warm tongue fills your mouth.

He ignites your passions and you place your hands on his jaw. You lean your head with his as you kiss him in return. You want to focus on the carnal and forget your distant memories. He presses himself against you and the heat of his body claims you.

He turns you walking back as he kisses your lips until you are met against the grand meeting hall table. He sits on the edge and moves to the center. He rests back on his heels beckoning you to come.

You climb onto the edge and crawl to him. Now both in the center he holds your jaw and pulls you close. His lips find yours again hungrier than before.

You feel his teeth bite into your lower lip and tug. It arouses you and he releases your lip to do again. Then he envelops his mouth completely onto yours. You feel the hardness of his cock as he presses it into your thigh.

He wants to defile you on this table. He smirks at the high disrespect to the Harkonnen dynasty he is about to commit. Soon this will all belong to him so what does it matter. He pushes you back to lie flat against the stone slab. You gaze up above him to the metallic barbs of the chandelier until his face obstructs your view.

His hands start at your knees grabbing the hem of your gown sliding it up to your hips.

His hands clutch one side of your panties tearing them apart making you gasp. He tears the other side and rips them clean from your body.

You watch as he sits back on his heels between your parted legs. He unhooks the clasp of his pants and pulls his thick veiny cock out. The contrast of the black fabric against his large hardened pale cock is striking.

His slaps his pink tip on your clit to edge you.

You flinch at each tap as it makes your bundle of nerves jump. He slides his hand down your thigh to meet your hip and holds you steady. He lines himself up and thrusts into you so roughly you have no time to adjust to the feeling.

Your vision goes hazy as your back arcs from the table. His penetration shocked you senseless. His large cock expands parts of you that you never knew existed. He watches how your face changes from pain to pleasure and back again as you try and relax around the girth of his size.

He wants to spur you on and leans down pressing his chest to yours. He wraps his hand around the back of your neck titling your head so he can speak softly into your ear.

”You are so beautiful to me” he says as his eyes study your side profile. He traces his thumb on your lower lip as you pant for him. “So desperate for my cock, the way you’d let me fuck you on this table you’d let me do anything to you” a moan escapes your lips as he shushes you “Just lay still and look pretty while I fuck you until you stretch open for me” you moan louder at his words.

He begins to roughly thrust inside of you like he wants to posses you. His cock hits your core at a dangerous pace. Your breasts bounce with every push of his hips. He is already becoming lost in pleasure grunting above you. He loves the feeling of your tight cunt stretching around his throbbing cock.

You arc your back down flat to brace yourself against his rutting. “You…feel too good on my cock” he rasps out as he finally hits the thrust that stretches you around his size. He stares down into your eyes completely transfixed by the physical connection between your bodies.

Unbeknownst to you both the Baron has finally narrowed his search. After spying into several halls down the corridor his servants waves him over finally finding the one you are in. The Baron peeks through the discreet opening made by one of the nimble servants. There on the middle of the table in the grand meeting hall he sees Feyd fucking you ruthlessly.

Your are constantly being pounded into the stone slab table by his strength. His hips begin slapping harder against you as he thrust between your legs. You hold out until the familiar tightening in your abdomen begins. Your moans start to fill the air.

As your walls clench around him it makes his cock feel incredible inside of you. Your eyes stare up at him, pleading and begging for release.

He sees the neediness in your eyes and brings his hand between your bodies touching your clit. His finger tips are wet by your arousal and he slicks them expertly in firm circles around your bundle of nerves.

It sends shocks though your core that radiate your entire body “YES please Feyd just like that“. You are unable to string together another sentence as you orgasm. He strums your clit as hard as he can with his cock slamming into your soaked pussy.

His mouth opens when he feels the pleasurable sensation of your walls milking his cock from the orgasm. He pins your wrists next to your head and plows into you even harder his release is immediate. His pace falters as he orgasms. You both moan as he paints rope after rope of his hot cum into your cervix.

He rests down on his elbows laying his full weight on you panting. He kisses your lips passionately with his final slow thrusts. His breath shudders into your mouth as he feels his cock empty inside of you.

He plants soft kisses around your face as he comes down. Each one more tender and loving than the last. His heart feels revived when he’s with you. He cradles your head in his hands staring deeply into your eyes. You smile at him and he smiles back, this time it isn’t like his sinister ones before, this one is radiant you see the kindness return in his eyes.

His uncle spying on the entire moment becomes enraged : not at the fact Feyd missed training, not at the fact he satisfied his carnal urges on the sacred meeting hall table, but at the fact Feyd put a woman’s pleasure before his own. The Baron turns away in disgust his patience is severed.

He raised Feyd with enough brutality and greed to become a ruthless tyrant. Now he sees every aspect of brutally he instilled in Feyd quickly being stripped away by a female. He never thought this was possible.

He is resolute in his decision to regain control. He will take out two problems with one swift action: Punishing Feyd by having you removed from his presence entirely.

[Sneak Peek: Full fic in finalization]

.⚔️ Fic Tag list: @burnthheparaphilia @elvismylove04 @lindszeppelin @obsessedvibee @abswifey @austiebuttbutt @jessica987 @oh-my-front-door @slowsweetlove @purejasmine @hardcoredisneynerd @i5uckersblog @phil2135561 @lovereadingfanfic @steph-speaks @maloribarnes1999 @meetmeatyourworst @moony-artemis @xxxstormyninixxx @prettypinkblogger @thegabbyh

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kitthepurplepotato · 3 months

Text

Kirishima Eijirou’s daily shenanigans!

Summary: You work in a little coffee shop (secretly owned by your uncle Crimson Riot), which resides next to Red Riot and Dynamight’s agency. Needless to say, the Crimson Riot signature on the wall lures in the red haired hero on the first day after opening.

Long story short, this a really cute story about a barista and his favorite customer falling in love and becoming a couple. (The only problem is that Red Riot is a himbo and he does not realize you two are actually dating. But that’s a problem for another day.)

Genre: Comedy, strangers to lovers, fluff, hurt/comfort, slice of life

Estimated chapters: Around 10?

Warnings: Swear Words, one or two chapters with smut but they will be skippable, mentions of injuries, depression, blood, fight scenes, one or two chapters of angst around the end but it’s mostly just fluff and shits and giggles. New warnings on every chapter!

About The Reader: SHE/HER, related to Crimson Riot, has red hair but it’s dyed, not natural. She has a really cool quirk and went to hero school when she was young, but she doesn’t work as a hero.

This story is a spin-off to Bakugou Katsuki’s Daily Shenanigans but you don’t need to read that story to understand this one.

Also, English isn’t my first language so please be kind, I’m trying my best!

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Chapter 1 - A wild Red Riot appears!

“Welcome!”

A lovely jingle announces Kirishima’s grand entrance to the brand new coffee shop he decided to visit on this lovely afternoon.

It’s manly to try new things, you know; the old coffee shop he used go to might be nice and cosy but how is Kirishima supposed to know if it’s the best coffee shop or not if he doesn’t try the other places in the area? Right?

… Right?

…

Okay, Kirishima has a confession to make.

He doesn’t care how the coffee tastes like at this place. He really doesn’t. The only thing he cares about is Crimson Riot’s signature framed on the wall.

That’s why he’s here, the traitor.

“Ahh, hello!” Kirishima scratches the back of his head shyly; he doesn’t even look at the poor barista, he’s too busy looking around, searching for the sacred signature. He feels blessed to be able to step into this beautiful, crimson colored coffee shop which conveniently opened almost next to from his agency. Well, his and Katsuki’s agency, but that doesn’t matter.

“It’s on the left side, darling. Do not touch the glass, I just cleaned it.” The barista giggles and… oh hello, that giggle was absolutely adorable?! But first of all, what does she mean he can’t touch the glass?! He wants to touch the glass!

Kirishima makes a pouty face, clearly heartbroken by the sudden plot twist; he’s so close to Crimson Riot right now, yet so far away…

“Okay, you can touch the glass. Go on. You have five seconds. One… two…” The barista counts and Kirishima sprints to the little framed signature and does what he does the best; act like a fifteen years old fanboy seeing naked boobs for the first time. Man, boobs are nothing compared to the thrill he feels right now; Crimson Riot is a legend, no one has seen the man for decades, he’s manly and mysterious and Kirishima really likes that about him; sometimes he wonders if Crimson Riot is real at all; that man is so perfect, kind and chivalrous, he’s everything Kirishima wants to be when grows up… well, technically, he is 25 and he doesn’t have too much “growing up” going on anymore but he still feels like he’s twelve. He also acts like he’s twelve. So yeah, he wants to be like Crimson Riot when he grows up. He’s not there yet.

“Would you like to have a coffee or salivating over a framed signature is enough to start your day off with a kick?” The barista suddenly appears behind him and Kirishima jumps.

Well, that’s awkward.

“Yeah, I’m just about to… oh hi.”

To all the Gods and deities up in Heaven, thank you. - Kirishima mumbles as he takes in the beautiful sight in front of him. No, he is not talking about the beautiful signature on the wall this time; that one was demoted to the second most beautiful sight in the world.

“Good morning, sir.” The barista giggles again, and Kirishima swears an angel descended from above in front him.

Kirishima is known to be a ladies man; he loves ladies, he adores them, he cherishes them, he wants to tell every single one of them how beautiful they are; but this one is on another level. This lady here is the most perfect human being Kirishima has ever seen. This lady is the type of lady Kirishima would never have the balls to actually woo. Not like he ever had the balls to woo anyone, to be honest, he’s more like the funny uncle who flirts with everyone but no one takes him seriously and will probably end up alone with 6 dogs 8 cats, 3 bearded dragons because they are really manly and a house worth of Crimson Riot merch. He already has the latter and he’s working on the rest.

“Is the red hair a part of the work uniform or do you just happen to have a good taste?”

Why did he say that?! Why?!

“If that was supposed to be your way of flirting, you have a long way to go, Mr. Red Riot.” She grins and oh my god, Kirishima is in pieces. Literally. He’s quite sure he accidentally hardened his arms under his super tight-fit turtleneck and the fabric just shred to pieces.

At least it’s not something else that hardened…

Eijirou, no.

Do not go there. Do. Not.

“Ahh, you know me.”

“Our staff room window looks at the private parking lot of your agency. There is a massive poster with your faces by the VIP entrance. I need to say, you look much nicer with your hair down though.”

Why is this angel standing so close to him?! What did he do to deserve this beautiful sight?!

“If that was your way of flirting… it completely worked.” Kirishima admits with a crimson face.

You get it? Cuz he’s in Crimson Coffee? Next to Crimson Riot’s signature?

… Nevermind.

“I don’t mean to break your heart so soon, but I wasn’t flirting with you.”

“Y/N, are you bullying our precious customers again? I already told you… oh hello there, young man!” The random lady went from a loud yell to the most pleasant customer service voice he’s ever heard in five seconds. Well that’s a talent. “That’s Red Riot honey, give him a friend and family card, will ya?”

“I guess that’s alright.” The barista, Y/N, rolls her eyes playfully and gives him the little card. “Now order, I’m getting bored.”

And Kirishima does.

Kirishima orders 13 coffees even though he only needs one just to keep this beautiful angel entertained. He gets 2 massive coffee holders with 6 coffees in each and gives the spare one to Y/N with a shy smile on his face, because he’s a gentleman.

“You know I can drink our coffee for free, right?” Y/N raises her brow with a mischievous smile on her beautiful face and he might not have a shot with her after he embarrassed himself in every way possible, but it was completely worth it for that smile.

Kirishima made a great decision today by trying out new things.

Being blasted out of the window by Katsuki after he arrived late, juggling 12 cups of coffee while spilling half of them in Katsuki’s office was absolutely worth it.

(He also landed in the parking lot and was able to see Y/N in the staff room laughing at him. Best day ever.”

~•🪨•~

“Does he come here often or was that a special occasion? Come on, tell me! Please!”

You have all the respect for heroes but this Red Riot guy… is an absolute himbo. In the best way.

First of all, he has no idea how handsome he is. He takes your hand in a begging way, trying to get information out of you and you really need to concentrate to not show any kind of emotion on your face; thankfully, your family is blessed with amazing poker faces. The biggest master of them is your uncle who’s -surprise!- is actually the person Red Riot is asking about right now with perfect puppy eyes. He was able to keep up his mysterious persona for decades even though he’s also an absolute himbo in real life.

Second of all, Red Riot embarrassed himself at least ten times this week but somehow he always leaves with a proud smile like this is what he wanted to do in the first place.

Personally, you really want to smack this man in the head and tell him to be ashamed of himself because by the look of it, his self-esteem is so low he thinks this is just him being himself. Which isn’t true. Red Riot might be a himbo, but he’s also a well respected himbo… you mean hero, and he should definitely act a bit more… confident.

“So what do I get if I tell you this information, sir?” You ask cheekily; you can’t help it, okay? Red Riot is a handsome guy. And he’s also really sweet and gentle. Who would NOT flirt with him?

“I would like to say my number on a napkin but I feel like you would use it as a filter for the coffee.” Red sighs dramatically.

“That’s highly unlikely.” You retort; he looks up at you with eyes full of hope and you already hate yourself for doing this to him, but… “The napkin would melt into the coffee and it would be absolutely disgusting. I can’t serve that.”

“You are such a heartbreaker, miss Y/N! I would like to speak to your manager!” He yells, fake-offended, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Just order your bloody coffee and leave, Red. Seeing you being blasted through the window because you were late is really fun but I kinda hate listening to the drilling noise when your window gets fixed. It ruins my chi.”

“You’re a chi.”

“Well that’s just rude, sir. I might need to ask you to leave.” You giggle, and you can’t help but realize how the air just changed around you two; there is definitely something there, a tension you can’t describe but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s kinda nice to banter with him like this.

“You already did. But you also told me to order first.” Red retorts with a massive smirk on his face and you kinda want to put him into your pocket and keep him in there.

Finally, Red orders and he’s just about to leave when you decide to give him the tiny present you got him.

Yes, you got him a present. Shut up.

“Hey, Red!”

“Yeah?” He looks back with a massive grin on his face.

“I got something for the most handsome customer in this shop.” Red’s face contorts into a frown at that. Would it be rude to kiss your customer’s cheeks to give him some confidence? It’s just a kiss on the cheek, no biggie. Just one kiss. Come on.

“Lucky gal.” He mumbles, trying to fake a smile, but failing miserably.

“I’m talking about you, you himbo.” You laugh and run to the back; it’s a signed Crimson Riot poster. Your uncle was more than happy to throw one at you when you told him about Red Riot being your loyal customer; he’s kinda obsessed with the guy since his first appearance in the sports festival. Long story. He loves to be loved.

Kirishima pales as he rolls the poster out, his eyes misty by the time he rolls it out completely.

“This is a limited edition poster from 30 years ago. One of the first posters… what the hell, man…”

“Look closer.” You wink and Red starts to cry like a baby. He’s so fucking adorable, it’s ridiculous.

“Watching you grow up made me realize why I was a hero for so long. I’m proud of you. Stay manly! Crimson Riot.” Red mutters under his snotty nose. “Y/N, can I marry you?”

This man will be the death of you.

“No.”

“Okay. Thank you. Bye.” Red mumbles with red rimmed eyes. Working in your uncle’s secret coffee shop was the best decision of your life.

“See you tomorrow, himbo.” You giggle and the redhead disappears; one day, you’ll tell him that all the flirting you do is actually serious but that day is not today. You really want to see him gain some self-respect by himself before you shower him with praises every day. You can only hope you don’t ruin your chances by playing with him for too long but that’s a problem for later; for now, you are just happy to be around this mysterious, funny man.

… Next Chapter!

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Want to be on the tag list? Just ask me in the comment section or a message me!

The second chapter will be out in two or three weeks depending on your reception of this chapter then I’ll try to post a new chapter every 7 - 10 days!

If you want to see my other works, check out the Master list for Deku x Reader, Bakugou x Reader, Todoroki x Reader and Aizawa x Reader stories!

TL: @porusuniverse @sixxze

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #Kirishima x reader #Kirishima Eijirou x reader #shenanigansbypurplepotato #red riot x reader #Kirishima Eijirou x you #Kirishima Eijirou x y/n #eijirou x reader #kirishima eijirou #bnha #mha #my hero academia

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xxoxobree · 10 months

Text

Miles G x Black Fem Reader

Summary: Revenge is oh so sweet

WARNINGS: A Few bad words , one tiny suggestive scene, aged up.

Saturday.

You sat in your bed, laptop placed on your lap as you continued to finish your work. But your mind was elsewhere, consumed by thoughts of him. Miles. Ever since he left last Saturday, he had been the only thing on your mind.

Feeling restless, you shut your laptop and tossed it to the side. A small smile graced your lips as you picked up your phone to check the time. It was already 6 pm. Your heart quickened its pace. Should you start getting ready? You always wanted to look your best for him.

You freshened up, fixed your hair and makeup, and sat on your bed, waiting for him. Tonight felt different. It felt like the night you would finally win him over, the night he would finally see you. The night he would choose you to be his number one.

But as hours and hours ticked by, there was no sign of him. Not even a text. You checked your phone again, now reading 1 am. The disappointment weighed heavily on your heart. What happened? Why didn't he show up?

He's usually always here at 10, or he'd at least send you a text saying he'd be late. The minutes ticked by, and there was no sign of him. Frustration started to bubble within you, wondering if he was flaking on you for his "girlfriend" again.

"Miles, are you still coming? Don't tell me you're flaking on me for that girl," you typed in a text message. But to your surprise, a red exclamation mark appeared next to it. Confused, you furrowed your eyebrows and tried again, only to receive the same result.

You decided to call him instead. Holding the phone to your ear, you muttered, "This nigga got me fucked up." But instead of hearing his voice, you were met with an automated response. Your eyebrows furrowed even deeper, frustration slowly turning into anger, as you dialed his number again, only to hear the same automated message mocking you.

"He fucking blocked me?" you said out loud, a mixture of shock and heartbreak washing over you. You felt your heart shatter into a million pieces, tears welling up in your eyes. How could he do this? He said he loved you, so why would he just block you without any explanation?

Feeling the weight of betrayal, you tossed your phone to the side and covered your mouth in disbelief.

A million thoughts of why and what did you do swirled in your mind. You crawled into bed crying yourself to sleep, and that was your reality for a week. Dragging yourself out of bed to class and back, sleeping to get yourself to stop the constant crying you did.

Saturday night again, exactly one week after Miles ghosted you. Your phone pinged, and you felt your heart quicken, a sliver of hope that it was him who came to apologize, say something happened to his phone. But it wasn't. It was your friend Nia who texted you to FaceTime her. Reluctantly, you picked up the call.

"Hello?" you said, hearing loud blaring music and seeing her face halfway in the screen.

"Y/n, where were you, girl?" she screamed into the phone.

You chuckled a bit, the first in a week. "I'm in bed."

"You in bed? Girl, get yo ass up, it's so many niggas outside."

You laughed at her antics. "Girl, you're crazy."

Nia's voice softened, concern evident in her eyes. "I know you've been hurting, Y/n. But you can't let this keep you down. You deserve better, and you need to realize that."

You sniffled, wiping away a stray tear. "I know, Nia. It's just hard, you know?"

"They're having a kickback, I'll text you the address and you better show up." You rolled your eyes, knowing that you had no choice but to come now. With a sigh, you rolled out of bed and freshened up, then dressed yourself and made your way out the door to the party.

The music from the party could be heard a block away, and as you got closer, you could tell that the party was packed by the way people lingered outside. Pushing your way through the crowd, you made your way inside, scanning the room for Nia and your other friends in the distance.

"Ayeee!" you exclaimed, approaching them with a little bop to the music that blasted through the speakers. "Omg, you look sooo good, girl," Nia said, giving you a hug, followed by your other friends.

The night progressed, and you were having fun. The few drinks you had loosened you up, and you had totally forgotten the despair you were in just a few hours earlier. That was before you heard a voice in your ear. The last voice you wanted to hear, but one you were oh so weak for.

You spun around, and there stood Miles, his pretty smile on display. "Hey mamita, you're looking as pretty as always," he said, his voice dripping with charm.

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, time stood still. You knew you shouldn't be swept away by his words, but his presence was intoxicating. The memories of past encounters flooded your mind, the passion, and the pain.

Trying to compose yourself, you replied, "Hey, Miles,"

You rolled your eyes at him, ready to walk away, but he caught your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through your veins, and you couldn't help but feel a flicker of longing deep within you.

"Don't be like that, ma. I miss you," he pleaded, pulling you close, eliminating the space between you two. His voice tugged at your heartstrings, making it harder to resist him.

You looked up at him, your self-control wavering. He could see the battle raging within you, the fight diminishing, and that turned him on even more than he could have imagined. He knew he was pushing your boundaries.

"Whatever, Miles," you said, trying not to give in to him. You remembered how he had cut you off, how he had made you cry, and a switch flipped in your brain. If he wanted to play, then let's play, you thought to yourself, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

"Come," you said, grabbing Miles' hand, leading him to an empty room. The anticipation hung in the air, thick with both uncertainty and excitement. This was a dangerous game, but you were ready to take the risk.

You straddled him, your bodies intertwined, as you buried his lips into your neck, distracting him from the true purpose of your actions. Little did he know, you had a secret plan in motion. You had begun recording capturing every word and sound between you two.

"I love you so much, Y/n," he whispered, his words causing your smile to grow even wider.

Your revenge was going to be sweet.

You ended the recording and abruptly got off his lap. "I gotta go, Miles," you said, leaving him dumbfounded in the room. With a sense of satisfaction, you found your friends and told them that you were heading home.

Once back in the comfort of your own room, you flopped onto your bed and opened your phone. It was time to unveil the truth on Instagram, the perfect platform to embarrass him like he did you. You posted the video on your story, accompanied by a caption that tagged Miles' girlfriend and asked, "This your man?"

Within minutes, your phone became filled with notifications and messages from people who had viewed your shocking story. The reaction you craved the most came from Miles himself. He blew up your phone with a series of angry text messages, which you chose to ignore, relishing in his frustration. And then, as if to add salt to his wounds, he called.

Unable to contain your amusement, you picked up the phone, laughing hysterically. "You think that shit's funny, huh?" he yelled from the other side of the line. "Hilarious," you replied, savoring the taste of revenge before hanging up and blocking his number.

🏷️ @noneofyabuisnezs @zaddyskye69 @neteyamsz @evermorewest @writerze @curly @bigbadjelly @xoomiez @ccrazyinluv @aqxllo @sleepyghoster @onlyloaksgf @ohsoprada @han-sirentell @ellerihs @acezeyez z @ashanomly @namjoonsloveforpop @lovemyself-persona @planetspiderzz @xylianasblog @laylasbunbunny

If you weren’t tagged sorry 🥲

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spider-stark · 10 months

Text

A DARK AGE

next part

summary - it's been nine months since you watched your best friend, gwen stacy, plummet to her death; an event that ultimately caused new york's hero to abandon the city entirely. now that he's finally returned you find yourself being forced to confront the ugly truth you've been running from.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. i will do my best to place warnings at the beginning of each chapter, but please read at your own risk.

word count - 10.3k

// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts //

THE BUGLE was buzzing to life in a way it hadn’t in ages. Landlines were ringing off the hook, accentuated by a chorus of email and text notifications crying out from every cell phone in the building. As you stepped out of the elevator you found yourself staring at a sea of amateur reporters, all of them gathering on the far side of the office around a television set.

You clutched the coffee in your hand tighter to keep it from spilling as a young man accidentally bumped into you, quickly moving to join the herd of his peers. You shot him a nasty look, ignoring the swift apology he muttered out as he continued to rush past you.

Despite your intrigue at the collective panic of your coworkers, you didn’t bother moving to join them around the TV. Instead, you walked the clear opposite direction, making a beeline for the office of the only man in New York City that you trusted to know exactly what all of this fuss was about.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Workplace etiquette had flown out the window for you a long time ago. Reporters didn’t have time for benevolence.

“They’re acting like rowdy animals out there. Foswell is running around the office like he’s in a goddamn marathon! Nearly gave me a third degree burn trying to get past me.”

A vehement grunt was the first thing to leave Jameson’s mouth, which constituted a typical greeting for him. Following it was the shrill squeak of his old office chair as he spun around to face you. “Haven’t seen the news, y/l/n?”

You furrowed your brows. “We are the news.”

Another noise of discontent, followed by a hand coming up to rub viciously at his eyes. If you had learned anything during your time at the Bugle, it was that Jameson was always upset, which meant that you rarely found his vexed appearance very concerning. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t help but get the feeling that something was off.

“The Daily Globe.” The name of the Bugle’s biggest competitor slipped past his lips like a slur, Jameson’s lip curling as if it had somehow left a bad taste in his mouth. “Some jackass at the station leaked info to them before they even got the crime scene taped off. Bushkin had everything plastered on their front page this morning before most of us even had time to pour a bowl of Special fucking K!”

“What crime scene?”

His hand dropped from his face down to his lap, shooting daggers straight at you. “You’re a reporter, y/l/n! Check the fucking headlines for once in your life!”

“Sorry,” you sneered at him, “some of us actually have a life outside of work.”

Of everyone at the Bugle, you were the only one with the authority (and the audacity) to backtalk Jameson and actually live to tell the tale. It was a perk of being his top investigative reporter, one that you never let go to waste.

If anyone else dared to get snarky with him, he’d likely send a paperweight flying at their head. But, since it was you, he only responded to your comment with a dry chuckle—primarily because he was aware that you were lying through your teeth.

The Bugle was all that was left of your life, the one remaining piece after you had lost everything nine months ago. Jameson knew how fresh the wound still was, how hard you fought to ignore what you’d gone through, and so he elected not to make an actual comment on your remark; a subtle indication that the crotchety man actually did have a heart.

“Remember Aleksei Sytsevich?”

You nodded, patience already growing thin as you waited for him to finally just tell you what happened. At this point you were beginning to think you would have been better off to gather around the TV with the rookies. “Of course I remember him,” you told him, “I’m the one that wrote the story on him hijacking that Oscorp truck last year. He goes by the Rhino now, right?”

Each of you formed your own twisted expressions at the name Sytsevich had picked for himself. The name was fitting given the military grade battlesuit he’d managed to snag from Oscorp, but it was a tad too on the nose for your taste. It lacked creativity, though neither of you really expected anything better to come from the former Russian mafia leader.

“Sometime last night he was found in an alley off 102nd.” Jameson declared, following you with his eyes as you moved towards his desk, taking a seat in one of the old chairs that sat in front of it. “Beaten to a goddamn bloody pulp.”

Your nose scrunched up slightly.

If it were anyone other than Sytsevich that had been left to bleed out in the dead of the night, you might have felt a bit of sympathy for them. But, instead, you only felt hopeful that Jameson would confirm the question that already fell past your lips, “He’s dead?”

It was cruel to wish death on anyone. You should have felt guilty for the way your chest swelled with hope as you waited for Jameson to reply, but you didn’t. New York was running short on heroes these days, which meant that more and more criminals had begun to use that to their advantage, making a hobby out of terrorizing the innocent.

Sytsevich had already escaped the Vault once, the so-called impenetrable prison, which meant that sending him back to jail was all but useless. But death? Not even Sytsevich would be able to crawl back from that.

“No.”

Your heart nearly sank, and you could tell that the sentiment was shared by Jameson, who looked equally as disappointed. After all of the innocent lives Sytsevich had claimed, he deserved to be put six feet under.

“Not yet, at least.” He clarified, “As soon as they noticed a pulse they had him life-flighted to North General. Good news is that they don’t think he’s gonna make it through the weekend.”

You snorted at Jameson’s execution of the comment, as well as the childlike joy that seemed to twinkle in his eyes as he thought about the possibility of Sytsevich finally being gone for good. Still, you could tell that there was more. That he hadn’t quite told you the full story.

While the impending death of a former mafia leader was quite a story, there was little chance that it had been enough to piss Jameson off so much that the Daily Globe got word of it first.

Criminals die every day, especially in a city like this. It was hardly front page material.

“So you mean to tell me that the world is in hysteria all because Sytsevich is about to kick the bucket?” You questioned him, nudging your head in the direction of his office door, encouraging him to acknowledge his frantic employees as they paced the office floor.

“It sucks that the Globe got to it first, but we should be celebrating!” As demented as it might seem, it was true. “But instead you’re in here wallowing as if we just missed out on the story of the year.”

The joy that he had felt just moments ago was now extinguished entirely, replaced with an expression that carried far more weight.

“You’re right. Sytsevich dying an excruciating death would be a fucking fit from a God I don’t believe in, y/l/n.” His forehead creased, thin lines appearing between his brows as he pressed a button on the laptop in front of him, tapping a few keys before turning the screen around to face you. “But the story isn’t just about his death—it’s about who killed him.”

A wave of shock slammed into you like a ton of bricks, hard enough that it made you lose your grip on the disposable cup in your hand, the contents of it staining the old carpet that lined Jameson’s office. Neither of you paid any mind to the mess and you became consumed by the headline on the homepage of the Daily Globes website.

SPIDER-MAN RETURNS - BRUTALLY ATTACKS ESCAPED CRIMINAL

Your eyes grew wide, air getting caught in your lungs as you worked to keep yourself from vomiting right on Jameson’s desk.

“No.” The word slipped out from under your breath without approval, a flash of pity washing over Jameson’s face as he took in your reaction. He had expected it, though, aware that of every reporter in New York, you would likely have the most intense response to the news.

But your shock quickly began to morph into something more closely resembling rage. “There’s no way, right? Spider-Man’s been awol for months, J! They really expect us to think that out of every enemy Sytsevich has made that Spider-Man would be to one to fucking kill him? It’s bullshit! They’re just trying to get eyes on their shitty paper!”

Jameson’s brows raised, clearly agreeing with the sentiment. He was never one to miss an opportunity to slam the Globe. “Normally I’d agree with you,” he mused, turning the laptop back around, “but the NYPD confirmed that Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/l/n. It doesn’t look good.”

Your blood ran cold, turning to ice in your veins. Darkness started to take over your peripheral vision, threatening to consume the entire space around you. Images flashed through your head—asphalt painted with thick blood, bones snapping, his gruesome screams—it was a past that you had fought so hard to put behind you, only for it to now creep back up on you.

You instinctively clutched the bag at your side, half debating reaching inside for the little orange bottle you hadn’t touched in months. You restrained yourself though, terrified to feel as if you needed to rely on the pills again. Things were getting better.

“Spider-Man’s not a murderer.” Your voice was so hesitant, so uncertain, and it made it difficult to tell who the statement was meant to convince, Jameson or yourself.

Jameson’s shoulders lifted into a lazy shrug as he leaned back in the rickety chair, the plastic creaking at the shift of his weight. You were aware of his stance on Spider-Man, but even he had never considered the possibility of the vigilante committing something like this.

“No, he isn’t.” He agreed with you, evoking a bit of shock. “But he’s about to be. He’s the only one that can be linked to the crime scene. If Sytsevich dies—and it’s only a matter of time—then Spider-Man’s the one going down for it.”

Your mind was reeling, yet your body remained motionless, your gaze fixed onto the floor. Coffee still leaked from your cup, forming a sizable stain that only grew with every second that passed. You didn’t care.

It had been months since anyone had last seen Spider-Man, and during that time, New York had already begun to turn on him. Citizens hadn’t yet forgotten their debt to him, the countless times in which he’d nearly laid his life down for the city, but that didn’t mean that many hadn’t grown to resent him.

They had been abandoned by their hero, left to question if he was even still alive. And if this was how he returned? A killer?

“It’ll turn into a man-hunt.”

There was no other outcome for it, you both knew that much. Since his disappearance, an eerie sense of unrest had settled in the streets. Spider-Man’s absence had created a whole slew of problems, things that the NYPD weren’t equipped to handle. Hope had already become such a precarious thing, and if it were confirmed that their lost hero had abandoned his own code of ethics? It would destroy all that's left. It would unleash pure chaos.

It would be the dawn of a new age.

A dark age.

“Maybe.” He was being cautious with his approach, aware that this topic had the ability to turn you into little more than a ticking time bomb. “Still, there’s not any cold hard proof that he was the one to send Sytsevich to his death bed. All they know for certain is that he was at the crime scene.”

It was strange to hear those words from Jameson, crafted as a defense for the vigilante he swore to hate. If anything, that only increased your already heightened level of fear.

Of everyone in the world, you would have never imagined that Jonah J. Jameson would be willing to testify that Spider-Man was innocent in anything.

“I already told Urich to assemble a team, get out on the streets, and start finding some real proof. I’ve got a source at North General giving me hourly updates on Sytsevich, but we still don’t have much time to put together a story.”

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, your face contorting into a sour expression as you flung out of your chair, ignoring everything about his statement except for one detail.

“Fuck Urich!” You screamed loud enough that more than a few heads turned from outside Jameson’s office, a few of them now attempting to eavesdrop as the conversation became heated. “This is my story, J.”

He sucked in a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d anticipated this reaction too.

“No, y/l/n, it’s not!” Jameson’s own voice boomed, easily rivaling yours in volume. You didn’t so much as flinch. “Last time you chased a story with that Spider-fuck you nearly died! You’re staying away, got it?”

You gritted your teeth, taking another step towards his desk, closing in on him. “You said it yourself J, we’re running out of time, right? You need someone that knows what they’re dealing with. Urich doesn’t have any connections to Spider-Man! I do!”

Somehow you believed that preaching these facts to Jameson would change his mind, as if he didn’t already know about your past encounters with the hero, like he wasn’t the one that published the stories you had done on him.

“I’m one of the last people to even see him alive, J!” You reminded him, finally letting your tone drop back to a normal volume as you continued, “Urich might be able to snoop around a crime scene, but I’m the only one with a chance of getting an actual statement from him.”

Both of you knew that your claim was a bit far-fetched. If this were last year, getting a statement from Spider-Man would have been a piece of cake for you. But now?

It was different.

Either way, Jameson didn’t seem willing to budge. “A statement isn’t worth losing my best reporter.”

If the circumstances were different you likely would’ve teased him for the comment, for making it so obvious that you were one of the only things to matter more to Jonah J. Jameson than a story.

“Fine.” You snapped, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth as you challenged him. “Then I quit.”

His face blanched. “You what?”

“I’ll pursue the story on my own. Get a detailed fucking statement from Spider-Man—a few pictures, too.” You crossed your arms over your chest, entirely unwavering as you held his gaze. “Then I’ll sell it to the Globe.”

Jameson’s face turned beet red, his eyes narrowing at your threat. “Don’t be stupid. You’d need an entire team to go after a story this big.”

You mocked the lazy shrug he had offered just moments ago. “No, Urich needs a team. All I need is a few hours and some phone calls.”

Ben Urich would need access to several of the Bugle’s best reporters in order to conduct enough research to even know where to begin. Aside from that, you and Jameson both knew that one of the best potential sources for this story layed beyond the gates of Ravencroft—and Jameson would have a hell of a time trying to get authorization for an interview with any of their prisoners.

But you?

You could get in with a simple phone call.

“This isn’t a game, y/l/n.” Jameson cautioned. “The night Spider-Man disappeared—when I got that call from the hospital—I thought you were gonna be dead, y/ln.”

A pang of guilt shot through your chest and he reminded you of that night. When you arrived in the emergency room they had tried to call your emergency contacts—but you knew they wouldn’t answer, that they were the reason you were even there. Jameson was the only one that answered, the only one to show up.

You knew how much guilt he still faced for pushing you to chase another Spider-Man story, for encouraging you to get closer to the vigilante, only for it to land you in a hospital bed with several broken bones and a grade three concussion.

Sometimes you wished that you could tell him it wasn’t his fault. That you were already in too deep, long before you had started chasing another story, even if you didn’t realize it at the time. But you couldn’t.

“If you take this story then you’re putting yourself at risk. Again. You’ll be destroying everything you’ve worked for.”

Blood pooling, bones snapping, his screams echoing.

You bit your cheek until you tasted crimson, shoving the hellish thoughts from your mind. “Are you gonna take Urich off the story or not?”

Jameson’s shoulders immediately slouched, his disappointment evident as the corners of his mouth turned downwards. But he knew you—too well, which meant he knew that nothing would stop you from following this story.

So, against his better judgment, he straightened his posture and tried to mask his own emotions, but you could still tell how much it had hurt him to mutter out the word—“Fine.”

You didn’t plan on waiting around long enough to hear anything else he might have to say, already turning on your heel and aiming for the door, knowing that it was best to leave before he changed his mind altogether. Still, just before the door slammed closed behind you, you heard him speak.

“Your funeral.”

His snide comment left a bad taste in your mouth, pungent and unpalatable, but you did your best to ignore it. There wasn’t any time to comprehend the gravity of his statement, to consider just how close you had come to death last time.

If Jameson was right about anything, it was that time was of the essence. The sooner Spider-Man could be proven innocent the better.

So instead of dwelling on it and risking uprooting your past trauma, you shoved your way through the crammed newsroom, coming to a halt only when you could plant yourself at the edge of Urich’s desk. He looked up at you through his thickly-rimmed glasses, brows knitting together.

“This your team?” You asked him, an idle finger pointing to the crew of unfamiliar faces that surrounded the desk.

Urich gave a stiff nod.

“Great.” The smile you gave was sickening, filled with misplaced animosity. You scanned over the group, your gaze ultimately settling on the figure directly to his left, a somewhat tall woman with neatly bobbed hair. Out of everyone, she was the only one armed with a pencil and notepad, having taken note of his every word. “What’s your name?”

The women seemed stunned, her voice shaking the tiniest bit as she responded. “Betty. Betty Brant.”

“Nice to meet you Ms. Brant.” Your tone was much milder when speaking to Brant, though it quickly turned harsh again as you shifted your attention back to Urich. “I’m taking over the story. Jameson already gave me clearance, so please, if you plan on whining about it, keep it between the two of you, mkay?”

Urich’s usually squinty eyes suddenly widened behind his lenses, thin lines settling into his forehead. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest before you had already cut him off.

“Anyone who isn’t Brant can get out of my face. I don’t have a use for you.” A dismissive hand was waved at the small crowd, although none of them bothered to move more than a few feet away, too interested in eavesdropping to venture any further.

“And, um, what is it that you’d like me to do?” Betty Brant was quite the apprehensive woman, her lack of confidence shining through in quite literally everything she did. She was new to this, that much was obvious, but you still found yourself with some sort of intuitive faith in the girl.

“I need you to track down some information for me.”

A pit suddenly grew in your stomach as it dawned on you that this would be the first time you had so much as uttered his name since that night. He had essentially become a ghost to you, capable of haunting every corner of your mind without ever reentering your life. It was easier that way, though. Avoiding him had been the best way to recover from him; even if that meant treating his name like a curse.

You took a deep breath, garnering every ounce of strength you had left to ensure your voice wouldn’t crack. “I need a way to get into contact with Peter Parker. He used to work here, but the number we have on file isn’t in service anymore.”

Once.

In the nine months since it happened, you had only tried to call him once. With the phone pressed to your face you had already prepared yourself to hear the dial tone go on for ages, fully aware that he’d just let it go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk to you—he didn’t want to talk to anyone. But, instead, you were greeted by a prerecorded message saying the number had been disconnected.

And that was the closest you ever got to a goodbye from Peter.

“Parker?” Urich finally got a word out. “What’s he gotta do with this?”

You didn’t have any intention of offering him a detailed explanation, your back already turned to him as you spoke over your shoulder. “He’s the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man. If everything goes as planned, I’m gonna need his skillset.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, but it also wasn’t the full truth. Regardless, it was the best defense you had for needing a way to contact Peter; one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. If anything, you would have preferred to start your hunt for information with Peter, because then you would’ve been able to avoid Ravencroft altogether. But, unfortunately, Peter was little more than a dead end right now.

“Jameson has my number–get it from him and text me as soon as you have a lead!”

It was the last order you barked before disappearing into the elevator, quick to rush off to the first destination on your list. You had to get moving, at least until you could find a way to talk to Peter, which meant you needed to start gathering the names of anyone who might’ve actually wanted Sytsevich dead.

Unfortunately, that meant hailing a taxi to Westchester County and digging up another ghost from your past.

You hastily pressed the button for the ground floor, your other hand already delving into your bag, grabbing your phone and dialing the number that had called you many times over the past months; a number you rarely answered.

“Hi, this is y/n y/l/n calling,” a weight settled deep within your stomach, accompanied by a shiver running down your spine as you forced yourself to speak, “could I speak with Leonard Samson? I would like to take him up on his visitation offer. Please tell him that I want to speak with Harry Osborn as soon as possible.”

The Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane was not for the faint of heart.

At first glance, most would consider it a fine establishment. The ornate iron gates lining the property seek to paint a picture of elegance, while the impenetrable stone walls offer those on the outside a sense of security—serving as a silent oath that those on the other side can’t get out.

While technically labeled a prison, Ravencroft always insists that they place treatment above punishment for those incarcerated here. They pushed this motto, staff members regularly appearing on the local news to preach of mercy and remission; despite the fact that no one committed to the facility had ever made it out alive.

Ravencroft’s prisoners weren’t always as willing to keep up the facility's pristine public image though, well known for spitting in the face of that ‘guise of elegance they’d worked to build. It was because of their sharp tongues that Ravencroft rarely let reporters past the front gates, petrified of what they might learn from those on the inside, worried that someone might get the chance to uncover their true nature; or worse, expose their unlawful ways of curing the prisoners.

You were the only reporter to ever be invited onto the property, even if it was under special circumstances.

“Truth be told, I was shocked to hear you called!” Director Samson confessed. His tone always rubbed you the wrong way, always coming off as far too exuberant for a man in charge of a psychiatric facility for criminals. “What’s it been, five months? Six, perhaps, since we last spoke?”

“Seven.” You noted, sporting a rather sardonic smile. He didn’t seem to notice your ill-intent.

“Well, either way, it had been far too long!” He chortled to himself, a chorus of keys clanking against his hip as he led you down another winding hallway.

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the immaculate white linoleum beneath your feet. The smell of bleach was incredibly pungent, burning your nostrils with every breath you took. You did your best not to breathe at all.

“You’ve been checking your email, yes?” Director Samson was a few long strides ahead of you, moving at a pace you couldn’t manage to keep up with. “When you stopped answering your cell, I decided to have my secretary begin forwarding you all of our notes from his treatment sessions. It’s pivotal that you’ve stayed up-to-date on his progress, especially if you finally plan on becoming an active role in his recovery!”

You braced yourself for the tainted oxygen that would fill your lungs as you lied, “Of course. Even gave them a quick review on the ride over.”

In the seven months that you had been dodging Samson’s calls, you had never once opened any of the emails from his secretary. You always saw them come through though, and you always found yourself staring at the subject line for just a moment too long.

Patient #121394 - Progress Report

It made you sick sometimes, the way he had been reduced to a number. Other times, you were thankful for it. It helped to create a divide in your head, allowing you to create some sort of separation between who he was and who he is. Harry Osborn was your friend. Patient #121394 stabbed you in the back.

Regardless, you could never actually make yourself read them. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to delete them, stashing one-hundred and eighty-four daily progress reports from Ravencroft into a separate folder, out of sight but kept on hand, just in case you ever needed them.

You weren’t sure why you ever would.

“Good, good!” He chirped loudly, both of you now approaching a large armored door. It didn’t match the rest of the hallway, the rusted surface polluting the otherwise pure white space.

Your attention was pulled away from it as Director Samson spun on his toe, index finger suddenly wagging in your face, your eyes growing wide as you tried to lean back a few inches. His nails were a touch overgrown, caked with a substance you didn’t recognize. Describing him as eccentric would be kind, although disconcerting fit him better.

“You must promise me something before you speak with him!” He sputtered out. You did your best not to flinch as his saliva spewed onto your face. “I understand you may have felt a need to…” his head bobbed side to side, squinting as he considered his wording, “distance yourself from Mr Osborn. That is why I did my best to respect your need for space the past several months-”

Ah yes–you thought to yourself, fighting the urge to laugh in his face–calling bi-weekly and sending daily emails is clearly a sign of respecting someone’s wish to be uninvolved.

“But!” He shouted out, his rotten nails now close enough that you could smell whatever laid beneath them. “If you cross this threshold,” his hand moved to the large door behind him, offering you a chance to swallow back the bile building in your throat, “you cannot abandon him again, Ms. y/l/n. Progress is a volatile thing, especially for the damaged souls that call Ravencroft home. I need to know that you’re prepared to devote yourself to Mr. Osborn’s treatment.”

Abandon him—the claim was enough to make your blood boil. You wanted to scream at him, remind him of what had happened that night, remind him that you were the one who had been abandoned. You wanted to turn around, to leave and never step foot in this cursed building ever again.

If you did that, then maybe you could keep lying to yourself. Harry Osborn could remain your former friend, one of the few crumbs you had left of the life you so desperately wanted back. He could be innocent, and Patient #121394 could be the murderer.

“Well Director Samson, I can assure you that I have absolutely no intentions to abandon him!” The mask you put on was sickly sweet, more than palatable enough to hide the animosity behind it.

His bug-eyed stare remained locked onto you, unnerving and wild. “You must promise.”

“Okay,” A sigh managed to slip out, quickly covered by your response, “I promise.”

He instantly relaxed at the vow, easily returning to the childish ebullience he’d displayed previously. You wondered how he would react if he had noticed the hand behind your back, if he knew your fingers were crossed as you spoke.

Abandonment was a much kinder fate than Harry Osborn deserved, so you were certain that if a higher power existed, they would forgive you for breaking your promise to Director Samson.

Metal jingled about as he removed the keys from his belt loop, somehow knowing exactly which one to grab from the couple dozen crowded the thick ring they hung on.

“Now, please, do your best to remember the rules!” He began unlocking the various deadbolts on the door. “All patients in the visitation area will be secured to his or her station, for your safety as well as theirs. Under no circumstances should you touch any of the patients. Should you notice a patient is acting out of sorts, please remain calm and notify the warden-”

You already knew the do’s and don’ts of visiting prisoners, having interviewed several of the inhabitants at Ryker’s Island for the Bugle, and so you found yourself droning him out entirely, watching as he moved from one lock to another, until he finally reached the last one.

“Most importantly, do not forget that this time is meant to inspire and encourage your loved ones to continue on their new path towards righteousness!” He displayed a toothy grin, cavity filled and displeasing. In return you offered a much less prominent smile. “And please, when you’re done with your chitter-chatter, come by my office. I would love to discuss next steps with you!”

You gave a curt nod, aware that you would not be doing that. Interacting with Samson was enough to drain even the most extroverted people, which was one of the many reasons you’d stopped returning his calls only two months into Harry’s sentence.

He viewed you as a valuable tool for curing Harry—mentally, at least. His actual disease was of little interest to Samson, his physical health naught in comparison to his damaged mind. Harry had no next of kin, which meant all of Samson’s hopes had been placed onto you. He believed in order to cure Harry’s mind, he needed the assistance of someone who was dear to him, someone to act as a tether to his sanity.

Director Samson also believed that the venom Harry injected into his veins was the cause for his self-proclaimed insanity. This told you all you needed to know about the Director; he was clueless.

You knew the truth. After all, you were the one that had fed his lawyers the story and loaded them up with all the evidence they’d need in order to paint a picture for the jury, illustrating Harry Osborn’s mental descent. It was you that had convinced them to make him swallow his pride and take the insanity plea—your final act of kindness towards Harry.

The clunky metal door groaned profusely as Director Samson pushed it open, heavy enough that it required him to use both hands and the majority of his body weight. Once it was open, he bowed in a particularly odd manner, motioning you into the room with a dramatic flair that made you nauseous. More than anything in the world, you couldn’t wait to never see him again.

The small space you walked into had distracted you from Samon’s bizarre attitude, immediately taking note of them in case you ever felt like breaching Samson’s trust and writing a story on Ravencroft.

First–it didn’t share the same suffocating scent as the hallway, the smell of chemical cleaners having completely vanished. You took advantage of this, letting your chest expand with several deep breaths. Your nostrils no longer burned, however this came with a price, this room much grimier than the rest of the facility. It didn’t shock you.

Second–there was nothing white in here, a stark contrast from the unsoiled appearance of the never ending hallway you took to get here. This room truly felt like a prison, despite Ravencroft’s insistence that they were far from that. Muted shades of chipped paint coated the walls, the floors nothing more than poured cement.

And, finally, third–no one, and you truly meant absolutely no one, appeared as if they were on the road to recovery.

To your left there was a red-headed girl chained to a metal bar fastened to the wall. A bit of drool dribbled down her chin, her eyelids drooping as if she had been drugged. On your right was a boy no older than nineteen, handcuffed to his chair and left with nothing to do except stare at the floor beneath his feet.

They looked miserable, and you almost felt bad for sticking Harry in a place like this.

Almost.

Behind you the door shut with a crash, the symphony of locks clicking back into place. Your heart rate spiked as you realized you were now trapped in here with them, taking a glance at the warden. He was a burly man, yet the only weapon he had on him was a baton, lazily stuffed into his waistband. It only added to your growing apprehension.

Anxiety, you reminded yourself through gritted teeth, is another thing reporters don’t have time for.

Each second brought you closer to Sytsevich’s impending death, which meant you didn’t have time to waste on fear. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier, still feeling as if you were frozen in place, wishing that they hadn’t made you leave your bag in the main office.

If Brant had managed to find a number for Peter then you could just skip this whole mess, go straight to the source and get hard proof that he was innocent… but it was too late to turn around now.

You were already here.

In the furthest corner of the room you saw a steel table, placed directly in front of the patient’s only source of natural light—an incredibly small window, armed with thick black bars. Your heart lurched as your gaze settled on the table's only occupant. Even with his back turned, you could still recognize him.

Lifting just one foot had been the hardest part, terror pricking your bones as the single step caused one of the patients to whip their head around towards you.

He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet with muscles that rivaled the Hulk. Fortunately, you didn’t hold his attention for long, hesitantly watching as he went back to staring at the old-style television set that had been stuffed in the corner. Static painted the screen, and every once in a while the large man would give a swift hit to its side, making the other patients flinch. The warden didn’t stop him.

Each step after that was rushed, an attempt to get out of his line of sight. He was restrained, as were all of them, but he still filled you with a sense of unease. When you finally reached the table and quickly slipped into one of the metal chairs, eyes still darting about prudently, you heard the patient sitting across from you laugh.

You had thought the terror seeping into your veins had been intolerable, but it was no match for the misplaced grief that fought to consume you at the sound of his voice. It simultaneously sent chills down your spine and relaxed every muscle in your body, a paradox of a reaction that only the living dead could possibly provide.

“Aw, what’s wrong?” He drawled, leaving you hanging onto every syllable. “My new friends scare you?”

A bit.

“Hardly.” You snapped back a bit faster than intended. Beneath the table you clenched your fists, fingernails prodding into the soft flesh of your palms.

Stay calm. Hide your weaknesses.

You were disappointed with yourself, your inability to mask your discomfort, especially here. A penitentiary wasn’t the best place to rollover, and you knew that the moment you fucked up and showed your underbelly you’d be as good as dead. You needed to be better. You needed to be incomprehensible.

“You look well.” You spoke again before he’d have the chance to beat you to it, determined to be the one holding the reins in this conversation. “I’m shocked.”

It truly wasn’t meant as a slight though the scoff you received in response made it clear that he’d taken it as one. It was God’s honest truth though; you hadn’t expected him to look as good as he did.

Last time you saw Harry Osborn was when the venom had already invaded his bloodstream, transforming him into something near unrecognizable. That was the Harry Osborn you had been expecting to see today. A nightmare, a killer, a monster.

Instead, you found yourself looking directly into the cerulean gaze of a boy you had mourned for nearly a year. There were subtle differences; the natural dark pigment of his hair still hadn’t returned, leaving it a dusty shade of brown, and the disease that fought relentlessly to claim his life had spread, a scaly patch of skin taking over his cheek bone.

But, for the most part, he looked like himself. He looked like Harry.

And that simple fact was almost enough to break you.

“Wow, less than a minute in and you’re already spitting out back-handed compliments.” Harry's mouth twitched into a smirk. “You sure know how to greet an old friend.”

Was he antagonizing you on purpose? Or was he simply delusional? Either way, you only offered him a tight smile, “We’re not friends.”

You had no way of knowing if your words actually had any effect on him. Having been raised in the limelight meant that Harry had years of practice in maintaining his composure, always working to maintain the Osborn image. You had never been good at reading Harry, and that’s how he liked it. Like most powerful men, he enjoyed keeping secrets.

“Aren’t we though?” He countered, a swift tug at the reins, an effort to regain some semblance of control.

Your jaw clenched. “Not anymore.”

Harry leaned forward a touch, those menacing eyes glistening as his palms remained flat against the cold steel, secured there by thick cuffs. “You think I don’t know what you did? That I don’t know who fed my lawyers all that bullshit about childhood abuse and disease warping my mind?”

That bullshit had saved his life. Forced the jury to see him as more than another twisted villain, coerced them into feeling some sort of sympathy for Harry. By no means was Ravencroft comparable the the fucking Four Seasons, but it was far better than the alternative. Without the insanity plea, Harry was on a quick path to Ryker’s Island—a place you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.

“You’re right. I gave them everything they needed to build your case.” There was no use in denying it. The recounts of the trauma his father had inflicted on him were too detailed, too intimate, and Harry knew only three people in this world had access to that information. Himself, you, and Norman; and the latter was already dead. “But not because we’re friends.”

He cocked a brow at you, once again leaning back into the uncomfortable metal chair. “Then why bother?”

“Because I’m not like you.”

And you wholeheartedly believed that. Caring about him had nothing to do with your choice to try and spare his life, your decision to aid Gwen’s murderer.

“A rich boy like you wouldn’t last a single day in Ryker’s. Those guys would’ve eaten you alive.” You asserted, the only physical sign of the anger coursing through you being your flared pupils. You were in control. “I had an opportunity to save your life, so I took it. Not because of friendship,” the word tasted acidic, burning as it rolled off your tongue, “but because I’m a good person—better than you ever were.”

It wasn’t until you were done talking that you realized how desperate you had been for the declaration to cut him. You only recognized it afterwards, irritation flooding you as he remained perfectly still, seeming entirely unphased.

Then after a moment of nothing, he sighed. Not out of annoyance, not out of sadness. Instead, it seemed to be out of pure boredom, which only made your irritation towards him grow.

“Guess that means you’re not here to help with my treatment, huh?” He said it like a joke, as if he too thought he was incapable of redemption and found this whole thing to be a waste of time. “Samson’s gonna be so disappointed when he finds out.”

“You’re right, I’m not here to help you.” you confirmed, sucking in a deep breath and biting back at your pride, “But you’re gonna help me.”

His brows snapped up—a reaction, subtle, but there nonetheless. “And why would I do that? I mean, you already made it clear that we’re not friends. So why should I do anything for you?”

“I’ll keep coming here. Participating in whatever stupid shit Samson has planned, keep acting like I wanna help you get better.” You sneered, eyes rolling. People like Harry Osborn were incapable of better. “There’s gotta be something for you to gain in all of that, right? Some sort of reward for making progress. If you’re lucky then maybe they’ll give you more playtime with your little buddies or something.”

Your gaze flicked over his shoulder, once again landing on the enormous man that had noticed you earlier. He was still beating against the side of the television, the thumping of his palm against thick plastic echoing through the room. No one seemed to mind the noise.

“Besides,” you continued while shifting your focus back to Harry, “you owe me.”

He did owe you—him and Peter both—but pulling that card made you sound desperate, like you had truly run out of options and were now using everything left in your arsenal to sway him.

But that was the point.

It was a calculated move, entirely deliberate, right down to the doe-eyed glance you shamelessly flashed at him, feigning a moment of vulnerability. You hadn’t rolled over, hadn’t exposed your weak points, but you wanted him to believe you did.

There were certain benefits that came with knowing Harry—who he used to be. You knew about his insatiable desire to be needed by someone, to feel wanted. There had been a time in which you wouldn’t have dared to exploit the trauma that desire stemmed from, but things were different now.

Even when armed with his stoic mask, you could tell that you had hit your mark perfectly. He remained silent, considering your words. A rational part of him was likely screaming to tell you no, to send you out of Ravencroft without so much as a second glance. Odds were that he knew this was an attempt to manipulate him, to play at the side of his that ached to be essential to another.

But Harry Osborn wasn’t known for making rational decisions. He was rarely driven to act by his near-genius level IQ, instead always finding himself a victim to the gnawing pain in his chest; and you were banking on that.

Then, it happened.

For a moment—mere seconds, at most—the mask slipped. A single muscle twitched in his jaw, his nose wrinkling the slightest touch. The shift in his demeanor was so subtle, yet so apparent to you. Having once been so close to him, you’d all but trained yourself to detect the moments in which his arrogance would melt into something far more innocent. You used to crave those moments; live for them, even. It felt like an honor to witness the side of Harry in which he fought to keep locked away, a side he tried to ignore.

Now, though, you felt almost nothing.

Harry finally let out a gruff sound, his tongue darting along his chapped bottom lip. “You’re here about Peter, aren’t you?”

You were careful not to outwardly react. “You’ve seen the news?”

“Of course.” He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “Not everyday the city hails Spider-Man a murderer.”

He said the vigilante’s name like a curse, as if it were the dirtiest word he’s ever spoken. It was laced with a bone-chilling sense of contempt, one that only deepened your resentment towards Harry. You didn’t like it—the way he spoke as if he had a right to hate Peter. After everything Harry had done, after everything he’d taken—your nails dug deeper into your palms as you fought to keep your eyes peeled. terrified that if you so much as blinked you’d catch a glimpse of Harry’s sins. That you’d catch a glimpse of her.

“Are you gonna help or not?” You struggled to stay composed, his brows raised in amusement at the snipped statement.

An unfortunate oversight in your plan had been in failing to acknowledge that Harry knew you just as well as you’d known him. It didn’t matter if you rolled over, because you were already exposed. He knew that Peter was a soft spot for you, that he had always been a soft spot, and all he had to do in order to push you over the edge was jab a little harder at that unhealed wound.

Surprisingly, he chose to leave it alone.

“You’ll come four times a week. Minimum.”

You fought the urge to grin at his demands, aware that it meant the rational side of him had lost.

“Twice a week.” You countered.

“Make it three.” He almost sounded pitiful, coming off more like he was begging than demanding. It caught you off guard to hear him sound so desperate, and for a moment you wondered if he had turned the tables; if he was now manipulating you, playing on your emotions and trying to make you feel bad for the loneliness Ravencroft had inflicted upon him.

But there was something about the look in his eyes, how transparent they suddenly seemed, that made you feel like this hadn’t been done with nefarious intent. His desperation was genuine, and you weren’t sure how to feel about that.

“Fine.” You agreed, aware that you didn’t have time to negotiate with him all day. You had a story to write, and in order to create a solid defense for Spider-Man—for Peter, you’d need help. You’d need a culprit, someone that had a motive to kill Sytsevich. “Deal?”

Harry grinned, that same arrogant and flashy sort of grin you’d seen him give heiresses and models. You always wanted to be on the receiving end of that smile, to be the one he was trying to win over, but now it only made your stomach sink. “How can I be of service?”

“Do you know anyone who might want Sytsevich dead?” You decided to be blunt with the question, keeping your voice low.

“Uh, yeah. Try the entire Soviet Union. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like he made a real fucking mess of things when he left Russia.” Harry noted.

“O-kay,” you drawled, “what about locally? People talk in prison, yeah? If somebody was planning something you would’ve heard about it.”

His nose scrunched up. “What do you think happens in prison? That we all just get together like it’s a slumber party and swap hit lists?”

You didn’t bother responding, not verbally, at least. Instead, you opted for shooting him a sharp glare. It didn’t phase him.

“Look,” he glanced towards the warden, scooting forwards a touch once he noticed the negligent guard had become distracted by his phone, “a guy like Sytsevich doesn’t go down without a good fight, alright? I saw the blueprints for that armor he wears, right before the board locked me out of Oscorp’s systems. I know what it’s capable of. Most people wouldn’t even have a chance to get a hit in, let alone send him to the hospital.”

“Perfect,” you snapped, his eyes widening slightly, “if you know what his armor is capable of then you should know who would be strong enough to take him on.”

Harry scoffed at the simplicity of your deduction, “Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea, actually.”

You gritted your teeth, aware of where he was heading. “It wasn’t Peter.”

“How’re you so sure?” He asked you, a thin crease settling between his brows as he glowered at you. “I know you like to fixate on my fuck-ups in favor of avoiding his but you were there that night, y/n!”

The banging sound of the prisoner’s palm colliding against the side of the thick television kept the guard from hearing Harry’s raised voice.

“He wouldn’t kill Sytsevich.” You held firm in your beliefs, even as your gaze faltered and fell away from Harry’s, settling on the surface of the table.

Bang.

“He almost killed me!” His voice was consumed with bitterness, with pain.

“And you killed her.”

Was that truly a good defense? Had Harry’s sins somehow absolved Peter’s? A life for a life—the logic behind the sentiment was skewed and you didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to venture into the memories you’d fought so hard to block out. Your stomach suddenly became taut, unwilling to face the question you didn’t want answered.

“You know what he’s capable of.” He pressed further, still leaned in close, as if trying to close the gap between you both, the shackles securing him to the table preventing him from doing just that. “Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/n. Don’t be dense-”

Bang.

“Peter isn’t a murderer, Har!” You hissed through your teeth—too overstimulated to notice the pet name slip from your mouth and too livid to care.

He went to argue the statement when another bang sounded out against the side of the television, this one finally powerful enough to knock some life back into the formerly deceased device. Your eyes darted in it’s direction, Harry’s neck snapping around to do the same as you both listened to the hum of the static clear, a female voice breaking through.

“-just moments ago we received word from the NYPD that former Russian mafia member Aleksei “the Rhino” Sytsevich passed away less than an hour ago. Sources from North General hospital confirmed that Sytsevich’s condition began to rapidly worsen, until he eventually gave in to the fatal wounds sustained in last night's mysterious assault.”

The tautness in your stomach grew stronger, a wave of nausea settling over you as the organ began to tie itself in knots.

“Chief Davis with the NYPD will be holding a press conference this afternoon, however officials have already confirmed that there is now an active warrant out calling for Spider-Man’s arrest. Individuals with any information on New York’s fallen hero are being asked to call the number displayed on the bottom of the screen, and police advise citizens to avoid their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man at all costs-”

Harry twisted back around to face you, cautious and uncertain as he met your stare. He almost appeared concerned—not about the news, not about Peter, but about you. The corner of his mouth twitched downward, forced to watch as your face blanched, mind reeling.

It’s not too late. There’s still a chance. He can still be proven innocent. A warrant doesn’t mean jackshit.

The metal legs of your chair screeched against the ground as you pushed yourself back from the table, “I need to go.”

Harry’s wrists pulled against the shackles that held him in place, instinctively reaching towards you, as if he’d nearly forgotten they were even there. “Wait!”

Against your better judgment, you listened to him, though you weren’t entirely sure why. You needed to go. You need to contact the Bugle, needed to see if Brant had found a number for Peter. As much as you hated to admit it, Ravencroft had wound up being a deadend, and you needed to keep moving—but you just didn’t. You stayed, staring back at a boy you once knew, waiting for him.

You always waited for them—Harry and Peter both.

“You’re not-...” he hesitated, blinking and shaking his head as he debated whether or not he should even continue, if it would even make a difference. “You’re not going to see him, are you?”

“Of course I am!” You ignored the groan that escaped his parted lips. “You’ve been fucking useless, so Peter is all I’ve got left. He didn’t kill Sytsevich, alright? But he was at the scene. He’s gotta have some idea as to who did this.”

It was obvious that the offhand insult had stung, evident by the way he winced as you launched it at him. You nearly found yourself apologizing for it, but decided against it as you watched him quickly stiffen back up, always refusing to wear his pain so blatantly. Norman had trained him well, drilling into his head that weakness wasn’t a part of the Osborn way.

“Don’t get involved.”

Your stare narrowed. What he offered hadn’t been a recommendation, rather a demand. “They’ll hunt him down, Harry! If the police convince the entire city that Spider-Man’s a murderer? The city will turn into a fucking disaster. I’m not gonna let him go through that alone.”

“You could get yourself killed!” Harry barked back, clearly indifferent to whether or not Peter suffered alone. You found yourself laughing in response, finding humor in his attempt to show concern for your life.

“It’s Peter.” You stated plainly, devoid of any emotion as you rose to your feet. Harry’s head tilted upwards, following you with his eyes. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”

“Remind me again who saved you that night.” His jaw clenched, his tone turning callous as he decided to prod at the old wounds. “Cause it sure as hell wasn’t Spider-Man.”

Your fists balled up tighter, blood beginning to seep from your palms and pooling beneath your nails. You zoned in on the stinging sensation, digging deeper into your flesh, using the pain as a tether to keep you from slipping too deep into your own subconscious. You didn’t have time to think about that night. You didn’t have fucking time.

So you bottled up the thousands of thoughts running rampant in your head, biting your tongue instead of allowing yourself to spit anymore insults at him. He’s not worth it–you tried to tell yourself, starting towards the warden–it won’t change anything.

“y/n!” He growled as you moved past him, electing to ignore him entirely. He thrust his arms against the shackles again, rattling the thick metal and grunting as they tightened around his wrists. You were just a little over a foot away when he spoke again, “Don’t fucking tell him you know!”

You paused, suddenly feeling as if your feet had been cemented to the floor. You cursed yourself as you responded, refusing to look back at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Have you talked to him since that night?” He asked.

“No.” You chewed on your bottom lip, ignoring the abrupt pang in your chest. “I haven’t.”

“Okay. Great. Then he doesn’t know for sure what you saw that night. That you saw him without the mask, that you know he’s Spider-Man.” He was talking uncharacteristically fast, as if he was worried you’d leave before he’d get the words out quick enough. “So don’t tell him.”

You frowned, shifting to the side, now looking at him through your peripheral. “Why?”

“Because.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, fending off the growing headache that this situation had brought on. “As far as he knows, I’m his only loose end. The only one that knows who he really is.”

Your chest tightened as you realized what was happening. Since walking into Ravencroft, you’d concerned yourself so heavily with keeping your guard up, with guarding your weakest points—only for Harry to be the one to rollover. He was exposing his hand, and you found it unsettling, especially when you realized that there was no selfish intent behind his words.

Harry had nothing to lose in this situation.

Except for you—his friend.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s not a murderer. But if he did kill Sytsevich? Anyone who knows about Spider-Man’s secret identity is gonna have a huge fucking target on their back.” His eyes remained closed, drawing in a shaky breath before he continued, “So please,” his voice shook, desperation lacing each syllable, “just–don’t tell him, okay?”

Goosebumps arose on your forearms, unable to hide from the fear that radiated off of him. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find an ulterior motive for the statement. There was no clear sign of manipulation, no indication that he wanted to do anything other than protect you; and that made you feel sick.

You had long since buried Harry Osborn, having told yourself countless times that two of your friends died that night. For two-hundred-and-seven days you had mourned both of them.

With every fiber of your being you had believed that the arrogant boy that had weaseled his way into your life was gone, having been replaced with a malevolent monster.

But now you could feel him.

It no longer felt as if you had just been staring at his corpse, but rather as if someone had actually breathed life back into him, offering you a glimpse of what still remained.

It caused the tiniest spark of hope to ignite within you, a spark that you would do your damndest to extinguish.

Harry Osborn was better off dead.

“Our deal’s off.” You asserted, cold and uncaring. His eyes shot open again, a desolate expression washing over him. He didn’t try to conceal it, didn’t bother to adjust the mask he always wore. “You gave me absolutely nothing, so I’m not obligated to hold up my end.”

Harry’s lips parted as if he were going to protest, as if he were going to do something—but nothing came out, and you hadn’t expected him to find the words, anyways. Try as you might, the three of you had never been capable of such candor; never willing to shine a light on the darkest corners of your minds, too scared of the risks that came with exposing what laid beneath the surface.

You couldn’t help but think there was something poetic about it; the melancholy cord that bound you to Harry and Peter. How you were all fated to don matching wounds, but always be too afraid to admit to one another that you were bleeding.

Sometimes you wanted to show them the stains on your hands, the red that you could never scrub off. You wondered if it would have made a difference, if maybe then the three of you could have bore the weight of it all together, rather than crumbling beneath the pressure.

But none of that mattered anymore.

None of you were the same anymore.

And so you gritted your teeth and held your head high, letting the blood continue to collect under your nails, hiding it from his view. You took a heavy breath, your chest heaving beneath all of the pain you chose to carry.

“Coming here was a mistake.”

It was the only thing left to say, the only other admission you’d let slip past your lips. It hung in the air between the two of you, resonating with each of you in an entirely different manner, knowing that you’d never share your own interpretation with the other.

Harry didn’t respond, choosing to drown in his silence, having grown used to watching people walk away from him. And you forced yourself to leave, choking on the remnants of your own grief; having grown used to abandoning what you once loved.

a/n - ah, so it's definitely not june BUT i did post it finally! i've put a lot of time and effort into this fic cause i do just genuinely love the idea of it and it brings me a lot of joy lol. with that being said, it takes a ton of effort for me to write it because i'm putting in a lot of little details, so updates on this won't be the quickest, especially while i'm taking summer classes!! but i'll be doing my best! please feel free to leave comments, opinions, etc. and look forward to getting loads of peter content in the next part! also feel free to check out THIS if you want to see an edit of the newspaper headline!

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