#but it's not like he knows he has the answer either so when she's still huffy and in her head he doesn't push back
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Back on satosugu time with you and Gojo making a bet on who can ride Geto better. Taking turns bouncing on the male’s girthy length till you’re both all shaky and whiny. Still finding it in your dumbed down brains and babbled cries to snarl at each other on how either of you was better.
You’ve both made him cum so much. Making yourselves cum even more in the process. The dark haired man’s lap all messy from your sopping holes. Geto’s sticky cum dripping from both you and Gojo, lewdly seeping onto the freshly changed sheets underneath.
Your legs are all wobbly when you crawl back onto your boyfriend’s lap. Clawing at his shoulders with a loud mewl when you sink down onto his fat cock. Your back arching as you began to ride him with a loud moan- movements sloppy from how sensitive you’d made yourself.
In all this Geto is only smirking, letting out deep grunts and groans with his hands rested behind his head. His chest heaving in heavy breaths as he let you two do your thing. Even when he wanted to touch you both so bad. Your sweet moans of his name being enough to drive him over the edge every. single. time. He loves when his babies get so competitive.
It’s not long till you’re both at his sides, having tired yourselves out as you look up at him expectantly for an answer. A dark glint in his eyes when he hums, “You know.. her pussy is very, very snug Toru. And she grinds her hips like—”
“It’s not that good.” Gojo cut him off, your head snapping to face him with a raised brow at the bold statement.
“I seem to recall to having you in tears one more than one occasion.” You bite back, Gojo’s snarky response being muffled by Geto’s lips passionately on his.
He has you both exactly where he wants you.
“How about we change the game yeah? Let’s see how long it takes f’her to make you cry.” Geto runs his tongue along his bottom lip as his cock twitches at the idea. Turning to you to cup your chin in his large hand. “And you. Show him just how good that pussy is hmm?” Placing a sweet kiss to your soft lips, “And don’t hold back.”
#jujutsu kaisen smut#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#gojo smut#gojo x reader#gojo x reader smut#jjk x reader smut#gojo satoru#gojo satoru smut#geto x reader smut#geto suguru x reader smut#gojo x reader x geto#geto suguru smut#geto suguru x reader#geto smut#geto x reader#geto suguru#satosugu x reader
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Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 15
Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader
a/n: I became suddenly ill about three days ago and my brain is still quite mushy so I think this has been proofread but there might be some errors here and there I’ll try to iron out once I’m better!! Sorry for any scruples and I hope you enjoy!! 🧡💛
warnings: angst, general depression, violence (self-attempted)
word count: 16,175
——————————————————————————————————————————————
Azriel catches her eye from across the room, weary hazel locking with bright amber that swirls in the faelight of the living room.
His tension is more palpable than usual, the conversation from yesterday with the golden-eyed male only further contributing to the death knell gonging quietly at the back of his mind, creaking through his knees, echoing in each footstep—each breath he takes. Time seems to be dripping by faster, even more so than usual. In the cobwebbed chambers of his mind he’s able to recall a time where days were his chosen measurement, where a twenty-four hour period contained beginning, middle, and end. But as he’d grown older, those chunks had grown with him, his perception of time shifting the more of it he lived through. Soon enough weeks were his days, calculating how much could be done over the period, sleep a small break to be indulged in between work. Then it had shifted to months—twelve to fit everything into, nights morphing into short naps.
Now years feel like days once had, time no longer a steady drip of water from the roof of a dark cell ceiling where he’d been kept locked away from the light, but a steady trickle as it carves its way through stone.
Shadows conceal his absence from the laughter-filled room, removing himself from the uncomfortably bright corner to a place of familiarity, shifting into the darker hallways as he sighs, feet positioned instinctively equidistant, weight spread evenly, fearing one lapse in discipline might bring him back to those days where he knew nothing of fighting, nothing of how to defend himself. To those days where he had to learn relentlessly, practice until his body couldn’t move in desperate attempts to cover the ground he’d lost years to.
Mor enters into the darkness, coming from the yellow-orange light that’s spilling into the blue-purple hallway, heels effortlessly silent upon the floorboards as her nocturnal eyes seek him out. Her features are already serious, easily picking up on his mood despite his efforts to conceal it. The depths of it, at least.
“Az?” Mor asks quietly, expression curious but solemn.
“She’s gone,” he murmurs shortly. Mor’s eyes flash with alarm at the revelation, before her brows tuck together. “What do you mean she’s gone? Where?”
“I don’t know,” he admits grimly. “I paid a visit to one of her friends afternoon yesterday, but he refused to answer anything.”
“What do you mean, she’s gone, Az?” Mor hisses, disbelief sharpening her muffled tone. Azriel grinds his jaw, but relents—this is more important. “I mean, she isn’t at the House of Wind. She left a note saying she would be at Bas’, and would be back but she wasn’t. When I went to get her, she wasn’t there either,” he summarises, expression sombre.
“What else?” Mor asks sternly, the brightness about her having faded faster than a flame extinguished. Azriel licks his lips, bracing himself, before explaining: she has magic but it’s been giving her trouble, she’d wanted to try using it without anyone else knowing and he’d let her, Elain’s vision prophesying his death at her hand.
To Mor’s credit, her features don’t drain entirely of colour, and it takes her no more than a few seconds of heavy silence for her to muster up a response. “What magic?” Mor asks first, keeping her tone quiet but clipped, judgement clear enough she doesn’t need to voice it. And Azriel won’t address it, either. “Her hands could glow a little around the fingertips. We didn’t know what it did, though.”
“And the trouble?”
“It dried her skin out, among other things.” Mor’s lips part, eyes closing briefly as she sighs. “The gloves.” Azriel doesn’t need to provide confirmation for her to have connected the dots.
But then her eyes open, slowly sliding to his, an edge of viciousness underlying their amber cut, one he withstands reluctantly. Mor swallows, jaw tense, watching him. “How long have you known about this?” She asks, lethally softly. Not how long has she had magic, how long has he known. And not told them. “About a fortnight.”
Mor’s eyes gleam with hostility, and his features become stony, walls raising up as she watches him silently. Judgement falling heavy on his shoulders. “Why tell me now?” She asks shortly. She isn’t chewing him out, nor is she outwardly rancorous. Not good a good sign. “Bas won’t tell me where she is,” he replies neutrally, Mor’s eyes flaring as she puts it together. “You want me to ask him.” Azriel nods, despite her already knowing.
She glances at him reproachfully, another look he withstands passively, and then she’s turning sharply on her heel, making back toward the light, back toward the laughter. Silent as a shadow, Azriel catches her upper arm, having to exert surprising force to keep her still. “Where are you going?” He asks coldly.
“Where do you think?” She counters sharply.
“They have enough on their plates,” Azriel mutters. As if on queue, Nyx’s laugher giggles through the halls, a stark contrast to the gloom lurking just beyond the light’s end. Mor snatches her arm away. “You have enough on your plate,” she says lowly, eyes glinting as they cut through him, “we could have made room. You should have told us.” But Azriel stands his ground, not giving an inch. “It was the right call.”
“You have no idea where she is,” Mor counters. “No idea where she is, or what state she might be in. What makes you think that was the right call?”
“You’re questioning my judgement?”
“Yes, I’m fucking questioning your judgement,” she hisses back lowly.
“She told me she didn’t want any of you to know,” he counters coldly, “she’s reclusive anyway, suddenly outing her wouldn’t have done anything helpful.”
The wording seems to strike something in Mor, ire banking, eyes shuttering briefly, before she’s gritting her jaw again. “You should have told us.”
“She barely managed to tell me,” Azriel states, “Elain didn’t even know until the vision that her sister had magic.”
“You know you should have told us.”
“And betrayed her trust when she chose to tell me?” Azriel asks cooly. “You didn’t see how scared she was.”
“Maybe she wasn’t scared of us finding out but of speaking with you.”
Azriel blinks, the only sign of his falter he’ll allow, caught off guard by the accusation. She’s never shown any fear of him before… “She has no reason to be scared of me.” He says finally.
A look of frustration flits through Mor’s amber eyes. “She’s young. This is probably the first time she’s experiencing strong feelings toward someone else,” she says lowly, “surely you can remember what that’s like.” Azriel bristles at the pointed look, the insulting comparison between his past love for Mor and the affection being unwelcomely pushed his way. “She’s infatuated. It happens,” he replies tersely, not taking kindly to the manipulation. “And she went through the war too—she isn’t that unaware. You’re doing her a disservice.”
“The disservice here is you not affording her the care she needs—to the point she’s chosen to run away,” Mor practically spits.
Terse silence stretches between them, sour and resentful.
“We aren’t going to come to an agreement,” Azriel says at last, tone clipped, but both of them know it’s better to move on for now. They can fight it out later, once things are resolved and taken care of. “You speak to Bas first, then we can find out who she’s gone to. She could be anywhere in the Night Court, knowing him.”
“We tell Rhys and Feyre first,” Mor demands lowly. But Azriel shakes his head, “if you want to be the one to tell Feyre her sister is missing and we don’t know where she is, be my guest.”
Silence stretches further, growing tauter by the second, until Mor sighs sharply. “Fine,” she grits out. “Bas first.”
Azriel nods, making to turn around, heading for the door.
“But you are telling Feyre,” Mor hisses lowly. “Whether we find out or not. Tonight.”
Azriel pauses, jaw tightening. But gives a sharp nod.
————
Once again he slinks back to the male’s house, the bright sun lost to winter’s oncoming grip, dark clouds shielding the stars from view.
Despite the silence between them, he can feel Mor’s judgement pressing into him, but he has no time to argue or persuade. After the…discussion, with the male the other day, he’d needed time to plan, regroup his thoughts. Time. Seemingly so sparse, as of late. He could afford little more than twenty-four hours of inaction before a decision would have to be made—he hadn’t come this far by sitting around aimlessly when faced with a hard choice. It seemed the only reasonably way forward would be to acquiesce to the male’s demand, as much as Azriel despised so. It was the smarter option.
The other would have been to lay hands on him, and no matter how urgent the matter was, the male was still a civilian, and untrained for war, at that. Violence was entirely out of the question.
He knocks thrice on the door, sharp and punctuated hits to alert the male of company, before stepping back to allow space for Mor.
Gleaming golden eyes pierce out into the darkness, and Azriel knows he doesn’t miss the hint of smugness in their gilded depths as he marks the presence of another, as he’d requested. To verify his claim that there were indeed urgent matters afoot. Azriel refuses to show even a hint of irritation, keeping his face cold and passive—Bas won’t get the satisfaction of seeing him riled. He’d have to work much harder for that.
“You’re back late,” Bas drawls from the warm glow of his house, once again leaning cockily against the broad wooden frame, ankles crossed, one foot keeping the door held to—away from prying eyes. “And you’ve brought company,” he muses, glancing to Mor at his side. The female steps forward, the yellowy-orange light from inside making her glow as she offers a tight smile. “Bas, correct?” Golden eyes sweep over her analytically, before he nods, shifting slightly. “Mor,” he acknowledges, “she mentioned you, too.” No signs of surprise mar her open expression, kept sealed beneath that deceptive mask she can wear to charm at any time.
“That’s why we came to see you, actually,” Mor begins calmly, straightforward. “I’m of the understanding you know her whereabouts, but are unwilling to disclose them for various reasons.”
“That’s right,” he replies slowly, expression shifting to something more wary. His provocative nature shying away from perceived earnestness. “She doesn’t want any visitors.”
Mor nods her head gently, understanding shimmering faintly in amber eyes, threads of her hair catching the golden glow of inner light, glinting with the motion. “I can understand that, but this is very important,” she says sincerely, worry shining in her face Azriel know she doesn’t have to fake. Still the male remains cautious in the doorway. “Azriel wasn’t lying when he told you this conflicts with Court matters,” Mor begins slowly, and the shadowsinger tamps down on the urge to glance at her warily. Though he knows she won’t reveal anything, there’s no need to offer scraps. “I’m afraid there’s little I can honestly tell you due to their private nature, but nonetheless I would like to speak with you about her. She is a part of our family, and we are deeply concerned about her. I’m sure you can understand our worry.”
Quiet pauses long enough to take a deep breath, before resuming to its consistent noise.
Eventually, Bas nods his head, standing straighter. A grain of tension is released from his shoulders as the male opens his door, yielding to a conversation. He makes to step forward, but sharp golden eyes flick to him, piercing and accusing in their nature. “I’ll speak with Mor, and Mor alone,” he states clearly, an edge of provocation creeping back into his features, though the Shadowsinger doubts its sincerity.
But Mor nods her head, “that’s fine,” she answers, brushing past his side, pulling the cold night air with her, a whisper of icy breath grazing his side as she moves forward, leaving him out in the dark. “Don’t move from here until we’re done,” Mor instructs from over her shoulder once Bas has disappeared from the entrance hall. Azriel nods, understanding the implication.
Listen in from outside.
————
The room she follows Bas into is cozy, well-kept. Clearly lived in.
The pillows of the sofas are slightly worn, slightly faded in colour, waned down to more earthy tones that compliment the pale terracotta of the walls. Fire crackles from the hearth, dried rosemary hung from the ceiling beams, as well as other dried herbs and plants. On the wall are some paintings, mostly stills, but they’re watery around their edges, faded colour bleeding over fine, distinct ink lines.
Bas takes a seat that seems to fit him comfortably, likely one he usually chooses, while Mor opts for one nearby, a quilt thrown over its back, squares of purple, blue, turquoise, and magenta knitted together, and she can make out small patches in the yarn where its been run thin and had to be darned with slightly mismatched thread.
“So,” Bas starts, quieter than she had expected, sitting forward in her chair, attentive. “You’re worried about her. Why?” It’s hard to conceal her frown at such a strange question, but she doesn’t really try to. She doubts she’ll get anywhere through masking her reactions. “She’s part of our family,” Mor replies, “why wouldn’t we be worried about her.” Bas settles deeper into his chair, hands braced on arms, head tilted back into the pillow as he watches her intently. It’s not an expression she’s unfamiliar with, but not one she had expected to encounter here—something wary and deeply protective.
“She doesn’t speak much about any of you,” he hedges slowly, keeping his posture relaxed. “But it’s enough. You aren’t as close knitted as family.” Mor opens her mouth to speak, but he continues. “Even if you try to be,” he says, nodding, “she isn’t easy to get to.” Mor closes her mouth, lips pursing in a tight line. He sighs, shifting in his seat, pushing a thick loc of hair from his face, hooking it over a thoroughly pierced ear. “I believe that you’re concerned about her, and that you truly want to help,” he says heavily, attitude shifted from how he’d been outside, and Mor wonders what Bas might have been told about the Shadowsinger to warrant such ice.
“We do,” she urges sincerely, and Bas nods again, hearing her.
“What I…worry about,” he starts hesitantly, forming the words carefully, considering each one. “I worry you don’t understand her enough to make an informed call,” he settles on, and Mor bristles a little. How long has Bas known her for? Does he know her more than Mor does? “What leads you to that way of thinking?” She asks, keeping the stiffness from her tone.
“I know you don’t see her much,” he replies simply, and again Mor’s lips purse. “She doesn’t enjoy…full, settings. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, though.” He sighs, eyes briefly closing, before reopening with a fresh intensity, sitting upright in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs. “Do you know how we met? Me and her?”
Mor’s brow dips, but she answers anyway, curious where he’s going with this. “Through Nesta, right?” Bas nods, something passing through his eyes at the right answer. “Right,” he confirms, “making time to visit those stuffy inns, filled with groping hands—she hates places like that.” Bas sighs again, hand rubbing one side of his face. “I don’t even know if it helped at all, but I know she felt it was all she could do. Even if it was just company, and nothing material. Even if it might not’ve had an overall impact, that was her way of trying to help.”
Mor remains quiet, not seeing what he’s trying to say.
Bas shakes his head, as if telling her to forget about it, again rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, I don’t even know if I can speak on her behalf, and I like to think we’re fairly close with one another,” he admits, sighing heavily. “I don’t want to mislead you.”
“So you’ll let me where she’s gone?” Mor asks, concern heavy in her voice, making no effort to conceal her worry. She watches as the pads of his fingers rub over his eyes wearily, as she wonders if this is straining on him more than he’s letting on. “Try to understand her, when she talks,” he requests quietly, eyes still shut, fingers rubbing faintly. “She still confuses me sometimes, and she never shows if it bothers her, but I can’t imagine someone being okay with being misunderstood.”
“Bas,” Mor urges gently, sensing he’s on the verge of telling her whereabouts. “Please tell us where she’s gone. We don’t want her to feel alone.”
Bas doesn’t look up, face still covered by his hands, but Mor can make out the tightness of his brows, torn between his decisions. So close to cracking open.
“I don’t know,” he whispers.
Mor blinks, eyes locking with gold as he looks at her through his fingers, fatigue obvious beneath his gaze, the lines more pronounced as the flame casts the shadows of his digits across his features, deepening the half circles that have appeared.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mor asks, biting down on shock, clearing it entirely from her voice. “She didn’t tell me,” he answers quietly.
Silence stretches, and even in the haze and confusion that’s been stirred up she has enough clarity to feel the piercing weight of a glare through a window, heavy and accusing. Tension crackles in her spine, flipping her golden hair over a shoulder, a subtle message to piss off to the shadows that are watching from outside.
She sighs heavily, meeting the golden eyes of the male opposite her, now sat back in his chair as he was before, but his back is slumped, as if containing all that worry had been stretching him taut. Relieved to no longer be the sole barer of her secrets. “Do you—…” Mor eases in a sharp breath, settling the worry and gradually increasing panic that’s tightening around her throat. She swallows, pulling herself together. Recomposing herself. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” She asks calmly. “Anything could help.”
But Bas shakes his head, guilt clear in his golden eyes. “She didn’t give me any hints. But she had a bag with her, so I’m guessing she had somewhere in mind and didn’t just aimlessly wander off.”
Mor nods, getting to her feet, golden eyes tracking her movements. “Thank you for telling me,” she says sincerely, before turning for the door.
“I know that leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone where you’re going seems rash—maybe even a bit stupid,” Bas says after her, voice a little clearer to catch her attention. “But she’s smart. I’d wager it was probably something she’d had in the back of her mind for a while.”
Mor swallows thickly, the possibility not sitting well with her, but nods nonetheless.
“I’ll let you know when we find her.”
————
Azriel waits sullenly in the front garden for Mor to exit the male’s house, darkening the doorstep he’d been instructed to remain in until she was done.
He watches the door open and close, Mor stepping out into the night air, latch clicking softly as it locks behind her, and the two make their way silently at first down the garden path, back into the street before they begin communicating. “That certainly didn’t take long,” he muses lowly, glancing at her sidelong. “I take it you heard everything?” She asks quietly, tension clear in the cold bite of her usually honeyed voice. Azriel gives a brisk nod, and Mor sighs. “What now?”
“There are only so many places she could have gone to,” Azriel replies smoothly, mind already running through the possibilities. Honestly, Bas not knowing almost helps more—it has to be someone she knows. There are only two places she could have possibly run off to, though neither of them seem particularly believable. That being thought, he knows where he’ll check first.
“You have an idea?” Mor asks tightly, a bit of a bite to her question. Azriel nods grimly, “Elain mentioned a fox in her vision,” he explains, “apparently they grow close—enough to make a bargain of some sort, anyway.”
“Elain saw the bargain in her vision?” Mor questions. Azriel nods. “We don’t know if that’s symbolism or not,” she mutters, “we have no idea how accurate they are, either. Nor how soon they’ll come to pass.” Her tone softens toward the end a little, but Azriel isn’t willing to speak about that part of the prophecy yet. That he will be dying. Probably soon, going off how vivid Elain’s descriptions were—as if it were urgent. Impending.
“And you’re sure Elain doesn’t know where she’s gone?” Mor asks, keeping her gaze ahead, brows pulled together in concentration, a glint in her warrior’s eyes. “She might do,” Azriel sighs, “they are close, after all. And the fox…”
“Could be Lucien,” Mor finishes heavily. “You think she’s run to the mortal lands. Back to her home.” Azriel remains silent, keeping pace as they return silently to the River House.
Piercing amber eyes dig into the side of his skull, the intensity of her attention almost startling if he hadn’t had centuries to grow accustomed to it. He senses the question, just as she could sense he was holding something back.
Azriel doesn’t look at her as he speaks, “there’s only one other person the fox might represent.”
Even without visuals, he can hear how her pace nearly falters, then comes to a stop. He pauses with her, at last turning to face the golden haired female. Her skin is paler, even taking the silver of the moon into account. “You think she might have gone to Eris?” She asks, voice thick, but quiet. No more than a breath of wind. “I think it’s one of the two. There’s no one else it could be.”
“She’s only met him once,” Mor snaps lowly, nails digging into her palms. Azriel makes a show of shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s one or the other,” he says calmly, “if she isn’t in the Mortal lands…”
Mor stares at him, amber eyes drained a little. “You really think there’s a chance he could have…taken her?” She practically spits, unable to keep the hiss out of her voice. Because when it comes to that long ago trauma, her only responses to fall back on are fear, or anger. He doubt she’ll allow the vulnerability of fear right now. Not with the tension between them. “I think it’s better to question Elain first to see if she knows anything. If she doesn’t, I’ll make my way down Prythian.”
Mor blinks, realising the situation. She had demanded Azriel be the one to tell Feyre, regardless of whether they find anything or not. But with the new possibility of her having somehow found herself in the Autumn Court…Mor’s throat rolls heavily. She can’t bring herself to go there. Even now, the thought alone…she pushes against the urge to settle her palm over her abdomen. “We question Elain first,” she manages quietly, and Azriel can see how she’s gathering herself back together.
Instinct is the closest it comes to, that feeling she’s somehow run off to the Autumn Court, like a tug toward the unfamiliar land. Surely Elain would have mentioned something to him about a plan for her sister to leave when she’d been telling him about the vision. It’s the option that makes the most sense, for her to have spoken with Elain, and used a tunnel to reach the border quickly. With all the books she’s read in the library…the kind of things they contain, he doesn’t doubt she’d be more than capable of figuring a way to sneak out of the Night Court. To sneak out of Prythian if she set her mind to it.
Mor nods, and Azriel redirects his attention to the street, continuing the pace. “Question Elain,” she murmurs, “then head to Autumn first. If she isn’t there, go to the Lower Lands. Be as quick as possible.” He nods, admittedly relieved he won’t have to yet face Rhys for the mess he’s inadvertently caused.
————
“Eris, I’m tired,” you sigh, hands aching, sitting dejectedly on a tree stump.
As much as you’d protested, he’d dragged you back out into the forest, where everything feels encased in a glass bubble. It’s hard to explain when you think about it, but it’s like being in another world, how easily the trees sweep away and redirect noise. Hairs prickle at the back of your neck as you remember the giant, boar-like creature that had rampaged upon you mere days ago. The sight and smell of steaming blood as skin slid from flesh, melted apart.
“You haven’t even done anything,” he mutters, watching. “Get back up.”
You sigh heavily, reluctantly getting to your feet, then blinking heavily, suddenly crouching down as you press your palms to your eyes, trying to steady yourself from the abrupt dizziness that had ballooned into your head. Lips part as you try to concentrate on your breathing, wishing away the sudden feeling of unevenness beneath your feet. Eventually it passes, a few extra moments spent crouched for good measure, before you slowly stand back up, hand pressing to the side of your head. Cutting whiskey and amber eyes are piercing into you from across the clearing. You scowl back.
“What was that?” He asks, disapprovingly, your scowl deepening at the tone.
“I told you: I’m tired,” you snap, but it lacks the bite you’d wished for, fatigue building into a slow but heavy pulse inside your head, just above and behind your brows. A yawn rises from your chest, and you cover your mouth as it stretches you open, eyes squeezing shut, watering a little before you slump back into your usual posture, no longer pulled taut by your muscles.
His sharp eyes narrow accusingly, and you bristle at the look, trying to summon up the energy to glare at him. “Did you eat breakfast this morning?” He asks sharply, and you grimace, knowing he won’t approve of the answer. But you really don’t have the energy to lie, either. “No, I didn’t,” you sigh, “I was feel sick.” Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for you to even attempt to recognise. “You were probably feeling sick from hunger,” he mutters, as if it’s obvious, arms folding over his chest, leaning back against a tree. “Using magic can take up a lot of energy, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You should have—”
“I know the difference,” you hiss, lip twitching up in the beginnings of a snarl, before once again flattening out, and you sit back on the stump, uncaring if it pisses him off. You hope it does.
“Do you?” He muses, a bladed edge to his tone that has your stomach tightening, glancing at him warily from across the clearing. You tense as he pushes off from the tree, then vanishes, and you jump as he appears on your other side, peering down at you, unimpressed. “You know how to tell when your magic is draining you? Because those are some pretty big steps to have made seemingly overnight.” Your lips purse, averting your gaze, sullenly looking away. “That’s what I thought.”
“I know the difference between hungry sickness and—” you falter, but manage to finish the sentence, “…and being unwell.”
Eris pauses, and you want to meet his gaze and glare at him, but your head just feels too heavy on your shoulders, and the general fatigue hasn’t been aided by the light sheen of sweat that’s been layering your body each morning, before you’ve wobbly stumbled to the washroom, clutching your stomach. You’ve yet to actually regurgitate anything though—your one blessing. It’s like those initial months after the Cauldron all over again.
“Look at me,” he instructs, and you glare at the ground, irritation growing in your chest. It wouldn’t hurt him to be a little more gentle with his attitude. His demeanour, in general. A curse sits, unspoken, at the tip of your tongue when he grips your jaw, angling your chin upward so he can examine you. Again your lips twitch in a slight snarl, but the energy fails quickly. Amber eyes sweep over your features, and you avert your gaze when his own settle intensely on yours. He releases you after a too-long moment, allowing you your space again, and you glare at him. “What was that for?”
“You look worse than usual,” he answers flatly.
You glare at him resentfully, unable to muster up the laugh you usually would whenever he makes a comment like that. Instead you just feel irritated. His brows narrow further, “how much have you been sleeping recently?” He pushes. You shrug, briefly glancing away.
“A normal amount. I’m fine, just let me sit down, it’s not that big of an issue if I’m not standing, right?”
“Are you coming up for your cycle?”
The bones in your hands creak, groaning with strain and you hiss as pain flares weakly beneath your gloves at your fingertips. You tuck your hands under your arms, trying to soothe their sting as you glare at him. “Do not ask me that,” you snap, legs crossing on the tree stump. You half expect his lips to quirk at the easily given reaction, but his brow dips a little. “You don’t have to give me a direct answer,” he says at last, a touch gentler than before, but still stern. “Just answer if it could be related.”
You hesitate at the tone, jaw still tight with tension, but you swallow thickly. “No,” you manage quietly, “not for another few months, at least.”
“Then as much as you disagree, it would be a good idea to eat first, then see if you improve,” he replies, back to his usual drawl, laced with distaste. Enough to almost have your lips curving a little at their edges. “So we’ll be going back to have lunch right this second,” you muse, glancing up at him, “and you aren’t going to set some stupid challenge for me to fulfil beforehand. Right? Because that would be very impractical.”
His amber eyes glint with something you’ve decided is the closest he’ll get to open amusement, brow raising slightly. “Why waste a good motive?” He counters, “looks like you’re catching on.” You force a groan, if only in attempts to lighten the mood from whatever dark grave it had settled into, and you reluctantly get to your feet, taking it slow incase your head starts swimming again. “What is it this time?” Eris nods to the tree that looks to have been recently cut down, the counterpart to the trunk you’re sat upon. “I want you to try touching the bark,” he instructs, and you look at him quizzically. Seems easy enough.
You watch him questioningly as you stand and make your way over to the tree, putting your hands down.
“Done?” You say slowly, confusion blatant in the furrow of your brows as you stare at him.
Eris stares at you blankly, before raising his palm to cover the lower portion of his features, concealing his mouth. “Using your magic,” he adds disbelievingly, mouth still covered.
You blink, then flush with embarrassment, hand covering your own mouth as laughter bubbles up from your chest. “Oh,” you manage, shoulders shaking lightly, not helped by the matching amusement reflecting in his amber eyes—amusement he’s struggling to conceal. “I thought—” you break off, a smile stretching wide behind your palm, chest stuttering with mirth. “I thought you meant I just had to touch it.” He shakes his head, seemingly beyond speech. “You want to see how the bark reacts when I touch it with my magic,” you clarify, nodding your head, still trying to tamp down the laughter that’s heating your eyes faintly. He confirms with a slight nod of his head, and you take a deep breath, trying to sober up. “I see,” you nod again, at last recovered enough to lower your hands to remove your gloves, a smile still faintly curving your lips. “I’ll give it a go.”
“Why would I ask you to touch a tree?” Eris asks from somewhere at your back, tone almost settled back to his usual drawl, dripping of disapproval. “I’m tired,” you reply, not nearly as practiced as he is at keeping your tone neutral as you glance at him over your shoulder, “you should have clarified better.” Eris shakes his head, before nodding to the tree trunk.
You take in a breath, returning to look at the bark—what would happen if you touched it?
Closing your eyes briefly, you steady out your breaths, inhaling slow and deep, feeling your shoulders lose their tension before reopening your eyes. Focusing on the bark again now that you’re settled. “What should I do?” You ask, not taking your gaze from the tree or your hands.
“Try thinking about different things, exploring how they make you feel,” he replies steadily. How helpful, you think, but leave the comment unvoiced—you’re trying to concentrate. You think about how the light had appeared before, when he’d gotten you to briefly sustain it. It had hurt at first, you’d had the chance to realise, but after the initial rush of pain, the creak of bones and your groaning carpals, it had faded more into a slight tingle, like your fingers had fallen asleep, wrapped in a vague warmth.
You swallow thickly, thinking about the flat-topped ring in your pocket, the absence of weight in your ears, how they correlate. You don’t regret the decision to sell them off, to your slight surprise. More indifferent to the change, if not slightly excited at your choice. Doing something for yourself, on your own, that nobody knew about. It’s nice, having secrets.
“Now press them to the bark,” Eris instructs, and you look down in surprise to spot the faint greenish-gold glow weaving between your fingers—almost like fish slowly weaving throughout water as they struggle upstream, but less frenetic. Slowly, keeping your breathing steady, you press your palms against the bark, palms shaking slightly as the light flickers, almost flinching slightly as it hesitantly makes contact with the new surface.
You jerk away when something lances up your wrist, stinging pain spearing beneath your skin as the tang of copper bursts in the air. The magic extinguishes in an instant, snuffed out with a single recoiling thought, and your breathing loses its pattern as you glance down at your right palm. What looks like a popped blister sits on the heel of your hand, except the liquid that gleams had a red tint to it, mixed with blood. You sigh heavily, left hand holding your right wrist lightly, thumb pressing the flesh just below the blister, watching as blood rises to the surface. The skin around it is flakier than before, a little discoloured, and you spot a mole at the knuckle of your little finger, poking meekly out from the skin, as if worried over being spotted and pulled away.
Eris walks up to your side, glancing down at the bark, the absence of any sort of change. It looks exactly the same. “I guess nothing happened,” you hedge, glancing warily down at the tree, searching for some kind of change.
Eris is quiet, and you at last turn to peer up at him, wondering what he’s thinking. His silence is waring. Amber eyes latch with your own, narrowed and slightly impatient, before the emotion is swiftly wrapped away. “I had hoped to make more progress,” he muses lowly, and you regard him with caution at the hushed tone. His eyes gleam with something you can’t figure out, wariness intensifying as he pulls something from his pocket—a small silk pouch.
You tilt your head, brows furrowed, “what is that?”
His lips sharpen at the edges, and tension coils beneath your skin—that type of expression is never good. “Open it,” he instructs simply, and you cautiously take it from his fingers, eyeing him again before carefully pulling the strings open, tipping the contents out into your palm. You blink as you take in the smooth band of metal, silver and gleaming against the flaws of your skin. “A…ring?” You ask, peering up at him questioningly. He nods, and you suppress your jolt when his fingers brush over your knuckles, plucking the band up and watching you intently as he smoothly slides it down to the base of the pointer finger on your left hand.
His demeanour has noticeably shifted, and your brows narrow further, suspicion roiling in your gut.
“It’ll help with keeping your magic calmer,” he explains lowly, secretively, and you manage a nod, confusion running rampant in your blood stream. “How so?” You ask, glancing down at the band, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist to keep you from moving. “You have a habit of straining yourself to keep the full force of your power from coming out,” he answers, thumb brushing your knuckle, and this time you glare up at him. His mouth only sharpens, amber eyes glinting with something that has the hairs raising at the nape of your neck. “I’m sure you’re familiar with how the Illyrians use siphons—so their raw type of magic doesn’t destroy everything around them?” You nod, tension lessening, again glancing down to the band. “Think of it like that—now you don’t have to waste concentration on keeping it all in check.”
He releases your hand, and you pull it closer to look at the silver, angling your head a little, understanding this must have been what that exchange had been about, when he’d gone down that dim, dark alleyway into the hidden chamber. “So it’s…a magic ring?” You ask, brows scrunched together as you look up at him. He raises a brow, “how astute of you.” You glare, lips curving faintly at the familiar intonation.
You swallow, stepping back a little, nodding your head. “I guess…” you breathe deeply, “as good a time as any.” You pull the flat-topped ring from your own pocket, and extend it toward him. “I saw this the other day in the market,” you say honestly, watching as his expression shifts, brow raising as he opens his palm. “It reminded me of you a little, and I probably won’t see you over the solstice anyway, so might as well give it to you now.”
Eris takes the ring, examining it, the small carving of the fox set in sterling silver. “A rather unique gift,” he muses, making the edges of your mouth curve.
“If you hate it, you don’t have to wear it,” you say, smiling lightly, “I just wanted to get it.” Though to your surprise, he doesn’t seem to despise it, sliding it over the thumb of his right hand—it seems to actually fit.
That viper’s smile returns to his sharpened mouth, eyes glinting again. “I don’t think your family would approve of a gift like this,” he drawls, more clearly than before, causing you to cock your head in question.
Lips fashion themselves into a razor-sharp grin, the expression more vulpine than fae.
“Isn’t that right, Shadowsinger?”
————
Eris raises his gaze to the forest, how the trees had whispered to him, calling out about the figure stalking their movements. Really, the shadowsinger should know not to hunt outside his own territory. The hulking, shadowy figure steps silently out into the clearing, with a quiet that’s been well-earned by the Spymaster of the Night Court.
Powerful wings are pulled to his body in traditional Illyrian fashion, save for the darkness wreathing the gleaming talons at their peaks, cold hazel eyes clashing with Eris’ own. Marking what the Spymaster has come for. It’s proximity to the male he hates viciously, bloodily, gruesomely.
“Shouldn’t you know not to sneak around in the shadows by now?” Eris drawls, hands settling around its shoulders, feeling stone-tight tension beneath his palms. Its magic fading, unable to winnow two people away, so left trapped in the clearing as the male prowls closer.
“Eris,” the Spymaster greets coldly, darkness unspooling upon the ground he treads, coming to a stop at the edge of the clearing. Not close enough for hand-to-hand combat, but too nearby for a proper display of magic. At least he’s smart enough to recognise he’s at a disadvantage in a foreign court—uninvited, at that. “Shouldn’t you know the consequences of displacing a member of Rhys’ court?” The Spymaster questions, lethally quiet.
Tremors flutter beneath Eris’ hands, still gripping her shoulders to keep her in place, and he glances down, only to find her already watching him. If it weren’t for the tremors, she would be as still as death. Her brows lifted and slightly curved, mouth pointed down at the edges. Betrayal stark in her normally bright eyes.
“You’re clearly uninformed,” Eris muses, pulling away from her scared eyes to meet cutting hazel. “This is a perfectly amicable meeting, isn’t it, cygnet?”
The Spymaster’s canines flash at the pet-name, the blatant taunt, the insinuation he’s made that she would choose himself over the Spymaster. That well-concealed wrath suffers a blow when she raises her hands to grip his wrists, nothing demanding about the touch—it’s a weak hold. As if asking for attention.
“Amicable or not,” the Spymaster says, expression stony, “you’ll return her. Unless you want Rhys to know about this abduction?” Eris shrugs, amusement sharpening his mouth as he selects his words carefully, “I’m not her keeper. She will return when she likes.” By the looks of it, the arrow lands, pupils constricting as the Spymaster takes a menacing step closer.
————
Your ears have hollowed out, stomach swallowing your heart. A quiet kind of panic tightening through your chest, pulse spiking. Dread sluicing through the rope holding you taut.
You’re staring up at him, holding on with as much strength as you can manage as a strange emotion rushes through your blood, softening your muscles until you’re struggling to stand, pushing every pleading word you’ve ever read into your eyes, silently begging for him to do something. To keep you from facing him on your own.
You know how easy it is for him to shatter you.
Amber eyes lower to yours, walls risen against Azriel’s presence, and your fingers stutter over the cuffs of his tunic, before the last of your strength drains. They’re glinting again with that challenge, and in the very back of your mind you can understand he’s using this as just another training exercise, but it’s hard to focus on through the ringing in your ears, that strange quiet that’s so loud it drowns out every other thought, like a thousand whispers hissing instructions too swiftly, too viciously for you to make them out, coming together in a swirling spiral that’s pulling you under.
Eris’ mouth is moving, eyes peering at something behind you, but you’re fine not hearing. Would prefer to fade from the world, to slip away quietly, unnoticed and un-missed. But then amber again returns to you, and with it sound comes crashing in too. “Pack up,” Eris orders, and you blink, his hands tightening on your shoulders as he feels the slight sway of your body.
“She’ll take a while,” Eris drawls, glancing back at the Shadowsinger—your stomach lurches—who remains a heavy presence at your back. “You may be unwelcome, but let’s not waste this opportunity. Using your General’s absence as an excuse not to meet has lost its worth. You will suffice.”
————
You feel half-awake as you pack your things, watching from some far away place as you fold clothes meticulously, with much more care than you usually would, taking your time gathering the few items you brought.
Clothes, an empty blue box, the thickly bound volume. A thin wooden box about the length of your arm, a note attached atop.
Use it wisely.
You pack the box in your bag, recognising the elegant script.
————
Azriel had followed silently, concealed within Eris’s shadow as he’d strode through the stretching hallways, leading the way to his own chambers, where they will be able to speak freely and most importantly, privately. Tension had simmered beneath his war-roughened skin the entire time, disliking even having to blend his shadows with the heirling’s, but it’s an intimacy he’s forced to yield.
The room Eris takes him to is big, to say the least, and open, with a large bed against a wall, a wooden chest at its foot, his desk adjacent so natural light fills the cavernous room—one that’s above ground. It’s here he emerges from shadow, filling space just beside the large wooden chest, an unlit fire quite a way to his left. Eris takes his time walking around the desk, sitting down comfortably, having the nerve to look relaxed—prick.
“So,” Eris begins, and Azriel bites against the urge to grind his teeth at the smug tone. “She ran away from you. Took her long enough.”
“How long have you been planning this?” Azriel asks coldly, completing a triple check of the room, making sure there’s no one else around. “You act like it was my idea,” the autumn heir drawls, successfully snaring his attention, something foul rising at the back of his throat at the implication. Likely the confirmation he needs that she had indeed left of her own volition. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“You want me to believe she came all this way on a hope that you’d provide temporary asylum?” Azriel asks, rooting deeper. “She has a smart head on her shoulders,” Eris drawls, amusement glinting in sharp, amber eyes, “she knows how to bargain.”
His blood ices over, skin turning cold at the wording, demeanour plunging as his shadows deepen. “You made a bargain with her?” Azriel growls, pulse spiking. If a bargain has already been made… But Eris waves his hand, enough of a light dismissal for Azriel to figure she hasn’t mentioned Elain’s vision to him. One small ray of light amongst the storming thunder clouds she’s already brought upon herself.
“Do you find it so unbelievable that she might be capable of making arrangements on her own? Why do you assume I had any hand in it?” Eris drawls, making that glittering rage sharpen into razor-tipped icicles, poised to carve and slice. “You’re a conniving bastard,” Azriel says lowly, violence glinting in his hazel eyes, “she wouldn’t have come to you without some prompting.”
“You think I tricked her?” Eris muses, a trace of humour in his tone, Azriel’s brows narrowing with detestation. “What would I get out of that, unless she was complicit? I have no way of forcing her magic out of her, she has to want that on her own—as much as that might irritate Rhys.”
Loathing simmers in Azriel’s chest, but he remains quiet, allowing Eris to talk so he can gather as much information as he can from both sides. So he can compare her side with his later.
“I’m sure after Nesta Archeron, Rhys would be eager to find out what other weapons he might have at his disposal.”
“She isn’t a weapon,” Azriel snarls lowly, fury held back by straining iron manacles.
“But she could become one,” Eris counters, tone shifting to something more serious, and Azriel stiffens. “The timing’s a bit strange, don’t you think? Her magic only now coming through? After two years?”
“That’s not for you to speculate on.”
“Even without an alliance, it is a matter of concern,” Eris growls, brows narrowing as ire blazes in his eyes, glowing like freshly forged steel. “Why doesn’t she know anything?”
Azriel growls in warning, violence itching at his fingers, fists aching to slam down. Sparks crackle in the air, his own intentions seemingly reflected in the male before him. “You don’t have the luxury to ignore this pathway,” Eris growls lowly, “choosing to turn a blind eye would be damning.”
“She has her own problems to deal with,” Azriel snarls lowly, “you do not get to make that call.”
“I will make the call if Rhys doesn’t,” Eris snarls back, canines flashing viciously, “she could use some toughening up.”
“You don’t know enough to make an informed choice,” Azriel mutters coldly.
“Then Rhys had better hurry up. It’s not as though he’s unaccustomed to having to make decisions like this. What’s taking him so long?”
Azriel keeps still, features neutral, refusing to let even a hint of emotion appear in his blank expression.
Eris’ eyes narrow, sensing he’s being denied information. Vulpine senses picking up on a weak spot. Unnervingly keen. Then he blinks, leaning back in his chair, torso losing tension. “You haven’t told him.” Despite the utter neutrality, Azriel knows he’s figured it out. The heirling nods, a cynical curve to his sharpened mouth. “She didn’t give the impression she’d willingly display her failures to you.”
“They aren’t failures,” Azriel mutters, ice burning in his eyes as he watches Eris with a glacial look.
“No? Because the control over her magic was pretty pathetic to me,” Eris replies lowly.
Azriel snarls, low and threatening, shadows concentrating into a darkness worthy of the Night Court’s Spymaster, deep and deadly as they writhe in warning. “I didn’t realise she had you so tightly wrapped around her flaky little finger,” Eris croons, and darkness rears back, preparing to strike, when three quiet taps are landed to the door, meagre and unimposing.
————
You peek your head into his chambers, bag slung over your shoulder as you pause on the threshold.
Tension is blatant in Azriel’s shoulders, wings slightly flared, an icy emotion tucked between the stern set of his brows, shadows darker—more frenetic—than they usually are. Looking over to Eris, you can see how he’s leaned back in his chair, that taunting glint in his naturally piercing gaze, and you can guess fairly easily the conversation they were having was not a friendly one—even without the aid of body language.
Maybe they were discussing Court matters.
“I—…Should I wait out—”
“Come in,” Eris orders, cutting you off, and your brows narrow a little at the tone, before softening out again, remembering who else is present. You shut the door behind yourself, turning your back to them to make sure it clicks shut quietly, then walking further into the room, stood a little distance from Azriel, not wanting to encroach on his space while he’s surely furious with you. At the very least immensely disappointed.
“Took you long enough,” Eris drawls, bringing your attention away from Azriel to meet his cutting gaze. Well, your eyes meet his. It’s practically impossible to not focus on the male at your right. You’re not sure if you're imagining the displeasure rippling from him, but you can only hope Eris hasn’t intentionally stirred things up. You know you won’t be able to protect yourself against whatever words he has for you after your abrupt departure.
“You haven’t left any tatters behind?” Eris asks, and a slight scowl dips your brows.
“I have everything,” you reply, readjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder.
“Excellent. Then you can leave.”
You blink at the abrupt dismissal, glancing at him warily. “Weren’t you discussing something?” You ask Eris hesitantly, cautious about prodding where you aren’t welcome. “We were,” Eris replies, a viper’s smile on his sharp lips, amber eyes cutting to the male at your right. “But it appears your Spymaster doesn’t think you’re trustworthy enough.” It’s obviously a manipulation of truth, but that doesn’t make it easy to hear, heart hollowing out, spine losing a bit of rigidity.
“And who could blame him,” Eris continues, “you haven’t exactly been particularly honest with him, have you, cygnet?”
Your lips purse, averting your eyes from both of them, peering at the floorboards to your left, shame tightening around your throat. “Seems logical enough,” you say quietly, managing to keep your voice steady. You’d rather vanish right then and there, wiped clean from memory and existence than allow a tremor into your voice.
You’ve gotten yourself into this situation. Self-pity won’t fix anything.
“Then that is that,” Eris muses, pulling you from your thoughts. Azriel shifts, not saying another word to either of you as he makes for the door, and you glance at Eris a little longer, searching for a way back. He quirks a taunting brow, resting his jaw on his right hand, the flat-topped band of sterling silver catching the light with the motion. Your thumb brushes the ring on your own finger, before you turn, making for the door where Azriel’s waiting to take you back.
Back to the Night Court.
Back to Velaris.
Back to your family.
Back to be judged.
————
It was unnerving how alone you’d felt on the way out of the palace. Even knowing he was present, slipping through shadows, you couldn’t sense a single thing, and on more than one occasion had glanced around, worriedly trying to find him—but nothing.
It wasn’t until you passed the walls, heading out into the forest again that he emerged—silent and looming—unable to hear his footsteps even when he was right beside you. Unnervingly ghost-like.
You wait for him to speak, to say whatever it is that’ll inevitably bring tears to your skin, but he’s completely silent, leading the way. Knowing you’ll follow behind. Knowing you won’t speak to him until he initiates.
You’d been brought here by winnowing, but he makes no move to wrap either of you in his shadows, and a small part of you whispers that he wouldn’t want you to contaminate them. You try to ignore that part, but even the quietest voice will be heard over silence. Instead the tales spin deeper, that he hadn’t even wanted to retrieve you, content to have you out of the way, out of the Night Court, away from his home. At least that way there’d be no chance of his prophesied death coming to pass.
He’d be safe, and you wouldn’t be bothering him.
Wouldn’t be bothering any of them.
He walks deeper into the forest, silent and steadfast, while you watch as his boots tread through the fallen leaves, not daring to look any higher in case it disgusts him further. You have no concept of how long you follow after him for—long enough your feet begin to ache lightly, but you push through it—silently waiting for the conversation to start. For the first question to be asked. For the first blow to be landed.
Azriel doesn’t stop when you try to shift your bag to the other shoulder, your right one aching, and something in your stomach drops when your pace slows but his remains constant, so you hurriedly finish the switch, and make an effort to catch up, careful not to trip. Hunger gnaws at your bones, but you keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt his pace. It’s not until your stomach audibly protests that he comes to a pause, glancing over his shoulder to you, and you swiftly duck your head, averting your eyes from his painfully familiar hazel set. Breaths deepening as you come to a stop with him.
“When did you eat last?” He asks. The first words he’s said to you.
“Yesterday,” you answer quietly, pressure tight across your chest as you try to keep your breaths quiet but even. “Do you have food on you?” He asks. You nod. You’d wrapped up a pastry from breakfast, it being the only thing you’d be able to savour. Even years later, the habit of not wasting food still remains prominent.
His boots shift, turning to face forward as he begins walking again. You follow silently, seeing no point in nodding or replying. It’s not like you’re going to do anything else. “There’s a clearing up here. You can eat there.”
Azriel pauses beside a particularly large oak tree, and you swallow, and you habitually consider where the least offensive place to sit would be. So you’re nicely out of his way. The ground is muddy, so you’re forced to follow beside his footsteps to the oak, setting as silently as you can on one large branch that’s gnarled and shoved through the earth to curl into a large seat.
Your pulse spikes, wondering if this will be where you have the one-sided discussion, perching the bag on your legs, searching through for the little pastry. It’s made harder by your bare hands, how every piece of fabric seems to bite at your skin with each brush, piercing painfully as you search, until you spot the orange scarf, pulling it out to find the pastry wrapped in a napkin.
He doesn’t say anything, but you feel like you’re wasting time.
You peer at the pastry in your hands, not particularly keen on eating it. You’re close enough to nausea as is, and don’t want to tempt fate with giving your stomach something to regurgitate. But it would be weird to put it away now, so you’ll just have to take small bites. Hope that you can stomach it. A few minutes pass, but you’ve hardly made a noticeable dent in the food, guilt weighing on your bones, pausing between each mouthful to peer around the clearing dully.
Your fingers fumble a little when Azriel moves, settling on the root beside you, your muscles stitching themselves taut, and you hastily shift yourself tighter so he has his space. Almost dropping the pastry in your stuttering movements.
He’s quiet for a bit, and you swallow thickly, attempting to focus on the food before you so as not to stare, but internally you can feel the beats passing, heart ticking tighter…tighter…
“Why did you leave?” He asks quietly.
You still, able to feel the narrow wooden box digging into your thighs. Pausing as the tension abates a little, like how you imagine it would feel to watch an arrow loose from a bow, watching it arc in the sky, then slowly plummet down, seeking out its target. The breath that would breathe out in relief once it embedded itself in flesh, those few, stretching moments at last having come to an end, and one can relax into the clarity of the pain. The certainty of the wound.
“I wanted to get out,” you mumble thickly, keeping the shake from your voice.
“So you went to him?” Azriel asks. You head lowers a little in sorrow.
Where else were you supposed to go?
“You could have asked to be taken somewhere,” he says quietly, and guilt tightens itself around your throat. Is there any way to explain to him why you’d left when you hardly understand it yourself? It had been a crescendo of nerves, of bottled up worries tightening with pressure, like air being blown into a brown paper bag until it burst. Is there any way to tell him you’d like to be able to ask things of him, but in truth you’d rather be slowly pulled apart by pressure than worry him with pointless tasks that only serve your benefit? How can you ever hope to speak with him honestly, when your very heart seems to be the thing warning you away—that same heart that wants to press into him, to beg and cry for forgiveness and reassurance.
“At least have the decency to answer,” he says quietly when you don’t respond, and you feel the small tremor that shudders up your throat, fearing the oncoming disaster. “I wanted to go on my own,” you get out, words softer than a whisper.
He’s quiet, and you wonder if that’s the end of the discussion for now.
But, “did you think at all about what the consequences would be from going to him?” He asks, gaze ahead, but attention pressing down on you. “Or did you forget you have people around you, that your actions impact.”
Your grip loosens on the pastry, choosing to wrap it back up in the napkin, fingers shaking slightly. A lump rising in your throat.
“Answer,” he murmurs, promptingly.
“I just wanted to go,” you whisper hoarsely, fingers wringing together. “I thought—… I thought it would be better if I was fur—… If I was gone.”
“Are you going to tell Mor where you went?” He questions softly. “Or did you not think about that part either?”
“I made progress,” you try, raising your gaze to his. “I can summon it, if I concentrate.”
His lips remain unmoving, but his eyes…gods, his eyes. You betrayed her, you know. All of them.
Breath catches in your throat, and you have to look away. Unable to face him. It. Any of it.
“Why is it so bad?” You ask quietly. “All I did was leave for a little under a week. I was trying to get better.”
“Stop. Lying,” he mutters lowly, blood freezing in your veins, fingers wringing together. Silence ticks by, and you wonder if he can hear the humiliatingly loud pulse of your heart, erratic and stumbling as it usually does around him. You don’t think he’s ever so obviously shown what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling.
Why is this the first way you see it?
Why is this the first time he allows it?
“Just tell me what you want,” you ask quietly, voice faltering as you stare at him helplessly. “You’re never happy with anything I do,” you manage, trembling with growing turmoil, “so please, just tell me what you want, and put me out of my misery.”
He exhales harshly, leaning back into the trunk, lips tugged down at the corners, reproach tucked between his brows, so rarely softened by charm anymore. At least not while you’re around. Almost never when you’re around.
“I don’t feel I should have to tell you how you fucked up here,” he replies lowly, and you push back on the flinch at the crude wording. “You made a bad choice.”
“Imagine how much worse the others were,” you reply lowly, a hint of resentment—not directed at him—present in your tone. He stiffens at your side, then his gaze slides slowly over to you, lethal and condemning, but it’s like you can’t look away. You physically can’t duck your head, or shy away. “You’re really joking at a time like this?”
You meet his eyes fully, presently, taking him in against the darkening sky, winter sun already on the way out for the day, the chill more than prominent, but you don’t dare reach for the scarf in your bag. “Tell me what you want,” you repeat softly, no louder than a last breath on dying lips.
“I want you to be honest,” he replies, brows narrowing, “for once, apparently.”
“About what?”
“Why you went to him.” He nearly spits, unable to entirely keep his ire at bay, something passing behind his eyes.
You’re quiet. Silent.
Then you lean back into the trunk of the tree, head tilting back into the rough bark, hands settling numbly in your lap. Shoulders slope, and you peer up into the grey sky, gloomy and heavy with unshed tears. Thick and thunderous. Fitting for the storm that’s on its way.
“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper, hardly a breath from your lips, a prayer whisked away by the static air. He’s silent, and your throat closes up. “Azriel,” your murmur, swallowing thickly. “Please.”
Moments tick by, stretching and warping as your heart thumps heavily in your chest, utterly bewitched, utterly at his mercy. It’s exhausting.
He sighs, and you try not to stiffen as he glances over to you, feeling that familiar prickle of skin as lovely hazel settles on you. A few warm rays making it through the dim clouds before being frozen off by the icy breeze. Winter’s most definitely on its way.
“I won’t be angry,” he murmurs softly. “Just…talk to me. Like you used to.”
Your arms fold over your chest, closing in on yourself, feet pressing together as you hunch over the bag in your lap, peering at the muddy ground. The smell of parchment rises from your memories, dusty and familiar, but lacking the warmth of nostalgia. Like the bitterness of a tea left to steep for too long, so it dries out your throat, eyes watering from its ticklish bite.
“I couldn’t do it on my own,” you admit quietly. Fingers brushing your knuckles. Raw and flaky.
The thoughts swirl in the back of your mind, ready to roar and rage, becoming so loud they’re deafening, suddenly cutting quiet so fast you have no desire to understand what it means when the waters draw back. What it means when the sea itself shrinks away, leaving a barren and washed-up beach.
“But, the idea of trying in front of you…any of you…and then falling flat at such a small hurdle…” You look to your left, away from him, pulling tighter into yourself. Can anything good come of this kind of honestly? With him?
“I don’t have much anymore, Azriel,” you breathe lowly, struggling silently with the humiliating vulnerability. How bare you are, just waiting for steel to pierce your skin. Like tossing yourself over a cliff and hoping the jagged rocks far below will soften your fall.
“I just wanted to keep my dignity. The scraps left of it after…what happened…”
Your toes curl in your shoes, feet crossed, feeling as though your heart is trying to cave in on itself, swallowed by a vacuum suctioning you back down with the force of a flooded spring river.
“So it was better to fail in front of Eris?”
“But I don’t owe him success,” you argue uselessly, eyes squeezing shut in attempts to keep the tears at bay as your head falls into your hands. “I don’t—…I don’t owe him anything.”
“You don’t owe us anything either,” he replies.
“I owe my entire life to you,” you nearly hiss, spine curving in as your brows cramp together, jaw wound so tight you feel like a tooth might crack beneath the intense pressure, nails pressing into the soft skin of your brow.
“Feyre was the one who saved the three of you,” he reminds quietly, slowly, but you’re shaking your head. Staring down into your lap, tension rippling so clearly from your bunched up form Azriel considers laying a hand on your trembling shoulder as if to pull you from a trance. “No. I know, but…” Your fingers press into your eyes, unable to articulate what you can feel in your stomach. “If she hadn’t gone to Night,” you breathe heavily, shakily, “if she hadn’t gone here, we’d still be back there, entirely human, and I—… I wasn’t going to last much longer there.”
Azriel pauses at your side, taking on the information silently. “You were ill?” He asks softly—he’d had no idea about that. Your shoulders shake, and he can’t tell if it’s with laughter or muffled sobs. Maybe a little of both.
“Maybe,” you whisper, “I don’t know enough about medicine to say, but I…” You shake your head again, and he’s able to sense that’s as much as he’ll get. It’s been over two years, and this is the first he’s hearing of it even in vague detail—he knows this isn’t something he can press.
“It doesn’t matter now,” you say with rueful conviction, palms pushing wetness from your cheeks, spine straightening before collapsing back against the trunk. Tired and exhausted. “We’re out. I don’t need to do anything now.”
Azriel’s brow furrows. “You’re content to stay in your room and rot away?”
You rest your head in your hands, leaning over the bag, staring down into its contents. What else is there?
“You could spend time with your family, for starters,” he replies and you aren’t sure if you imagine the note of impatience in his voice. “Your sisters worry about you a lot. It’s not good for you to be up in that room all the time.”
“Well it seems every time I come out of that room I somehow end up getting in your way.”
“Is that what this is about?” He asks abruptly, and your lips press together, lower one curving over. “I thought we sorted that out,” he says quietly, calming the sharpness of his tone, hearing it even in his own ears, glancing over your hunched figure. “We did,” you reply, muffled by your arms, voice turning watery as you ease in a short breath. “We did.”
A beat passes, then tension stutters in your chest as he gently lays his palm over your shoulder. “Please just talk to me,” he says softly, and you struggle to keep your breaths even as your lungs shudder beneath that touch. After spending so long wanting it…craving it…convinced feeling how gentle his touch could be over and against your skin would fix everything…even temporarily… You try to swallow the lump in your throat. “If not me, then Elain, or Feyre, or Nesta,” he pauses, “…Bas.”
You aren’t paying much attention, though, thankful for the way your mind melts beneath the warmth of his palm. How heat is sinking into your skin, slowly spreading through your shoulder as your muscles thaw. Pressure is lessened, and the tension that had been stitching the tendon taut loosens, allowing breath the ease in and out of your lungs with tiring relief. You could deflate with fatigue. Just turn limp and boneless, better for absorbing impact than having it crack against you.
“Just talk with us some more so this doesn’t happen again,” he urges quietly. “Come down to the river house—you know Feyre keeps your room open—or join us for dinner. At least try. If that doesn’t work, we can find something else.”
You don’t reply. Just remain tucked away from the world. Content to remain within your small shell as long as you can keep that warmth on your shoulder.
The pressure lightens, and your heart hides away as his hand slips from your shoulder, leaving your skin starkly cold with the absence of his presence.
“I’m sorry for what I…for how things transpired. Between…us,” Azriel murmurs, unsure how much to say, to not bring up past pains, especially if they aren’t as healed as you’ve led him to believe. He’s starting to become unsure what to believe about you—he hadn’t ever considered you might run from them. How bad things might have become to force you into that position. Are things that bad?
“I’m sorry, too,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse, and Azriel listens attentively. “I shouldn’t have told you how I felt, in the library. I shouldn’t have made my feelings your problem.”
“They aren’t,” he says softly, but you shake your head as if you haven’t heard him.
“I’m sorry.”
————
He tries speaking twice more on the way back, but the conversations lead nowhere, no longer flourishing as they had, once upon a time. So long in the past they feel coloured by age. Turned stiff and yellow at the edges.
He tries slowing his pace so she’ll walk at his side, but she just drops further back, silently pressing between his footsteps as she trails, head kept down to remain focused on taking one step at a time. The shadow that is cast across her face from the down-tilted angle of her head is deeper than he would have expected.
When he hears her shifting the bag across her shoulders for the third time, he quietly plies the straps from her hands, relieving her of the physical weight. She makes no obvious protest, aside from the stiffening of her body at his approach, but he can spot the relief when he takes the bag. Moving it to his own shoulder, he can make out what feels like a wooden box, the kind made to keep a weapon from being damaged. The thought gives rise to instinctive alarm.
Why might she have a weapon in her bag?
His shadows subtly shift at his back, rising secretively to examine her. Questions begin rising to his mind: unkind, unfair questions that are habitual in his line of work. He tries to shake them off, but they remain firmly rooted in his mind, burrowing deeper with each stride that has the narrow box digging into his side, as if already trying to burrow into his flesh.
How did she know Eris would take her in? How could she possibly guarantee making the trek across Prythian over night would pay off? It’s an absurd risk to take, regardless of circumstance. He can think of answers to those questions, but they don’t sit well with him. An answer to why she might be so familiar with Eris supposing they’ve spoken less than a handful of times. A certainty she must have possessed to take the risk that isn’t one she would have from that little contact. And if she’s hiding how much contact she might’ve had with him…
She was already hiding her magic from them…then there’s the prophecy too. Bas, and the illness. Why were these things she hadn’t mentioned? He can understand the recent silence, but why not before…? Regardless of immediate relevance, it shows she’s prone to secret-keeping.
Azriel eases in a steadying breath, descending into a calm, cold mental state. Sinking into indifferent objectivity.
She isn’t stupid. Far from it, having spent so much time in the library, where there’s all kinds of information just ripe for the picking. And Eris isn’t stupid, either. If he saw a weak spot, he’d go for it. And if Eris went for her, would she be able to resist something she was unable to see for what it truly was?
Azriel’s skin goes a little cold, reminded of the prophecy.
He will die, and it will be by her hand.
He supposes he can only control how much impact it will have on those around him. If Eris has managed to wrap her up in some slow-moving scheme…but that’s just speculation. Still, his instincts are telling him something is wrong with the narrow wooden box, one that must have come from Eris. A box fashioned like those to hold weapons. From Eris. To the female who will kill him.
He should ask her what it is.
Azriel would’ve shaken his head if those habits hadn’t been crushed out of him centuries ago. He can’t just ask her if she’s planning to kill him.
But it would allow a chance for her to explain what’s in the weapon case.
But it would alert her to his knowing about the blade inside her bag. She’d wanted to hide her magic from the start, and earlier she’d mentioned she’d gotten further…how much further? If it’s magic any similar to Nesta’s, it would be unwise to have a confrontation here, alone. Still within Autumn Court territory.
But it would be more dangerous to bring her back to Velaris. To bring her back into the beating heart of the Night Court where her detonation would be fatal.
Azriel blinks, and returns back into the waning light of day—it’ll soon be night.
What can he do, really? If he’s destined to die….who is he to try and get in the way of the Mother? Would he kill her to save his own life? Is that what he would do in order to live a little longer, before a new threat looms to end him? He wants to kill her no more than he desires his own death.
But if it came down to it…what would he choose?
His shadows observe her silently, as they had been throughout his internal struggle. He focuses on what he can see, discarding the lens of suspicion that’s been embedded in him as Spymaster, centuries of limited trust having an impact on his mind.
All he sees is a young woman walking through a dark forest, following him off the pathway.
Internally, he sighs—there always seems to be a constant flow of problems as of late, and peace seems to be persistently remaining just out of reach. A few more years, and then there will be peace; a few more political aggressions to navigate, and then they can rest; just one more person to heal, and then they can be happy. When will the peace truly arrive, though? Is it all wishful thinking? An imagined utopia that will make every sin he’s committed acceptable? Is it just his mind finding more excuses to justify the things he’s done in the name of protecting his family and court?
She’s just one more disturbance, keeping peace from settling.
Azriel swallows, thinking heavily. Even if she was out of the way, there would still be everything else to deal with. Will this problem be the last one, or will a new threat fall in to fill the space of the old one? Hasn’t it been long enough, by now? Hasn’t he done enough?
Shadows check on her again, her head hanging silently, those once bright eyes dull and dark as they follow numbly in his footsteps. The female with whom he’d spent so many afternoons with discussing things in the library…where is she? Is he at fault for her disappearance?
Closing his eyes briefly to relieve the ache that’s been slowly building just below his brows, he allows himself to ponder.
Is it pointless to try and salvage their relationship?
Would it be better if she did kill him?
————
The storm clouds have gathered, full and swollen with rain and thunder. No lightening though. Lightening would suggest some kind of magnificence, and there’s nothing magnificent about the cool temperature of your blood, nor the dull buzz in the back of your mind. The overwhelming grey of your surroundings as you emerge from the tunnel.
The air is drier in the Night Court, you vaguely realise. No dampness nor humidity that you’d grown subconsciously accustomed to from less than a week’s stay in Autumn. A small break of sunshine between the dismay grey you’d all grown so accustomed to for the first few months of the year, back when you were human. Weak, fallible humans, but simpler. Quiet and peaceful, even if that silence was from the constant prowl of starvation. It had been easier to bear.
You don’t wait to see if Azriel will try to speak again once he’s flown the both of you back up to the House of Wind, silently turning your back to trace the familiar halls of the House, moving without awareness, muscle memory guiding you down the corridors, past the tables littered with napkins and cutlery, past the shelves displaying pale crockery and silver chalices, past the chest with a few discarded daggers atop, arrowheads littered haphazardly across the surface as if someone had cast them down carelessly.
The room is greyer than you remember, too tidy to be a lived in space, but it has those reminders—the gifts you were given, and you absently touch your earlobe, squeezing it between your finger and thumb.
Azriel pauses at the threshold, taking the bag off his shoulder. Does he know you sold the earrings? Those pretty, pretty earrings? Probably some of the nicest things you could have believed to be your own.
They must be getting tired by now. All of them.
Blonde hair and sparkling eyes pass dully through your mind, and your heart dies a little more, understanding how you’ve ruined the small blessing. There’s no coming back from what you’ve done—not without significant work, at least, and you’re so tired. In your bones, in your eyes, in your mind. You’ve lived through a lot, but thanks to immortality, you have no choice but to live through more. A body being dragged through the mud, carried towards a grave that was never dug.
Azriel’s mouth is moving, has been moving since he removed the bag from his shoulder, but you haven’t been hearing. Mind too tired and numb to manage focus, grasping only basic colours and lines.
He’s looking at you, and you’re looking back, but not into his eyes. His words pass through your mind meaninglessly, and you wonder if you’re real. A strange pressure is wrapping its tingling fingers around your skull, squeezing like you’re wearing a hat that’s a little too tight. It will take a lot of work to fix what you’ve done. A lot of work you can’t manage. A debt that deepens faster than you can repay it. A sink draining faster than you can fill it. Blood cooling faster than you can stop it.
Maybe it would be better to let it cool, for a while.
————
Azriel doesn’t feel comfortable leaving her in the House alone, with that dull look in her eyes.
He had planned to fly back down to the River House, to let Rhys and Feyre know she was back, and she was safe, to give her some space maybe for an hour or so to let her get her bearings again. Not too long alone, though. That look hadn’t been bright. Instead he ends up slumping into one of the boney, wooden chairs in the kitchen, the House already brewing two cups of tea. He reaches out for Rhys, mentally feeling for the hidden bridge kept open. He finds it almost immediately, and an icy wind slams into him in greeting. Cold, swift, and perfectly telling to his brother’s current temperament.
You’re back.
Azriel bites back on the cringe at the ice in his High Lord’s voice—belying fury. He should have put together Rhys would be furious for Feyre, too, for stirring up this kind of stress for his mate.
She’s with me. How is Feyre?
More furious than I am, though I doubt she’ll show you.
There’s a pause, and Azriel steadies himself.
How is she?
It would be good for her to have company. Preferably in the River House, but if not, then having people up here. This time Azriel pauses, before adding, I think the ward on her room should be removed. So she’ll be able to hear that people are around, should she need them.
He’s met with silence, and Azriel wonders if Rhys is repeating the message back to Feyre, or if he’s simply that furious. A small part of him feels resentment at the constant speculation, that if the matter had been left between him and her then it wouldn’t have gotten so blown out of proportion.
We’ll be up in ten minutes, comes the clipped reply, before the mental bridge is severed. Leaving Azriel no choice but to wait in silence. It will likely be Rhys and Feyre coming up then—knowing she isn’t ready to see all of them so suddenly, though they’ve yet to learn where she’s been.
Feyre will go and speak to her sister.
And Rhys will be the one to speak to him.
What a mess.
The tea has a few minutes left of brewing, and he wonders if the House will demand he be the one to take the mug to her, or if it will be delivered on its own. He’s not sure she would appreciate being disturbed right now.
As if his thoughts summoned her however, he hears quiet footsteps out in one of the hallways, reaching his sharp ears even through the closed doors and secure walls. He listens carefully, but she seems to just be pacing around, not coming toward him, or even really going in any particular direction. They pause, the silence heavy, and Azriel pays full attention. Another minute passes, then another, and another, but he couldn’t have missed those familiar footfalls.
After a fourth minute, he hears them again, ever so slightly heavier than before, and then they cut off abruptly. Sound sliced in two as she closes the door to her room.
Azriel glances over to the brewing tea, then blinks when he realises the House has set it on the table within reach. Just one cup, made with milk and sugar—not the way he likes it.
Looking over to the countertop, his mug remains steeping, steam trailing up from the hot liquid. The House seems to be demanding he take her the tea now.
Azriel shifts in his chair. It isn’t a good idea to disturb her again. He’s trying to give her at least these few minutes to herself, before Feyre arrives with Rhys—and that’s a conversation that might very well stretch hours. There’s a lot to discuss, after all. She’ll need her energy, and he’s probably the last person she wants to—
The mug slams down on the table before him, hot liquid spilling over with the force that it was dropped onto the surface.
He stiffens, watching the mug tensely as if the House might spill it onto his lap. The liquid ripples in the mug, splashing from side to side for longer than it should, before reluctantly calming.
Blowing out a breath, Azriel wraps his hand around the mug’s handle, reluctantly standing from the kitchen table.
If the House is being so adamant about giving her the cup, then he supposes he’ll just have to follow.
He still finds it a little strange, how the House came alive after Nesta lived inside it.
————
Silence hums in your ears, so quiet.
You’ve caused them so much trouble. Irreparably ruined your ties to the people you hadn’t wanted to hinder.
Silently, quietly, you move the bag to your bed, able to even hear the stretch of fabric as you raise it from the unnaturally clean floorboards. Opening it, you begin pulling the first thing you see out—the orange scarf form Autumn that has some small crumbs tucked between its folds, smelling faintly of pastry and something damp. One piece at a time, you make the slow trek to and form the wardrobe, feet unfeeling as they tread numbly across the smooth grain of the wood, mindlessly repeating the to and fro, the mechanical movements of unaware motion, folding fabric and hiding it away.
Your fingers bump the box, surprised by the hard collision, having expected to find more fabric, but are instead confronted by the narrow, wooden box. Use it wisely, written on the note in a neat and elegant script. Raising it from the bag, you sit down, hands resting over the surface before slipping your fingers into the indentations for ease of opening, cracking it open to find what’s inside. Eyes ease across the narrow length of wood tucked inside, the softly flared end for it to whistle through the sky.
The world disappears around you as you fall into thought, suctioned inwards by a gentle riptide as you dissolve into your mind. Imagining the blank look in Mor’s eyes when she finds out what you’ve done to her, the wall that will rise up as she sections you off from her life, rightly so, brings a quiet kind of sadness into your chest. A longing that has been numbed and dulled, desaturated by hopelessness. Imagining the dinners, voices chatting merrily around you but never at you, the way she won’t look at you. They are all immortal, and their disgust will reflect their lifespan.
You’ll be stuck. Endlessly dragging you feet after them in attempts to make amends. Stumbling and fumbling carelessly trying to make reparations, but smashing more pieces in your frantic hurry to clean the mess you’ve made. Gazing up from the pit of a well as the icy water slowly drains in, the small pin-prick of daylight so far above there’s no hope even trying to scale the wall. It would be more honourable to drown.
To wipe yourself from memory.
It would be better, you understand. To snuff out your own dwindling light, than force the trouble on them of bearing your sputtering flame.
You walk out into the hallway, quietly, silently. Passing the table with napkins and cutlery set, past the shelves with crockery and cups, past the chest with dull steel and blunt arrowheads. Passing further along, until you pause before the large mirror that’s mounted on the wall. You peer dully into the reflection, deciding to look upon and assign shape to name for what’s been causing all these problems. To see what they think of when burdens are mentioned, to understand where the impatience is directed.
You peer higher, the reflection skewed as you meet your own eyes in the blade’s polished steel, held above the mirror’s frame.
Time warps, and you look through the drawers. A few daggers, some unused sketchbooks, a piece of yellow wool, a ball of string. You check the second draw. Some folded napkins, more arrowheads, a shard of porcelain, a thimble, a discarded marble. You check the third draw. Some salts, spices, dried leaves, matching Illyrian blades, pots of ink, a copper coin. You check the fourth draw. Crisp bedsheets, off-white pillowcases, a dented metal mug, a small container of some kind, one arrowhead, a crossbow.
You return to your room with the ball of string and the empty crossbow.
Swallowed in the silence of the bedroom, hidden behind the wards.
The snare is easy to set up, directions still vivid in your mind and for a few short moments, you allow yourself to settle into the certainty of following through with those instructions. Encountering a bit of trouble with how to keep the tension of the string with no earth, but your mind works quickly, weighing the string taut with the one book from your shelf, and a square box containing a mechanical universe. Making sure the string is just tight enough so the faintest touch will snap the tension loose.
You glance at the string on the floor, eyes catching on the small painting on your desk.
You slot the arrow into the crossbow with a satisfying click.
The ash stings your fingertips.
You stand with your back to the door, facing the crossbow head on. Your heart bleeds a little, tears at last dripping slowly down your cheeks, but it will be better this way. Easing in a deep breath, you relax into that feeling deep in your chest that’s telling you this is the right thing to do. It was always going to happen, there was never a path you could have taken that wouldn’t have lead you to this one way or another. It’s a feeling almost like relief: there’s finally a way out.
One perfect, swift, execution. An ash arrow to your heart, splitting the muscle and ending its relentless beat. Your breathing increases to a stuttering pulse before calming, and you swallow, glancing to the windows. You know you’ll cause a mess.
Fingers open the latch to the window, fresh air gently rolling in, and your breathing stutters again. You’ll be irrevocably gone.
Peering about the bedroom, one you hadn’t felt was truly your own, but had stayed long enough to begin putting down roots—the bookmark laying beneath the pendant on the desk beside the painting, the jigsaw still wrapped in a bow beneath the bed, the sealed nail polish and briefly used lip tint within the cupboard. Sobs shudder through your chest strangely.
A part of you doesn’t want to leave yet.
A small, human part, that still fears solitude despite your chosen loneliness.
You step toward the book, body caving in, heart collapsing in on itself, the emotive feeling similar to the convulsions you’ve experienced after vomiting. A vacuum hidden inside of your chest, finally imploding. You should end it now.
The door creaks behind you, and you flinch from terror at someone witnessing your vulnerability.
Hazel eyes meet your own, at once scanning the room out of habit, and those lovely eyes widen as you recoil on instinct, foot knocking into the book.
————
Given the pleasure of time, he had been allowed to ponder the impossible question: to choose between his death and her own, each equally impossible. How is anyone to make a choice like that?
But, caught in between precious moments, there’s no time for thought or debate. It’s easy to declare gallantry, to flippantly comfort a companion with those easy words—I’d take an arrow for you.—but it’s an entirely different matter when the arrow is whistling straight toward them.
And yet before the mug has even hit the floor, he feels the familiar, burning pain as the arrow pierces through his flesh, slicing him open as the wrongness bleeds into him, swiftly poisoning his blood, draining the inherent magic from his body.
————
You stare up into wide hazel eyes, agony etched across his delicate features, the very tip of the arrow lightly piercing your skin from where it’s shot straight through him, caught in his flesh.
He groans lowly, his weight falling more heavily on your shoulders where his hands had grabbed you to switch your positions, and you’re helpless as his knees give out from pain, dragging you down with him as he collides with the ground.
Horror pounds through your body, heart beating a thousand times a second until it’s risen into your throat, hands shaking violently as you try to hold him steady, stinging with the burning heat of blood from his side.
Mother murder you.
“Az,” you stammer hoarsely, staring at his twisted features, brow furrowed deeply, breathing ragged as it puffs against your skin. The familiar scent of blood filtrates through your system, undiluted and metallic, and he’s dying he’s dying he’s dying—
His hand weakly grasps the back of your neck, grabbing your attention as your hands fumble, trembling with uncertainty and despair, fingertips beginning to sizzle as panic floods your veins, tossed into the rapids, utterly out of control as your mind unravels, regret stabbing through your heart.
His lips are moving but your ears are ringing, itches burning at your skin, a streaking noise piercing through your head like the screaming from those bloody fields. He’s speaking and you try to read his lips, but your eyes aren’t focusing, tears blurring your vision as sobs heave in and out of your chest, burning at your throat and lungs. You had tried to stop it! You were so close to preventing it!
Your hand settles on his cheek, already feeling cool beneath your burning, burning, glowing—
Feyre and Rhys, his lips form, and you shake. Eyes scanning his features frenetically. His own flick to the door, and you understand them to be here? You stare at him helplessly, hopelessly—it won’t matter how you scream or cry for them, not even if you bled your throat raw. The ward against noise that you’d been so thankful for, that Feyre had given in attempts to help, to remedy a wrong.
Something so small, yet so immoveable. Impossible to defeat. Felled by your own, stupid need—
He’s going to die.
Neither you nor Azriel have a second to prepare as the power wells up inside of you with the force of a damn broken loose, that internal wall shattering entirely, blown to bits as you feel the staggering pressure swallow your brain, crushing in intensity at the rapid division of cells, splitting atoms colliding as the explosion blows you apart.
Brilliant green light detonates, silence settling for a second before the noise crushes back down, the room blown to pieces.
The ground shakes beneath you, floorboards cracking and splintering as a hole is torn through the side of the House, tearing through the wards as the noise thunders above the city, sweeping across Prythian with the force of the Cauldron that had torn down the Wall.
One final surge of magic before the life is taken from his body.
Pain lacerates through your figure as something fundamental cracks open inside of you, all at once draining the agony that had beens steadily building up, all of it gushing out, skin resplendent with a sickening golden-green light, radiating your flesh.
Then you collapse, falling into the pool of steadily cooling blood surrounding Azriel’s body.
The prophecy having come to fulfilment.
——————————————————————————————————————————————
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too young to know it gets better * fem!driver
there has to be someone out there that can snap her out of it, right?
pairings: oscar piastri x fem!driver, logan sargeant x fem!driver
notes: HI AFTER THIS THERE's one left and i promise that's not AS angsty as this one and i'm thinking of adding one or two more bonus chapters?? lolsie but idk we'll see!
(series masterlist) | (📂 2025: fall from grace)
(prev)
rockster has disconnected.
that’s the notification that had brought logan and oscar together some random afternoon. they stand in the confinements of the elevator in silence, not a single word uttered since they’d met one another in the lobby after sending a simple text out.
but they know what they’re here for.
logan hadn’t moved that fast in concern for her, dating back 3 years ago when mick had supposedly texted him about marrying his crush in vegas. he had sprinted 2 blocks from his apartment building to hers in the span of a couple of minutes.
and oscar had been running errands with lily prior to getting the notification. when she’d noticed her boyfriend staring down at his phone with distress all over his face, she’d immediately pushed him towards the exits to attend to the girl. she’s also a close friend, so she notices.
if you asked oscar, he’s been worried for months. but with her tendency to keep rejecting his initiation for small talk, it’s difficult to try and find the words to try and pry a confession out of her. but this disconnection from an application they’ve had for years raises red flags that they didn’t even know were possible.
“we’re not overreacting, right?” oscar mutters as they step out of the elevator at her floor.
logan nods, lips pressed into a thin line as he counts the steps he takes down the familiar hallway. “she dropped kidnapper off at my apartment like a week and a half ago. i haven’t heard from her since.”
oscar turns to him. “you’ve heard from her?”
“barely,” logan grimaces with a shake of his head, eyes trained on the hallway. “i invited her in for snacks but she declined and left immediately.”
“i haven’t seen or heard from her since the summer break began.”
“she hasn’t been picking up my calls either.” he turns to oscar. “that’s weird, right?”
logan almost wants to laugh at their conversation. if he didn’t consider that their best friend was the person at stake, he would have laughed the loudest he’s ever. they simply sounded like they were answering one another for copium in hopes that their best friend hasn’t lost her mind just yet.
when he unlocks the door to her apartment, they’re taken aback by the sight they’re immediately greeted with. and for logan, it’s whiplash — he’s only ever had fond memories of this apartment. to find it absolutely thrashed almost breaks his heart a little bit.
in his mind, he can hear the girl always scolding him for being messy when they were living together.
the curtains, typically letting the sun seep into the room, are drawn in to block the light out. the floor is littered with her things and there’s a chair toppled over on the ground. a picture frame on the entertainment system beneath the tv is faced down against the counter and if logan can recall perfectly, it’s their picture from when they were kids.
“what happened in here?” oscar mutters, stepping around the items of stray pieces of clothing on the ground. “should we call someone? do you think someone broke into her apartment?”
“let me call her and see if she’s alright,” logan sighs, fishing for his phone in his back pocket.
he hadn’t expected the situation to be so concerning. have they really let her run rampant on her own all this time?
he dials her number, just about to press the call button when a lock clicks and a door opens.
the girl, albeit slightly unrecognisable at first, steps out of her bedroom. she’s still in her pyjamas, cheeks wet and eyes puffy with her hair in a messy ponytail talling apart on her shoulder.
“who- rocky?”
she flinches back at the voice, catching her off-guard. she sighs tiredly as she pushes her hair out of her face, wiping her cheeks dry on the sleeve of her pyjamas. “what are you guys doing here”
“what are we- when did you get back?” logan tilts his head in confusion. he gestures towards the mess around them, “and what happened? have you been crying?”
she sighs again, eyes fluttering as she turns to look away from them. “you guys should really go. it’s not a good time right now,” she says softly, gesturing them towards the front door of her apartment.
“we can stay and help you clean everything up,” oscar mutters, mirror logan’s stare at the ground, “we’re just curious. you don’t typically let your apartment get this messy.”
“mate,” another sigh comes with her pinching the bridge of her nose, “it’s really not a good time right now.”
oscar’s head snaps up. “are you avoiding us?”
she stares at him tiredly. “what? no, it’s just-”
“you are, aren’t you?” oscar cuts her off, feeling an overwhelming wave of frustration takes over him. months of what feels like a one-sided friendship finally catches up to him.
every single rejection of plans reminds him how neglected their friendship has been, every time she’s ‘forgotten’ to look for an ice cream parlour makes his blood boil. it is such a one-sided friendship as of late and it feels like she’s no longer honouring the years of friendship they have.
“but why? did we do something? did we say something to upset you?”
she slouches her shoulders. she takes a deep breath to recompose herself. “please just go,” she croaks out, feeling a knot in her throat at the realisation of where this entire conversation might be heading. “not now.”
“but what is it? is it us?” oscar frowns. “at least tell us before you start ignoring us.”
she clenches her jaw as her patience runs thin. and she tries to hold on to the last string of patience she has. all these past months, she’s tried her damnest not to be this way to anyone that’s involved in racing.
just to save some face, to show that she’s not completely lost her mind. apart from the fact that they’re all practically colleagues, they’re also her friends.
but as oscar continues to edge her on for an explanation for her behaviour, it’s increasingly getting more difficult to keep her outbust at bay.
“rocky,” oscar calls out to grab her attention. “what is it? i’m so tired of you beating around the bush; if we did something to upset you, speak up. it’s not fair — what you’re doing. you’re cancelling plans, you’re bailing, you’re leaving us hanging… we’ve known each other half of our lives. you can’t just do this.”
logan shifts uncomfortable where he stands. “do you hate us?”
she tries to stop herself, really. but she should be allowed one outburst in her life.
“yes, yes, i actually do!” she admits, venom lacing her words as she starts to explain herself. “it sucks. i’m so fucking jealous of all of you right now. i’ve tried to feel happy for you guys but honestly?” a dry laugh passes her lips, tears falling out of her eyes. “i resent all of the success you’ve found this year.
because you’re doing great and i’m not. it’s annoying because i should be doing great too. because between every single one of us, no one’s worked as hard as i have to get to where i am today. you’re my best friends but i can’t get myself to be happy for you and i hate myself even more for it.”
oscar blinks blankly at her. her chest heaves as she finishes speaking, fists clenched by her side as she starts to cry a little harder.
she’s swallowed down every single drop of resentment she feels towards her friends, all doing well while she’d sunk deeper into the trenches of her own demise.
speaking ill of them that one time they achieved a podium without her haunted her for weeks on end. she couldn’t get herself to speak to them like she hadn’t spent 20 minutes speaking behind their backs about how much she hates that they’re on podiums without her.
“it was easier to avoid you than say things i can’t say.”
it was truly one of the last times she spend with them; the guilt of speaking on them ate her up. she’s apologise out of the blue and they’d have no idea what she was talking about.
admitting it now feels like their friendship would truly never be the same. like this is the one fight that’s been waiting to happen after their years of friendship and would lead to her eventual loneliness.
but she doesn’t expect oscar to start laughing. “are you fucking stupid?”
“excuse me, what?” she scoffs, throwing her head back slightly.
logan sighs next to socar. “come on, don’t be like that. she’s clearly having a hard time right now,” he mutters, putting a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.
oscar turns to logan, pointing a hand over to where the girl stand by her bedroom door. “really, logan? you don’t think she’s being so mind-numbingly stupid right now?” he glances at her then immediately looks away. “she’s so insensitive right now. the last thing she should have done is isolate herself but she’s gone ahead and done exactly that.”
oscar huffs and turns back to her with a frown. “you would think that she would fall back on the people who understand her the most. and you still don’t believe she’s being stupid?”
logan sighs again. “oscar.”
“you don’t fucking get it!” she screams.
“we’re the ones who don’t get it? out of everyone you know, we’re the 2 people who understand the most!”
he has a point, she starts to think. but it’s not the same — they’re not the same. their predicaments are different.
they never had to go through and be on the receiving end of words that tried to tear her down as she grew up.
“no, you don’t!” she says with slight amusement. “you’re oscar piastri. everyone’s kissed the ground you’ve walked on; you came into the sport and everyone’s been acting like you’re a prodigy changing the course of the sport. you don’t know what it’s like to be this way!”
“and you thought that pushing away every single person who wants to help you is the solution to your problems?” oscar snorts. then it hits him. “is that why i haven’t seen matt around lately? you drove him away? finally cracked, didn’t he?”
“you don’t know the half of it,” she scoffs. there’s no need for oscar to remind her of the cardinal sin she’d acted upon to drive matt away.
she lives with the repercussions of it every single day: coming back to an empty apartment. just an apartment, a shell of what used to feel like home.
“all of this over a bad couple races?” oscar rolls his eyes and another mean scoff passes his lips. he was unaware how bad it had gotten for her. “how immature. there’s more to fucking life than your position in f1.”
she sucks in a deep breath. “you’ll never understand.”
“oh, i do,” oscar points out with a small grin. “i grew up with you, rocky, i know how you operate. you break down the minute you’re not the best at something. you get scared and hide away when you don’t feel like you’re on the top of your game.”
“what do you know about what i feel?” she tilts her head with a small smile. “that’s so fucking pretentious of you to say so, oscar.”
“you’ve already made it to the top.” he picks his feet up and starts to walk over to her, shoving away logan’s hand that tries to stop him from threading any further. “it’s unnecessary that you’re still this hard on yourself. you’ve proved everyone wrong by making it this far. there are people on your side,” he jabs a finger into her shoulder and she stumbles back, “there are people who miss you- we miss you!
“do you even realise how lucky you have it right now? you’ve got sebastian helping to push your narrative because he believes in you. do you think everyone’s got that luxury?” he points back at logan. “do you think he had that luxury fight for his life in this sport? did that even cross your mind or are you just so far into your head?”
“oscar,” logan repeats. oscar glances back at logan who has his lips pressed into a thin line, unamused by the scenario he’s choosing to bring up. “don’t even go there.”
but oscar ignores him. oscar turns back to the younger girl and grabs her shoulders, squeezing them firmly as he draws a soft sob from her.
“i thought that because you weren’t entirely alone, it was okay that we take a step back and stopped meddling with your life. i thought you were going to be fine; i thought you knew ho to handle yourself and continue to keep your feet on the ground.”
she shakes her head, bottom lip pouted out. “you don’t-”
“i don’t understand?” oscar scoffs. “how far into your head have you gone to push yourself into a corner? do you realise that you’re in the trenches because you put yourself in there? have you looked in the mirror and actually,” oscar shakes her, “looked at yourself?”
and it seems that something finally clicked in her head. she stares blankly up at him, tears finally running down her cheeks. her chest heaves with constant sobs as she no longer can find the words in her head to prove her point.
“okay, that’s enough,” logan mutters, yanking oscar away from the girl. he shoves the younger boy towards the kitchen. “go and get some air and drink some water — you’re scaring her.”
oscar sniffles, wiping his eyes and stumbles towards the kitchen. he spares her one last glare before turning his back on her. “whatever.”
logan can only sigh when he looks down her head. she’s got her head in her hands as she sobs. she lifts her eyes to look up at him and scoffs. “what? do you have something to say to me? about how deranged i’ve gotten?”
“i don’t know what got into you to think we wouldn’t understand how you were feeling,” he says softly, tears flooding his eyes.
it’s difficult to watch someone you think is so strong be half the person you watched her grow into. he pulls her into his arms, squeezing her into a tight hug and rests his chin on her head.
“i’m sorry,” she cries in staggered breaths into his chest. “i’m sorry. i didn’t know. i didn’t-”
“it’s okay,” he mutters, squeezing her tighter. “we’re here.” he pulls away slightly and cups her cheeks, wiping her tears away with a small grin. “we’ve got you, okay? we’re here now.”
she nods through her tears, “okay.”
“we’ve got you, i promise,” logan hums, pulling her in again. he sways gently as he feels her sobs slowly dying out. “you’ll be okay.”
logan turns around at the sound of things shuffling about. oscar has a trash bag in his hand, picking up empty bottles on the ground and throwing them into the bag silently. she pulls her head back and watches oscar slowly navigate her littered apartment.
sensing their stares, oscar glances over his shoulder. “are you going to help me or are you just going to let me do this by myself?”
she glances up at logan with eyebrows raised and in return, he shrugs with a small smile.
for the next 2 hours, they clean up her apartment in silence. no music, not an utter of another word, just a heavy silence pushing down on their shoulders as they shift about her apartment like a well-oiled machine.
oscar throws his dirty piece of tissue into the bin right by the coffee table and sighs, leaning back into the couch he’s sat on. he’s in a single seater while logan and her share the bigger couch.
her apartment finally looks the way they all remember it. pristine with all her things neatly slotted into their respective slots.
oscar hasn’t spoken to her much since he’d gotten the bright idea to start helping her clean the apartment for her. he’d briefly asked her if she wanted pizza for dinner, to which she simply shrugged and said okay, then asked which toppings she wanted. then they returned to their silence.
he picks up her can of pepsi, popping it open before extending his hand over to her. she turns stiffly and looks at his offer with a blank stare. “oh, thank you.”
she takes it into her hands and glances over at oscar who turns away from her immediately to grab logan’s drink next. “i’m sorry,” she says first, just barely above a whisper. her head is dropped slightly, eyes trained on the slicer of pizza in her hands.
truthfully, she’s not very sure how to apologise for her behaviour. while she’s broken down over things said about her and her progress is a sport that barely had a spot for her, it’s never gotten this bad.
she hadn’t even realised that they still cared with their own lives now.
“no, i’m sorry,” logan says immediately, turning his head to her. “that we didn’t foster an environment where you felt like you could come to use and be honest about how you’re really feeling. you did it for me all the time when we first started out and i’m sorry i couldn’t do the same for you.”
“it’s not even your fault,” she sighs shakily. “i pushed away everyone who tried to extend their hands out to me to help. oscar’s right.”
oscar sighs audibly, sinking into his seat. he turns his head to look at her and purses is lips. “i’m sorry i called you stupid,” oscar says, “we grew up together… i just thought that if you didn’t feel right, we’d still be the people you know you don’t have to put up a facade with. be brutally, disgustingly and painfully honest with.”
“i really didn’t wanna worry anybody,” she frowns. “you have your own lives now, you know? i thought i could handle it on my own.”
“don’t even say that,” oscar turns to her with furrowed eyebrows, “you’re practically my little sister — i’ve driven you to the hospital after you writhed in pain from dislocating your shoulder playing volleyball. i’ve beaten up guys from school for you so of course you’ll always have a place in our lives.”
“i didn’t want you to know that i was a sore loser,” she shrugs with a small grin. she gestures towards logan. “he took our first 2 years in the sport so gracefully. it was embarrassing that i couldn’t do the same when it was my turn.”
“what?” logan scoffs. “you seriously think i wasn’t jealous seeing you guys being glorified by everyone? i felt like shit watching you guys get accepted in the sport with open arms and make new friends without me.”
he gives her a knowing stare when she turns her head to look at him. “i lvoe you, but i seriously despised you so much for being better than me at everything. i felt like the smallest man who’s ever lived when i was next to you. and dude… we were always together.”
she chews on the inside of her cheek. “i didn’t know that… i’m sorry…”
“but at the end of the day, you were always there for me,” logan frowns, poking her arm gently. “i’m sorry i couldn’t give you the same level of comfort to not spiral this bad. the only reason i hadn’t was because you were there for me all the time.”
“well i’m sorry that i was so mean to you,” oscar sighs. “but you know you needed it, right?”
“i know,” she shrugs, “thanks.”
“i don’t wanna be the one to bring it up, though,” logan hums as he reaches forward for another slice, “but what happened with matt?”
she chuckles with a soft snort. she lifts her head and puffs her cheeks out. “i wasn’t very nice to him when everything was falling apart,” tears flood her eyes, “he called for a break. but honestly, i think he wants to break up with me.”
logan raises an eyebrow. “he asked for a break, didn’t he? that’s not a breakup, mate.”
“you weren’t there. i wouldn’t want to be with me either if i had to endure what he went through with me,” she admits with a sigh. she wipes her tears away from her eyes and smiles slightly. “i think he’s just trying to soften the blow.”
oscar laughs. he laughs the loudest and heartiest he’s ever since he’d bolted from lily while they were running errands together. “do you seriously think that?”
she blinks at oscar. “i thought we were done being mean to me, mate.”
“we are!” oscar beams, forcing himself to falter with his laughter. “i’m sorry, i’m not trying to make you feel worse. but do you seriously think that matt — the guy who’s in your garage every single weekend, literally comes into the paddocks with ice cream for your entire team, texts logan and i to ask about things to surprise you with — wants to seriously break up with you?”
“well, you weren’t there,” she explains with a frown. “well, you were, once when i was crying in the paddocks. but i was so mean to him.”
“but a break isn’t a breakup,” oscar explains as he points at her knowingly. “you were arguably at your worst, i doubt that he wants to leave you when your mental was that bad. it happens, you know?”
“if he didn’t want to be with you, he would have broken up with you instead of asking for a break,” logan sighs, patting her on the shoulder. “just approach him.”
“i don’t know how to,” she admits, sliding down the couch to lie down slightly. “there’s no gesture big enough to makeup for the things i said… the way i treated him…”
“say you’re sorry,” oscar says with a small grin and a nod. “start there and i’m sure you guys can work it out from there, you know?”
“i’ll try.”
“okay, enough with this,” logan throws his head back with a grunt. “let’s go karting!” he stands up and smiles at her widely. “you sound like you need your edge back. i’ll even let you win this time.”
she scoffs, “as if i’d ever lose to you in equal machinery!”
“aw, she’s back! she’s fighting back now!” oscar cheers, hopping up as he claps his hands. “come on! then let’s get ice cream where we always get it! i haven’t been there in forever.”
“okay, okay!” she laughs, watching the 2 of them jump to their feet and start to clear out her table. she feels a warmth in her chest watching them in her living room. “just let me shower, okay? we kinda cleaned a lot tonight. i won’t take less than 15 minutes, i promise!”
there’s a chorus of heavy sighs and arms thrown in the air. “we might as well cancel karting.”
“but you take forever to get ready!” oscar jokes with a frown. “if you pass 15 minutes, you’re paying for ice cream.”
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Hello ☺️ I really really enjoyed the boxer jason and your over all jason imagines they make me feral. I was wondering if I could request one where the reader is like all about jason and he isn't used to it and she is like a big ball of sunshine always happy to see jason and will like drop a conversation as soon as he walks into the room and go on over to him.
a/n: anon, thank you so much for this sweet message and this really juicy request!! <333 I'll have to do you one better with this request, I hope you enjoy.
Mr.Stratford is talking about something. Something about his second dog and his third wife. Or maybe it's his third do and his second wife? You can't really tell. At this point you know that he's had three wives and five dogs. And he has so many funny stories about them. He thinks it's funny but you think it's a downright snooze fest.
You keep from yawning when you decide to move a bit. That way you'll have sight of the door and see who's coming in and out. You nod on as the man continues speaking, losing a minute of your life with every word he says.
It's not until a white tuft of hair appears in the doorway do the sparkles come back into your eyes. You hand the man your flute of bubbly and starts fast walking over to him.
Jason sees you coming and holds open his arms. You launch yourself at him. He hugs you back.
"Next time we show up together." you say.
"You just walked away from the mayor of Gotham." Jason says.
"He's got three more months left until reelection. So what." you answer and shrug your shoulders.
-
You look at him. Taking him all in. The hook of his nose. His eyelashes, that are truly unfair of him to have, and his eyes. His big brown eyes.
You slide your finger down the side of his face, his cheekbone, and smile.
"Is everything okay?" he asks.
You nod slowly, "yeah just can't believe you're mine. It's kinda crazy."
"You're the one out of my league." he tries.
But you counter when you get up and straddle him. With your thighs on either side of his waist you place your hands on top of his chest. He just looks at you, with that face.
He makes the same face whenever you greet him or talk about him to himself. Like he doesn't believe it. Like he thinks it's an illusion or something.
You remind him every day it's not.
"Jason Todd, you are so far out of my league we're not even playing the same sport. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I promise I'll wake up and earn you. Every day." you say.
Jason's eyes go a bit wide. And he holds onto your hands that are place atop his chest. You lean down and press two kisses to the back of his hands.
-
Jason comes to pick you up at work and it's like the sun is shining again. You fold up your apron and jog around the coffee counter. And when you finally meet him at the door, you stop mere inches from him.
He looks down at you with a smile.
"Hi." he says.
You smile even wider, "Hi Jason."
He shakes his head with a smile and brings you into a hug. You hug him back immediately. He rocks the both of you side to side. He also handles you away from the door to not bump into anyone coming into the coffee shop.
"Ready to go home?" he asks.
You nod as you snuggle further into his chest.
-
You lose him in a crowd once. once. It only happens once because after the two of you create a game plan. Contingencies upon contingencies to make sure it doesn't happen again.
When you and Jason are in a packed dive bar. Something about it being trivia night and also happy hour and also a celebration for surviving the latest scarecrow attack.
You're by the bar and he's trying to secure a table for the two of you. And you get a bit down trodden when you realize you can't see him near you. You start looking past the dozens of heads but you still can't find him.
So you do the one thing that you remember from a tv show once. You bend down and look at the shoes. As you crab walk through the crowd you pass by so many of them.
Until you can see his familiar brown boots. The noticeable scuff on them that you saw when he put them on just an hour ago. You pick yourself up and see his head amongst the others.
When you finally get within three feet of him you reach out and call to him. He turns around and he smiles.
"Thought I lost you." he says.
"Nope. I just looked for your boots." you answer.
"We've gotta come up with something else. What if I throw these boots away? Or if someone has the same kind?" he asks.
You put your hand on his cheek, "I'll always find you. The boots just made it easier."
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Crush Culture˖ ࣪⊹
IV. Just open your mind
sum: Dose he finally admit it? That maybe a a crush isn’t so bad that being interested in someone is okay? He doesn’t know though what if he’s just about to waste his time.
warnings: cursing, flirting, not proofread, jealousy, Nekomas being protective over their manager, tsukii having wondering eyes.
.˚₊‧ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ‧₊˚.
A few says in Yamaguchi could tell something was up, that his best friend was dealing with something but didn’t open up about it. Kei seemed more… spacious. Like he wasn’t fully there. How his gaze would linger a bit longer in the distance how, that he seemed to be more focused yet so distracted at the time. Maybe he was just having a moment, he was still himself.
Then he would notice it, how the tips of Kei’s ears turned red when he would talk to the second year manager. How he played with his finger as he spoke to her that his eyes didn’t wander if as she talked to him helping with whatever she asked. That when Noya would ask about it he was quickly dismissive about her. Tadashi wanted to ask, he wanted to bring it up but didn’t want to make his best friend upset. He knew Kei didn’t like the idea of being interested in somebody, that is was stupid, crush culture was to normalize and a waste of time.
“Tsukii?” He asked, the two of them walking out of the gym.
Tsukishima hummed listening to his friend, “Can I ask you something with out you getting upset.” Yamaguchi asked.
He noticed Tsukishimas eyebrow raise “What is it?”
“Do you like Nekomas Manager…?”
Tsukishima stoped dead in his track, yamaguchi stoped a little after him looking back at his best friend. His brows frowned slightly but his face all around looked blank, yet grossed out at the same time. Kei opened his mouth but closed it before anything came out, his gaze shifting to the ground. The silence around them heavy the sound of crickets and frogs could be heard within the summer night. The faint sounds of shoes squeaking against gym floors as teams still practice voices of other players heard. But the two of them stayed silent, Tsukishima almost debating in his head to answer.
“I don’t know..” he spoke, his voice barely audible.
Yamaguchi watche as Tsukishima looked at the plan of his hands for a moment before speaking. “Sh-she makes me nervous, like actually nervous Tadashi..” his eyes met Yamaguchis, “She has this attitude that doesn’t irritate me like other do, her snarky or teasing remarks make me blush like a fucking school girl. Her bratty attitude and cockiness is so annoying yet it doesn’t make me angry or upset. She didn’t take my shit either always saying something back with this amused look…”
Tsukishima laughed at himself “ I find myself always looking for her, in the practice matches to see if she’s maybe looking at me. I look for her in other gyms, even at the dining hall. Even if she’s not looking at me I continue to look at her, is it stupid to say I like the way she looks. Her face.. it UGH. It’s so fucking stupid, i barely know her I- I don’t even know how to start an actual conversation with her and every time I have it’s something quick just a comment and I walk away like a loser. It’s so lame.” He groaned, confessing to his friend.
“So you do like her, it’s okay-“
“I know it’s okay but.. what if I end up wasting my time. I put in effort just to get hurt in the end? That she didn’t feel the same about me? That what if I do something, would she stay? Stay with me not shut me out after an argument or because I said something that just broke her heart. I no good with words and I’m.. I’m not nice when I’m upset. God and most of the time I don’t notice that I’m like that nor do I feel bad after the fact..” he sighed rubbing his eyes his glasses lifting off his face.
Tadashi stood in front of his friend, a soft smile on his face. “Kei.. I’m no love expert but you seem smitten. And as much as I wish I could give you the reassurance that nothing bad will happen that’s not how it works with relationships, love even. Time will tell, she’ll either from how highly you speak of her now she’ll either be your worst heartbreak or someone you die old with.”
Tsukishima laughed, Tadashi only smiled small laughs leaving his mouth “Don’t tell anyone about this. I swear to god.” Tsukishima spoke still laughing.
“I wont I promise!” Tadashi smiled his hand falling on Kei’s shoulders.
“You’re my best friend Tadashi.. but I will hunt you down.”
Tadashi chuckled “I wont.” Putting his pinky finger up, tsukishima linking his with Yamaguchis.
The pair soon entered the dining hall for dinner. Everyone sitting at tables as they are the teams mixed up making it harder to find a spot to sit, everyone talking amongst themselves. Tsukishimas stiffened the feeling of a hand touching his arm startling him.
“Sorry didn’t mean to make you jump stalker, do you and your friend wann come sit with me and a few of my guys?” Y/n asked smiling.
Tsukishima and Yamaguchi looked at one another “Yeah that would be nice thank you!” Yamaguchi answered her.
She nodded her head having them follow her, he noticed how her braids were put into this low buns two red ribbons helping hold them together, extra curls falling loose from them. Tsukishimas eyes slightly wondering the black shirt she wore was cropped slightly and tight, not a lot the red joggers she wore more baggy than the uniform he usually saw her in the sides saying ‘Nekoma Volleyball Club’ down the sides. They sat low on her hips he could see two rhinestones on her lower back, piercings?
Yamaguchi elbowing him lightly, pretty much telling him to stop staring at her ass. Tsukishima glaring lightly. “I wasn’t.”
“Mmhm”
The stoped at a table her putting her tray down next to a guy with longer hair blonde but grown out his roots black. “I invited some friends, this is Tuskishima, and his friend Yamaguchi.” She spoke as the two sat next to her Kei in the middle of her and Tadashi.
The both said hi, “this is a little bit of my team and others they’ll introduce themselves unless y’all know each other already.” She said smiling.
They knew Kuroo and Bokuto, as well as Akaashi. Yamamoto, Fukunaga, kenma and lev had introduced themselves. They all talked amongst themselves, her talking with them aswell, she was close with her team members and got along with them. Her body was close to his, a small shiver of her body because of kenma pushing her against him. “Be careful!” She pushed Kenma back him dramatically falling into Yaku.
“You see this? This abuse she puts me through.” Kenma spoke out to the table.
She snorted turning back to her food, she could hear Tsukishima next to her laugh lightly aswell her eyes glancing at him a smile on her face “whatever,”
She didn’t move back after her push, her thigh pushed up against his there arms touching. Yamaguchi watched as his friends face became pink, the blonde pushing up his glasses before continuing to eat. She acted as if nothing was happening that her thigh was pushed up against him, that her foot tapped his. But he didn’t move away from her touch, he didn’t want to. His eyes meeting hers as he turned his head.
“How long have you been playing Volleyball?” She asked. Turning her body towards him.
“Since I was a kid just something I picked up.” He spoke.
“Do you not like.. enjoy it?”
He shrugged “I don’t hate it keeps me busy ya know, did you play any sports?” He asked.
“I did, when I lived in the states, I played soccer, did gymnastics also.” She explained
“Weren’t you gonna go for an American team? That’s what it’s called right?” Kuroo said.
“Yeah but moved.. and I could’ve continued here but was mad at my dad for moving us across the world.” She said, looking over at him.
“That’s why you quit? Out of spite?” Tsukishima asked. It came out more snarky than wanted.
“I didn’t quit, but I did try for a team her in Tokyo one of the best but didn’t have a great experience, the girls were mean, I didn’t appreciate getting body shamed.” She hummed, her face dropping a bit.
“That’s fucked,”
“They were jealous.” She smiled.
Tuskishima nodded, kuroo kept the conversation going. Getting y/n and Tuskishima to talk a bet more, the two learning a lot about each other. Even after eating they continued to talk. Kuroo knew what he was doing, he liked the blonde he was a player that needed more of a push and he knew that she would do that. But he could feel the flirty tension between them, it was light but noticeable to him. She was always nice and out going with people but she seemed a bit different something only him and Kenma noticed but kept to themselves.
“You should come practice with us after dinner.” Kuroo spoke interrupting their conversation.
“I’m al-”
“You should you’re a hell of a blocker, but need a bit more.. hmm sturdiness? Kuroo is one of the best I know good to have someone to help out.” She said to him cutting the blonde of.
Tsukishimas eyes moving from hers to kuroos a smirk on his lips making kei glare, “I’m alright thanks though..” he answered.
He went. He went to that stupid gym, just because she went after cleaning up. Kuroo giving him a sassy remark when he walked in with her. Tuskishima glancing at her before joining them.
Her eyes never left him, analyzing and down right admiring him. He seemed more locked in them earlier when she was watching him, he seemed so unserious about Vollyball but he isn’t so nonchalant about it, he only seems that way because something happened. He started playing this sport out of spite, and now he’s actually starting to enjoy it. She watch how he listened to kuroo as he explained to him how to fix something little bit over all helped. She could tell his hands and fingers were starting to hurt how he constantly rubbed them.
“Hun do you want me to wrap your fingers I can..” she spoke reaching into her bag. Tuskishimas eyes looking over towards her watching as she waved him over.
He offered his hand out to her no hesitation, her hands were cold against his. Her hands calloused yet so soft, while his where rough and warm, her hands were gentle as she taped his fingers. His eyes watched her his head tilting slightly.
‘Just open your mind to new things Kei’ the sound of his moms voice ringing through his ears. He had to open his mind, allow himself to let her in. To know the real him. It be hard, hard he didn’t want to have his heart broke but how could she when she treated him with such care. How she looked as him so.. intimately. He’d never admit to himself, to her, to his mother, to Tadashi. He was scared. Scared of these feelings he was feeling.
Her eyes looked up noticing his brows frowned “Tsukishi-”
“Call me Kei, please.”
#haikyuu fluff#haikyuu scenarios#haikyuu tsukki#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu imagines#haikyuu#hq kei tsukishima#tsukishima kei x you#kei tsukishima x reader#tsukishima kei x reader#tsukishima kei#tsukishima x you#tsukishima fluff#tsukishima imagine#tsukishima x reader#haikyuu tsukishima
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kiss me;
ivantill, 8.7k
read on ao3
For a second he just stood there dumbly, eyes wide open. He heard a gasp from the side then a whispered, “I thought they weren’t actually supposed to kiss here?”
Till hadn’t prepared himself for this, but he knew he couldn’t risk ruining the scene even more. Eyelashes fluttering, he closed his eyes and cupped Ivan’s face, kissing him back with fervor.
Till couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Surely he had misheard, or maybe he hadn’t actually woken up this morning and he was still dreaming.
His manager looked as real as ever, though, staring at him with a hint of knowing amusement. He couldn’t stand her sometimes. (He loved her.)
“I thought you’d be excited,” she sighed dramatically, crossing her arms. “I guess maybe we should consider pulling out of the movie and – ”
His hand jerked out without his permission, fast as lightning, grabbing her arm. “Don’t even joke about that, Mizi.”
Her answering grin was all teeth. “They’ll want to do a chemistry read, first,” she put her hand over his. “Don’t get too excited. Nothing is guaranteed yet.”
For all they knew, he wouldn’t even get cast. Or if he did, maybe they’d kick Till off the project and replace him if their chemistry wasn’t promising enough. He really hoped it would be. But either way, he would be meeting him.
Till felt himself grinning before he could stop it, “I’m meeting Ivan.”
-
Till couldn’t recall the exact moment he discovered Ivan. To be fair, most people probably couldn’t. He was everywhere, it seemed – commercials, movies, television, even music videos.
What he could recall – as clear as if it’d happened yesterday – was the feeling he had felt. It was like a dam had opened and there was no stopping it. He realized he wanted more out of life.
He didn’t just want to continue being an extra on every set, the side-character who was killed off after one or two episodes.
Since then, he’d been able to build a decent name for himself. He wasn’t Ivan, by any means, but he was well-known enough to get the lead in an upcoming highly anticipated movie. And if the universe smiled upon him, just one last time, he would hopefully get to have Ivan as his love interest.
-
“I am running on exactly two hours of sleep, by the way.”
Mizi snorted, side-eyeing him. “I can tell,” she teased, and he knew it was just that: a joke but he still couldn’t help the sudden rush of insecurity.
As if sensing it by some form of magic, she slowed to a stop in the hallway and took his arm.
“You look great, Till. You haven’t even gotten makeup done yet and you still look amazing.” She squeezed his arm. “You’ve got this, you know that, right?”
He forced a smile. “Don’t you know confidence is my middle name?”
And usually it was true. If there was one thing he had over most of his competition in the industry, it was overflowing confidence.
Mizi smiled back, far more sincere. “Come on,” she said, tugging him along gently. “We don’t want to be late.”
-
Before the chemistry read, he went to get his makeup done as scheduled. Hyuna was no better than Mizi, grinning wildly as she gently applied a bit of concealer under his eyes.
“Let me guess,” she said, “didn’t sleep much?”
Till rolled his eyes, but made sure not to move. “I wonder if every actor has such a nosy makeup artist or is it just me?”
“Hmm, I would say you’re just lucky.” She winked and stepped back. “You look good enough to eat.”
He snorted. If he wasn’t so nervous underneath it all, he might’ve cracked a joke. Like how the only person he wanted to eat him was —
The door swung open, startling him. “Come on – ” he relaxed when he saw it was just Mizi. “We only have a few minutes.”
Quickly stumbling out of the chair, he rushed to her side and followed her into the hallway. As they walked toward the room set aside for their scheduled chemistry read, Mizi looked him up and down, not even trying to be discreet. Till made sure no one was around before quietly flipping her off.
Couldn’t tarnish his reputation and all that.
She giggled, light and airy. “I was just going to say,” she bumped their shoulders together, gentle, “you look good. Don’t let anything bring you down, okay?”
And he knew it wasn’t just empty words; Mizi had been there for him since the start of his career, long before he’d managed to actually make a name for himself. She’d been there with open arms (and an extra large pizza) every time he’d been turned down from a role, every time a casting director had scoffed like he was hilarious for even thinking he had a chance.
It had been hard, then, but motivating. He never wanted to be underestimated ever again. He thought he’d never feel so scared again, walking toward an audition room. It was a pointless fear. He had joked but surely they wouldn’t actually try to kick him out, even if the chemistry read wasn’t a success.
“Break a leg,” Mizi whispered just as they stopped in front of the door.
Till could hear voices through the wood. He concentrated and tried to see if he could pick out Ivan’s voice, in the sea of them, but he wasn’t sure if he could trust himself. He thought he heard him, a familiar drawl he had heard on television a million times, but he could’ve just been imagining it.
Mizi glanced at him, a silent question. He just nodded.
Without another word between them, she turned and opened the door.
-
Till didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath as his eyes scanned the room: it was all the usual people – the casting director sat at the table with two other staff members on each side, a few other stray staff members were scattered around the room.
In the middle of all of them was Ivan.
He was smiling politely as others talked to him, a small quirk of his mouth. Till must’ve stared for a second too long because suddenly Ivan was lifting his head and their eyes met.
Till had seen him a hundred times, at least, through a screen but he wasn’t sure anything could’ve prepared him for this moment.
For seeing him, here, like this, in real life. Ivan was even more stunning in person.
Ivan’s smile stretched just a little wider, barely noticeable. Till should’ve smiled back but he felt like he was frozen.
“Okay,” the casting director – Luka – stood up from the table. “From what I’ve been told, this is your first time meeting, correct?”
Till didn’t even realize he was addressing them until Mizi gave a gentle nudge at his side. He flushed, standing a little taller. He might’ve been meeting his idol, for lack of a better word, but he was still a professional.
“Yes,” he answered, cursing the slight shake to his voice.
Ivan nodded. “I’ve seen him plenty, of course, but never met, no.”
Till felt a shiver down his spine. Ivan. Ivan had seen him before, too, which shouldn’t have been surprising. He had been on a number of notable series by now, but for some reason he still hadn’t been prepared to hear it.
“Wonderful,” Luka said, “Everyone – ” He did a little twirl with his finger, making a point to address everyone in the room. “Out.”
Till knew the process by now. Luka’s process, at least. He could be a little unorthodox. Usually he didn’t mind it, but right now he was already starting to feel sweat pool at the small of his back.
Mizi let out a tiny huff of amusement as she helped to herd everyone out of the room. Last to go was Luka, who didn’t even say a word before closing the door.
If Ivan was confused, he didn’t voice it. For a moment, the room was silent with just the two of them.
“Sorry,” Till said eventually, clearing his throat. He dared a glance in Ivan’s direction; he was standing just a few feet away, a thoughtful quirk to his head. “Luka can be a bit, uh. Unorthodox in his methods. He always likes to give actors a few minutes by themselves before starting the read.”
He was proud of himself; his voice was steady and clear.
Ivan hummed, but still didn’t say anything. Till took advantage of the moment to really look Ivan over. He was beautiful; dark hair swept back with a few loose strands, eyes lined with black – not too much, just enough to somehow make his dark eyes look even darker, his lips shined with a thin layer of gloss, skin clear and perfect.
The way his mouth was twisted, Till could even see his fang. Not literal, of course, it was just his canine – especially sharp and pronounced – but it had always been one of his selling points that fans seemed to like.
He looked like he was conjured up in a lab somehow.
And Till, well. He wasn’t naive. He knew he was attractive – wouldn’t have gotten this far in the industry if he wasn’t – but he felt lacking compared to Ivan, more than he had in a long time.
Without thinking, he reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it. But the wild look was part of his appeal, Hyuna had always said. Made him stand out.
“Are you going to keep staring at me or actually introduce yourself?”
Till startled, yanking his hand out of his hair hard enough he winced a little. He opened his mouth, ready to apologize, but then he saw Ivan was smiling. Barely, really, more like a smirk.
Clearing his throat, he wiped his hands off on his jeans in what he hoped was a discreet move (he was still sweating like crazy) and stepped forward. “Why should I introduce myself when you apparently already know my name?”
He froze as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He was so stupid.
This was Ivan – the Ivan – and here he was already messing everything up because he never quite knew when to shut his mouth. He waited, expecting the worst. He wouldn’t have even been surprised if he’d pushed him out of the way and stormed out of the room.
But instead Ivan did the complete opposite. He gave a little laugh, eyes crinkling just a little around the edges. Till felt something warm blossom in the pit of his stomach.
“I haven’t had someone talk to me like that in, well, ages.” His eyes were still sparkling when he finally stopped laughing. He extended a hand. Till moved quickly before he could think too hard and just make himself more nervous. Ivan’s hand was warm, smooth.
Till knew his own hands weren’t nearly as smooth, from playing guitar. It was just a hobby he had picked up on the side, nothing more, but his hands still suffered for it.
“You must play an instrument,” Ivan said, startling him. For a moment, he wondered if he’d accidentally spoken his thoughts but then Ivan tilted his head. “Guitar?”
Till swallowed around the lump in his throat; Ivan’s thumb gently moved over his knuckles, once, fleeting, before he was pulling away. Maybe he’d imagined it. “Yeah. Um. Just a hobby.”
“I would love to hear you play, if ever given the chance,” Ivan said. Normally, Till would’ve brushed it off as empty words but there was something oddly sincere about the way he said it.
He dropped his gaze, focusing on the collar of Ivan’s shirt. Anything to make sure he didn’t keep staring at his face. “Yeah. Sure.”
Before he – or Ivan – could say anything else, the door was opened without even a knock. Till spun around as Luka entered the room followed by the rest of the staff and finally Mizi alongside a woman he didn’t quite recognize. He wondered if she was part of staff and somehow he had just never noticed her until now.
That question was answered quickly when she went to Ivan’s side. “You’ve totally got this,” she said, hushed but just loud enough Till could hear.
He wondered if that was true. Didn’t want to get his hopes up.
“Okay, since I’ve given you both more than enough time to get acquainted.” Luka nodded at the scripts on the table. “Go ahead.”
Till forced his hand to not shake as he reached out and grabbed his version of the script; the part they’d be rehearsing, today, had been highlighted. It wasn’t too long. He just had to get through the scene without any mistakes.
He skimmed through it quickly, saw Ivan doing the same, even though they had both already read the script. Ivan, possibly only one or twice, but Till had read it nearing a dozen times.
So how did he manage to forget what happened at the end?
They didn’t kiss, not in this scene, but they almost did and that was enough to have Till suddenly rethinking everything. You’re a professional, he reminded himself, and tried to believe it.
He had certainly kissed plenty of people on set by now but admittedly he had never found any of them quite as alluring as Ivan.
Still, this was a chance to prove himself. He wouldn’t let that get in the way of doing his job properly.
“We don’t have all day,” Luka said, as impatient as ever.
Till resisted the urge to glare at him and simply set the script aside; it wasn’t frowned upon to read from the script during chemistry reads, of course, but he had the entire thing memorized already.
Ivan probably hadn’t been able to memorize it in such a short time but Till was surprised to find he set his script aside as well. He was always called an acting prodigy by media, the best the industry had seen in ages, and it seemed like it went beyond just a good performance on screen.
They both stepped closer to each other, waited until Luka gave the final nod.
All jokes aside, Till really was a professional. He felt like he was a different person when he got into character. Immediately he felt his eyes start to sting, his bottom lip tremble a little.
“You lied to me,” he said, voice thick with emotion.
It was surprisingly easy to look Ivan in the eyes all of a sudden. Ivan stared back just as intensely, reached for his hands. He held them, loose and gentle. “You know I didn’t have a choice.”
Till jerked his hands away. “But you promised me.”
“I know, I know,” Ivan’s eyes were glossy too, brimming with so much emotion Till had to remind himself they were acting. He couldn’t remember ever having to do that before. “But I need you to trust me, okay?”
Till swallowed. “I – I don’t know if I can,” he whispered, just loud enough for Luka and the others to hear.
Ivan frowned, looking thoughtful for a moment. “How can I convince you to trust me?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, cursed himself because – he’d fucking forgotten the line. How could he have forgotten the line? He dared a quick glance at Luka, who was watching him with slightly narrowed eyes.
He was so screwed. Ivan was definitely getting the role, no doubt, but not before Till was probably kicked off the project.
And now he was so nervous he was shaking a little, hopefully not enough to be noticed by Luka and the others but there was no hiding it from Ivan, as close as he was.
So much for being a professional.
Maybe it would be better just to get it over with and admit his mistake, take whatever consequences would follow, even if that meant being kicked off the project. Even if it meant not getting to work with Ivan.
But as soon as he opened his mouth, Ivan surged forward and kissed him.
For a second he just stood there dumbly, eyes wide open. He heard a gasp from the side then a whispered, “I thought they weren’t actually supposed to kiss here?”
The only thing that followed was silence, but Till knew the answer; he might’ve forgotten his line but he still remembered how the scene ended – Ivan’s hand on his neck, thumb stroking his jaw as he begged him for one more chance.
Not a kiss, but something close. The actual kiss came far later in the script.
Till hadn’t prepared himself for this, but he knew he couldn’t risk ruining the scene even more. Eyelashes fluttering, he closed his eyes and cupped Ivan’s face, kissing him back with fervor.
It was like something out of his wildest dreams but also not at all.
After a few seconds, he dared to open his eyes, surprised to find Ivan already staring back at him.
Suddenly Ivan was pulling away, turning toward Luka. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away.”
Till licked his lips, flushed when he realized what he’d done and quickly pursed his lips into a thin line to ignore the urge to do it again.
“Well,” Luka looked torn between amusement and annoyance, “I supposed you were going to kiss him eventually one way or another.”
Till blinked as the words settled. “Wait, you mean – ”
“Don’t get too excited,” he interrupted, already standing, “but you should be optimistic.” Weirdly, he said it while staring at Till like he was the one auditioning for the spot, not Ivan. There was no way he knew, right? Or maybe he was letting him know he was going to be kind enough to ignore his obvious mistake. “We’ll call you once we’ve discussed it and made a final decision.”
Till watched as Luka left with the staff, not even giving them a glance back. For once, he was thankful to be ignored.
Once they were gone, Mizi rushed to his side. “Are you okay?” she asked, side-eyeing Ivan skeptically.
He appreciated her concern, as always, but he was fine. If kissing strangers was an issue for him, he probably would’ve picked a different career path, but even those kisses were usually planned for and this wasn’t, which was jarring, yes, but he wasn’t upset.
Ivan’s manager was at his side, too, looking at him with disapproval. Till wondered how often he did unexpected stuff like that.
Finally he brushed her off and stepped forward, closer to Till. Mizi pursed her lips but didn’t intervene; she really was the perfect manager for him.
“I apologize,” he said, giving a slight bow. “I shouldn’t have done that without warning, but…”
He trailed off, and Mizi finally spoke, “But?”
But Till already knew the answer. Ivan smiled, but it wasn’t mean. “You forgot your line,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Mizi startled, glancing at the script still laid out on the table. “An honest mistake. I didn’t want you getting chided for it, and I thought it’d work as a good enough distraction.”
It certainly had. Till could still feel the press of his lips – plush, but just a little dry.
“You did that for Till?” Mizi asked, sounding skeptical. Till couldn’t blame her; people in the industry rarely looked out for each other like that, nevertheless strangers.
Ivan nodded, his smile growing just a little wider. “I guess you could say I’m intrigued.” He extended a hand and Till took a second too long to move, realizing his intent. Ivan squeezed his hand. “I look forward to working together.”
Till envied his confidence. Technically, nothing was confirmed yet. But even he knew it wasn’t up in the air. Luka just liked making people sweat.
“Me too,” he said.
-
“Did you see Ivan’s manager?” Mizi asked the next day. Shooting wouldn’t start for a few weeks but she came over often just to hang out.
Till blinked. “The girl with the, uh, blue hair and piercing stare?”
He didn’t miss the way her mouth twitched, forming a smile for only a second. “Yeah.”
Till had recognized that smile, however brief. He looked back to the television. “You should go for it.”
“Wh – what?” she stammered, nearly spilling their bowl of popcorn. “I don’t – I mean – ”
He grinned, side-eyeing her. “I always knew you were into the stoic types.”
“She wasn’t – ” Mizi pursed her lips, looking down. “When you two were doing the read, you know how we all left? Well, we talked some.” Her cheeks were flushed, nearly the same shade of her regularly-dyed hair. “She was nicer than you’d think, looking at her.”
Till wasn’t sure how much he believed her. Everyone was nice to Mizi. She was just that kind of person. You would have to be pure evil to be mean to her. “I trust your judgment,” he said instead, reaching out and squeezing her arm.
She peered at him from under her eyelashes. “But what if it complicates things? Especially when you’ll be working with Ivan for the next few months. And I mean, I don’t even know if she’s, you know.”
“And you’ll never know if you don’t ask,” he replied, making sure to soften his voice. “And don’t worry about me, okay? I can take care of my own shit.”
-
Till was confident. It was something Mizi always said she admired about him; he knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t afraid to work for it.
But he was also well-aware of his own shortcomings. He could be testy and impatient, and didn’t always take being corrected or criticized well.
“What if I say something wrong?” he whined, standing in front of the oversized mirror in his living room.
Mizi glanced up from her phone. “Then you – and I know this is an abstract concept to you – but you apologize.”
Till glared at her through the mirror. “And what if he says something wrong?”
“You wait it out,” she replied just as easily. “I mean, he seemed nice enough at the chemistry read.” She set her phone aside, seemingly done with it for now. “He didn’t have to help you like that.”
Till felt his cheeks grow warm just remembering the kiss. In the moment, he had been able to control himself, too caught up in making sure he didn’t ruin the scene more or – worse – lose his role. But now, looking back, he couldn’t quite believe he had kissed Ivan.
It was always going to happen, Luka was right, if Ivan got the role but somehow that didn’t make it any easier to believe.
And he had gotten the role; Luka had called him this morning with the good news. After that, Till had thought about texting Ivan, congratulating him. They had exchanged numbers for a reason.
But he couldn’t quite work up the guts to do it.
He must’ve waited too long because eventually a text had popped up on his own phone from ‘Ivan’. (He had debated adding a heart before realizing that was asking for trouble.)
“Since we’ll officially be working together,” it had read, “I would like to get to know each other better.”
Till had mulled over how to respond for so long he had eventually texted Mizi instead for help. With her help, he had responded back with a simple, “How about brunch?”
He still wasn’t sure people actually used the word brunch in real life but he had trusted Mizi more than himself in the moment, and either way it worked out because Ivan said yes.
He said yes with a little :) to be precise and Till felt like his heart was going to burst. He was playing a dangerous game, he knew, letting himself feed into this when they were coworkers, nothing else, but he couldn’t help it.
And Mizi was enabling it.
After their conversation, Mizi had invited herself over to help him get ready. Fair enough, because without Hyuna he wasn’t really too sure how to do much more than throw on a shirt and jeans.
She had helped him with some basic makeup – a bit of eyeliner and gloss – then picked out his outfit for him, which he still wasn’t sure about.
It was brunch, after all, but she had picked out a long-sleeved silky blue shirt and black jeans. He felt a little overdressed but she had assured him it was perfect.
“I should get going,” she announced, tearing him out of his downward spiral. She jumped off the couch and walked over, peering in the mirror alongside him. “You look hot.”
Till snorted, shaking his head. “I used to dream of you hearing you say that.”
And it was true; when they had first met, when his career was still new and fresh, he had immediately developed a crush on her. Now, he was glad they were just friends. Now, they were so close it didn’t even feel weird joking about it.
Mizi winked playfully and patted him on the back. “Just be yourself.”
That was what he was afraid of.
-
Mizi left after that, which was expected – it was only an hour until Ivan was set to arrive – but being alone didn’t help his nerves at all.
Nearly exactly on the dot, Till’s doorbell rang. Old-fashioned, really, because most people just texted when they arrived.
Smoothing his shirt down in the mirror, and reminding himself this wasn’t a date, he walked over and opened the door.
Thankfully, he hadn’t been the only one to get dressed up. Ivan wore a long-sleeved black shirt, tucked neatly into dark blue slacks. His hair was swept back out of his face; if he wore makeup, it wasn’t obvious enough for Till to be able to tell but either way he was as stunning as ever.
Till realized – belatedly – that he had just been staring at him without saying anything for at least a minute. Flushing, he stepped out of the way, a silent invitation inside.
Just as he opened his mouth to say something, anything, Ivan was saying, “I almost feel bad for what I’m about to suggest,” he smiled, small, “considering how good you look.”
Till blinked once, twice. “Oh. Um. What?”
Stupid. He was so stupid.
“You obviously got dressed up intending to go out,” Ivan continued, still smiling with a hint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes, “which I know we discussed, but…”
Till swallowed; why was his mouth so dry? “But?”
“But,” Ivan tilted his head a little. “I can’t speak for you, of course, but getting recognized in public is daunting.”
Till was suddenly reminded of their differences. He’d been recognized a few times, sure, but undoubtedly nothing compared to what Ivan went through. His face was plastered everywhere – billboards, magazines, commercials – so no wonder he was tired of getting recognized everywhere he went.
Even if you didn’t know Ivan, you’d at least seen his face. And most people can’t control themselves around a celebrity, regardless of personal interest.
“I understand,” he said finally, not sure what else to say.
Ivan smiled a bit wider. “So do you mind?” Till wasn’t quite sure what he was asking, but thankfully he continued before he could make a fool of himself. “I know it must also be daunting to have a stranger in your apartment.”
The dots connected quickly, suddenly. Till didn’t even have to think about the answer. “I don’t mind at all,” he said, but then, “I just – well.” Warm in the face, he gestured weakly at his kitchen. “I don’t have much.”
“No problem,” Ivan was already pulling out his phone. “We can just order something.”
-
That was how they ended up on his couch, shoes thrown off, eating a pizza. It was oddly comfortable, even though Till kept catching himself staring at Ivan’s mouth.
It was hard not to remember the kiss. It had just been part of the script, albeit a little early. Not to mention, Ivan had only done it to save him from making a complete fool of himself.
But it was still hard to forget, or brush off. After all, Till had admired him (and possibly had a crush on him) for so long. He never imagined just meeting him, nevertheless anything more.
“Do I have something on my face?”
Ivan’s seemingly innocent question was what finally drew him back to reality.
Till startled, nearly dropping his slice of pizza. It was starting to get cold anyway. “Um. No. I mean. Your face is fine.”
He winced at his own words, cursing himself internally.
Ivan smiled – no, that was a smirk. “I’m glad to hear you think my face is ‘fine’.”
“Well, I mean, I didn’t – your face is more than fine,” Till stammered, even as he cursed himself more with each word.
For a moment, there was silence and Till was sure he had finally properly screwed things up. But then Ivan threw his head back and started laughing hard enough he shook the couch a little.
Once he quieted down, he gazed at Till with a crooked smile. “You’re funny.”
Till flushed. “I’m sure you hear that kind of stuff all the time.”
“Mmm,” Ivan tilted his head back and forth. “Yeah, but people are usually a lot more suave about it.” When Till frowned, he nudged him with his foot. “That’s a good thing. I prefer when people don’t try so hard.”
Till couldn’t fight back a smile even if he tried. “Oh.”
“I was gonna suggest we do a readthrough of the script tonight but,” Ivan checked his phone. “It’s getting late.”
Till tried to hide his disappointment. He was surprised how much he’d enjoyed Ivan’s company. He had hoped he would, of course, but he was never sure how these things would go. Like mentioned, he didn’t always get along with people easily. And Ivan was, well, Ivan.
Famous, beautiful, rich. Till expected him to be a lot more conceited or snobby. Most of the famous people Till met were like that, after all, but not Ivan. He was sweet. A little odd, but wasn’t everyone?
“Are you free next Friday?” Ivan asked.
Till didn’t even have to think. If he had plans, he would just have to reschedule.
“Um, probably,” he said, aiming for casual and probably failing.
Ivan smiled again; he had one fang that Till was starting to think was unfairly adorable. “We can meet, then, go over the script.”
“Sounds good.” Amazing, actually, but he didn’t dare seem too eager, even though he was starting to think Ivan wouldn’t mind.
-
“Soooo,” Mizi slung herself over the couch ungracefully. “How did it go, hmm?”
Till snorted, pushing her out of the way to sit down. “I – ” His smile fell. Mizi was quick to adapt, sitting up properly. She had always been good at adapting to his moods. “I think I might be screwed.”
“What?” she leaned in closer. “Did he do something?”
Till appreciated her concern, as unfounded as it was. “No, he was… he was great, actually. We ate pizza and talked about a lot of nothing. He mentioned coming over next Friday so we can actually go over the script.”
“So… what’s wrong?” She was frowning, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. He couldn’t blame her.
He sighed, peering down at his hands folded together in his lap. “I think I could really like him, Mizi. Like… a lot.”
The thing was, he had never really liked someone before. He had certainly never dated. Beyond his short-lived crush on Mizi, passionate as it was, he had never even gotten the urge to date, or even do what a lot of other actors did and sleep around casually.
And now he was worried if he spent too much time with Ivan, that might change. Turn into something more than a crush from afar.
For a long moment, they were both silent. Finally, Mizi reached for his hands, cradling them gently.
“You are a really good person, Till.”
He rolled his eyes, an automatic response. She squeezed his hands harder.
“You always undervalue yourself, Till,” she continued, and he couldn’t look away from her determined gaze. “You act overconfident to make up for it, but I know you too well for that. You don’t know think someone like Ivan could ever like you but you fail to realize he’d be lucky to have you.”
He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “I – ”
But she apparently wasn’t finished, “I met with Sua.” She paused for a moment, like she was realizing something. “Ivan’s manager,” she clarified. “We really hit it off. She cares for Ivan like I care for you, I think.”
He just nodded, unsure where this was going but happy for her either way.
“I probably shouldn’t say this, it isn’t my place but,” she smiled, small, “I will, because I think you need to hear it. Apparently Ivan can’t stop talking about you. Sua said he’s never been so interested in another person. She even asked me about you.” Her smile widened a bit. “I only said good things, of course. I knew she was just worried.”
Till couldn’t believe it. He had also never known Mizi to lie, especially about serious stuff.
“But I – I can’t,” he stammered, looking down at their hands. “Even if he was interested,” which was so hard to believe he almost felt like he was dreaming, “I can’t risk it.”
Mizi ducked her head, forcing her eyes to meet again. “Why not?”
“You know why,” he said, and he wasn’t even embarrassed that he sounded like a petulant child. “I would be risking the movie. If we had a fight or – or broke up, I don’t know if I could pretend like nothing happened.”
He was making a lot of assumptions anyway; assuming Ivan was interested in something more, when maybe he just wanted something casual or temporary. But still the details didn’t matter. Either way, Till knew he couldn’t go back to acting like only coworkers.
“Till, I know you care about this movie,” she smiled again but there was something sad about the curve of her mouth, pitying. “But sometimes life is about taking chances. You can’t just depend on your career for happiness forever.”
He wanted to argue because he couldn’t find the words. Mizi squeezed his hands even tighter. It was almost painful but also oddly comforting.
“What if you got a role a few years from now – your dream role – but then suddenly you were kicked off the cast.” Till waited, knowing she wasn’t finished. “You would be devastated, obviously, but you would be even more devastated if you had to go home to an empty apartment.”
Till licked his lips; when did they get so dry?
“Plenty of people are satisfied never having a partner. Dating.”
Mizi rolled her eyes. “I know that but I also know you’re not one of them, Till.”
She really did know him too well. “But we’re both famous, Mizi, and he’s – he’s a household name. If we dated, we couldn’t keep it from the public for too long. Someone would find out.”
“And that is something worth discussing,” she finally released his hands, choosing instead to squeeze his wrist. “With him.”
Till suddenly felt like crying. He didn’t, but his eyes burned. “What if we’re wrong? Even Sua?”
“Then you can come to me and cry it out.” She smiled, warm and sincere.
It was a decent enough backup plan. Without warning, he lunged forward and hugged her. “Have I said recently how you are the best manager in the world?”
“You don’t have to tell me, I already know.”
-
Till decided not to rush it, even if Mizi suggested texting Ivan and setting a closer date to see each other again.
When Friday finally rolled around, he felt like he was going to be sick.
He made a point to not dress up, just a pair of his usual jeans and a black t-shirt. If this was going to happen, he wanted to be sure it was because Ivan really liked him. Not because he thought he looked good enough to settle for.
A few minutes after 12, his doorbell rang.
Brushing by the mirror without looking, he opened the door. Ivan had apparently had the same thought; he looked as gorgeous as last time, obviously, but he was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans too with a thin jacket. His hair also wasn’t slicked back, hanging loosely around his face.
He also had a bag, probably to carry around the script and whatever else he might need.
Like last time, they ordered food and ended up on the couch. This time, however, they had the scripts. Till noticed a ton of highlighted parts in Ivan’s copy; maybe he shouldn’t have assumed he just had a natural gift for memorizing things. He had obviously worked just as hard.
For a while, they just rehearsed through the easy parts. Didn’t bother acting any of the parts out just yet.
Most of that stuff – gestures, movements – would be changed before they actually started filming anyway so Till didn’t usually worry about it, just focused on the actual dialogue.
But then they flipped the page and Till saw it: the scene where they kissed. The actual scene.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. When Till finally chanced a look up, he noticed Ivan was already looking at him.
“Do you usually practice these parts?” Ivan asked.
Till tried to decipher his voice, his expression, but it was all perfectly neutral.
“Sometimes,” he answered, because it was true. “Makes it less awkward later.” But other actors preferred keeping any kissing strictly in front of the camera. Till didn’t really have a preference.
Ivan hummed thoughtfully. “Well then, I’m up for it, if you are.”
He could almost hear Mizi in his head, telling him he shouldn’t do this. He should confess, first, otherwise it wasn’t fair. To him or Ivan. And he would confess tonight. He had already made that decision but…
Couldn’t he be just a little selfish first?
“Sure.” Understatement of the century.
Collecting their scripts, Till set them aside on the coffee table and was relieved when Ivan made the first move to scoot closer. He still couldn’t quite read his face, perfectly blank.
“Let me know if you want to stop,” Ivan said, a hand already reaching out and settling on Till’s neck, warm and heavy.
Till was pretty sure Ivan could’ve done anything to him in that moment and he still wouldn’t have asked him to stop, but he appreciated the sentiment.
Not trusting his voice, Till just gave a tiny nod and that seemed to be enough for Ivan. He leaned forward, slowly, like he was giving Till the chance to stop him if he wanted to.
He didn’t.
Finally their lips touched, just a gentle press. Ivan’s lips were even softer than he remembered, warmer too. The script didn’t detail the kiss; that would be decided later with help from the director but – Till supposed Ivan was preparing for everything as he tilted his head, pressing their lips together with a bit more fervor.
Hardly complaining, Till kissed back, scooting a little closer. That should’ve been it. Given the scene, it was doubtful the kiss was going to be anything more than this.
But Ivan didn’t pull away, and Till wasn’t going to be the first to end it.
Opening his eyes, he finally wasn’t surprised for once to find Ivan already staring back at him. What was difference, however, was the look in his eyes. Intense, but somehow warm.
Till felt a shiver down his spine and decided this was it. Words had never been his specialty. Moving quickly, he shifted up onto his knees and swung a leg over Ivan to settle on the other side, kissing him the entire time.
Only once he was settled, straddling him, did he finally pull back. “Is this okay?”
Ivan’s eyes were always dark, nearly black, but this was something else. “Depends,” he replied, low but steady. He lifted his hands, placing them on Till’s hips. “Is this okay?”
Instead of replying with words, Till just leaned in and kissed him again. This kiss was immediately different from the first, filthy and almost aggressive. Ivan bit at his bottom lip, just the edge of too hard, and Till let out a sound in the back of his throat that was outright embarrassing.
He only pulled back for air when he absolutely had to, panting a little to catch his breath. Ivan’s eyes were half-lidded; he somehow looked the best he ever had. Till swallowed. This was his chance.
“I have something to confess,” he forced the words out before he could reconsider.
Ivan blinked, once, almost immediately looking more alert. “What?” His hands shifted on his hips but didn’t pull away. “Do you want to stop?”
“Quite literally the opposite,” he replied, feeling nearly delirious. This was it. “I know this is – probably not what you want at all, and I’m probably reading too much into everything, and – and I know this could get in the way of the movie, I’m not an idiot, but I think I would really regret not saying it.”
Ivan squeezed his hips, then, and it was enough to make him feel a little more grounded. “You’re kind of scaring me here, Till.”
He stared at Ivan for a moment, appreciating every detail of his face, before he took a deep breath, “I think I could end up liking you.” He paused, letting the words settle properly in the silence between them. “A lot.”
Till wasn’t sure what he was expecting. The silence lingered so long he was starting to feel an ache in his chest.
Without a word, he went to move off Ivan’s lap but his hands tightened around his waist. “Stay,” he said, the softest Till had ever heard his voice.
“You don’t have to try and – and placate me,” Till stammered, but he didn’t try to move again. “I’m not gonna be mad at you for not feeling the same way.”
Ivan opened his mouth, closed it. Till watched his face flicker through about ten different emotions before suddenly he was kissing him again, hard and messy. Till gasped into his mouth, surprised – confused – but hardly disappointed.
He curled his fingers in Ivan’s hair, eyelashes fluttering. He could do this forever. He also knew he needed a real answer.
He deserved that.
Mustering all his courage, he pulled back. Ivan stared up at him with a newfound intensity. He forced himself to speak around the lump in his throat, “I’ve admired you for a long time. I know that might not be – appealing, in this context. But I don’t think that has anything to do with what I’ve felt since we met.”
Ivan continued to stare at him. Till gulped.
“You’re just not what I expected,” he paused. “In a really good way, and I’ve never done this before. Not just with another actor. Or, uh, coworker. I mean, like at all.”
The corner of Ivan’s mouth started to quirk up. “You’re cute.”
“Oh.” Till flushed. “Thank you?”
Ivan let out a soft laugh; gently, he moved Till off him. Under different circumstances, he might’ve overthought what that meant but Ivan was still smiling, warm and small.
“Are you asking me out, Till?” he asked, not even trying to hide the mirth in his eyes.
He supposed he was, in a way. “I mean, that’s – that’s assuming a lot. I just, I wanted to let you know. I didn’t – ” He hadn’t expected anything, he meant to say, but he suddenly stopped, finally connecting the dots. “Wait. Does that mean – ?”
Ivan leaned against the back of the couch, watching him with that same sparkle in his eyes. “I liked you the second I set my eyes on you,” the confession felt like igniting fire in Till’s very core. “I wasn’t sure why, at first. I’d never felt that way before, and we barely knew each other.”
Till didn’t dare speak; he didn’t trust his voice anyway.
“But you’re… different,” Ivan hummed. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.” He smiled, that fang poking out again. Till wanted to feel it against his lip again. “And frankly, I don’t really care to.”
He paused, reaching out. Till didn’t even think twice, moving as if commanded by something out of his control. Ivan held his hand gently, thumb pressing into his knuckles, not hard but comforting. Grounding, like he somehow knew Till felt a little untethered.
“But I’m assuming you know by now I can’t promise you this won’t get out. Even when you’re surrounded by people you think you can trust, it’s not quite true in our line of work, is it?”
Till had already went over this in his head. “I don’t mind. I think it’s worth the risk.”
“We should at least keep it between us,” Ivan said softly, and Till wasn’t sure yet what he was going to say next. If he wanted to keep this hidden because he was ashamed or embarrassed to be seen with him. But then – “Just until the movie is done shooting. I don’t want them to project or assume anything just because we’re together.”
Till nodded. “I agree,” he said, meaning it. It was the smart move. “And if anything happens, if this doesn’t work, I need us to be on the same page.”
“I hope we won’t have to worry about that,” Ivan replied, “but the fact you even want to discuss it...” He smiled again, almost approvingly. Till didn’t want to admit how much that did for his confidence. “I promise you won’t have anything to worry about from my end. I could even give you something to use against me, if it would give you peace of mind.”
Till let out a sudden laugh, surprised by the odd offer. But just as Ivan kept saying he was different, he was starting to think Ivan’s oddness was what had really captivated him. “I’ll just have to take your word for it,” he said, still smiling.
-
They never ended up having to worry about. Months later, when the movie was wrapping up, they all celebrated by having dinner at Ivan’s house. The place had always been beautiful, from the very first time Till had seen it, but now it felt more like a proper home.
Pictures lined the walls that used to be empty, mostly of the two of them, but some were just of Till. He complained about them, sometimes, embarrassed but secretly he liked it.
Some were of all of them – Ivan, arms wrapped around Till. Mizi and Sua, heads tilted together.
Till was pretty sure he had died and gone to heaven. Or maybe he just should’ve been more hopeful when he was younger because sometimes he still struggled to believe this was real.
Sitting at the table, Ivan on his left and Mizi on his right, he wondered what he had done to end up lucky enough to have met both of them.
Or maybe Ivan was right, as he always liked to say: “You deserve good things, Till.”
Till still remembered the first time he’d said it when they were laid out in his bed. He had kissed Till’s forehead and he had suddenly felt the urge to cry, eyes burning.
Maybe, just maybe, he was finally starting to believe it.
“Can you believe they still haven’t figured it out?” Mizi was saying, giggling around the rim of her wine glass. “’How is their chemistry so good?’” she said, repeating what the director had said earlier.
Till hadn’t really heard him. He’d been too busy kissing Ivan with as much fervor as he kissed him every night. He supposed there were benefits, actually, to dating your costar.
Sua smiled at her side. “You can’t blame him. I’m surprised they were actually able to keep it hidden until the end of filming.”
Till chanced a glance at Ivan, who was already staring back at him. He smiled. Ivan smiled back, giving a nod.
“About that, actually,” Till cleared his throat. “We are planning to disclose that we’re dating. Not how long, obviously, but… we thought it might make things easier, especially since Ivan can’t stop complaining about wanting to take me places and not being able to.”
Mizi smiled, shifting to take Sua’s hand where it was resting atop the table.
“We’re happy for you.” She glanced at Ivan. “Both of you.”
-
At the end of the night, Till was surprised to have Mizi pull him away from Ivan’s side. She walked them to the edge of the porch, grasping his hands tightly in her own.
“I know this is going to be cheesy and you’ll hate every second of it,” she said, “but I just really need to say it.”
Till tilted his head with a confused smile.
“I used to worry about you.” She squeezed his hands tighter. “You always acted like you were fine on your own but I just – I could tell you had so much love to give and for a while I almost felt guilty, turning you down.”
Till tensed, already opening his mouth, but she continued, “I know you never wanted me to, and you never did anything to make me feel that. I promise. It was just – normal concern for a friend, okay?”
She gently shook their hands, smiling now. “But now I see you with Ivan and… Till, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy.”
He couldn’t fight the smile off his own face, small and sincere. He stared down at their hands. “I – ” He paused, swallowed around the lump in his throat. He hadn’t even said this to Ivan, yet, but somehow it felt right. Saying it, now, to Mizi first. “I think I love him.”
For a long moment, there was silence. When he finally glanced up, Mizi wasn’t looking at him. She was staring over his shoulder, eyes a little wide, and –
He dropped her hands and spun around. Ivan stood there, frozen with his hand in the air like he had just been about to tap his shoulder. Mizi squeaked and scooted past them, rushing to join Sua at the other end of the porch.
“I was going to ask if you were cold,” Ivan said, dropping his hand. It was chilly out, middle of autumn now, and Ivan knew he ran cold. The simple but sweet gesture made his heart feel like it was going to burst out of his chest.
Till just nodded, not trusting his voice. Ivan shucked off his jacket and moved to wrap it around his frame.
“I didn’t want you hear that,” Till said finally, clutching the jacket to keep it from falling. “I was going to tell you soon. Just needed the right moment. I know it’s probably too soon or I don’t know, I don’t really know how to gauge these things – ”
Ivan moved, smooth but fast, wrapping an arm around his waist and drawing him in close enough to tip their foreheads together. If he remembered they still had company present, he didn’t seem phased by it. “I don’t believe in there being a right time for anything,” he breathed softly. “I love you, Till.”
He smiled so big he knew his cheeks were going to hurt later. He didn’t care. Happiness was worth it. “Good,” he said before cupping both sides of Ivan’s face and kissing him.
It reminded him a lot of their first kiss but this time the roles were reversed. Ivan seemed surprised for just a second before he smiled against his lips, tugging him even closer.
When they separated, Till was breathless. He wasn’t complaining.
“I hate to say this,” he let out a shaky laugh, still catching his breath, “but I think we need to send a thank you card or something.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow, searching his face. “To who?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he replied before moving in to kiss him again. He heard Sua’s groan from across the porch. Ivan laughed against his mouth.
-
A week before they left for their first vacation, just a couple days after the news of them dating had hit the media, Till went to the store and picked out a card. It was the vaguest card he could find in the store, just a simple “thank you” with a smiley face on the front. He signed it just as simply – Ivan and Till – and left it like that. He trusted Luka to figure it out.
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It was love all along
Satoru is in his favourite spot in the whole wide world. He’s stretched out on top of Suguru, who’s laying on the couch, their legs tangled, Suguru’s heartbeat in his ear and Suguru’s fingers in his hair, lightly scratching at his scalp.
There might or might not be a movie playing, but it’s not as if Satoru is paying attention, as if he could pay attention with Suguru’s steady heartbeat drowning everything else out.
Satoru only notices that something changed at all when Suguru speaks up.
“If you’re going to be a hater, then do it quietly,” he says, his voice pleasantly rumbling through his chest and Satoru presses closer, trying to chase that sound even as he frowns.
Why am I being a hater? he wonders, wants to ask, but before he can convince his mouth to work, the couch jostles and then Shoko speaks up.
He didn’t even hear her come in.
“You’re such freaks,” she says and it’s more fond than anything.
Satoru turns his head, presses his other ear to Suguru’s chest as soon as he can again, and then he blinks up at Shoko, who has her arms crossed on the back of the couch, her head pillowed on them even as she stares at them.
“Takes one to know one,” Satoru mutters, barely able to find his own voice with how good it feels to have Suguru scratch at his scalp more insistently.
Seems he didn’t like it much when Satoru moved.
“What are you even doing?” Shoko asks, one eyebrow raised and Satoru smiles slightly when Suguru speaks again.
He does love hearing his voice like this, all rumbly, straight in his ear.
“Watching a movie,” Suguru replies and Shoko snorts out a laugh.
“Yeah, right. Watching,” she mocks them. “What’s even happening in it?” she wants to know and Satoru certainly doesn’t have an answer for her, because he wasn’t even aware that a movie was running in the first place.
“Things,” Suguru says after a short pause and Satoru smiles slightly. Suguru clearly wasn’t paying that much attention either.
“You and your stupid need to be as wrapped up in each other as you can possibly be,” she mutters and pointedly looks at Suguru’s hand in Satoru’s hair. “It’s sickening.”
“You’re just jealous,” Satoru mutters, and Suguru hums, sending shivers down Satoru’s back.
“Maybe I am,” Shoko easily gives back, “but it’s still not normal what you two are doing,” she tacks on and then climbs over the back of the couch to lay down on top of Satoru.
It presses him even more into Suguru, makes the sound of his heart almost unbearably loud in his ears and Satoru thinks that if he would die right this second, he wouldn’t even mind.
“This okay?” Shoko asks, probably more for Suguru’s sake than Satoru’s, because it’s Suguru who has to bear both of their weights now, who is being pressed into the couch.
Satoru still hums in answer, more content than even before and Suguru also makes a happy sound in the back of his throat.
“’s good,” he mutters, not once ceasing the steady motion of his hands and Satoru can feel how Shoko rolls her eyes.
“Weirdos,” she mutters, but she doesn’t get up or move otherwise away.
Satoru smiles at that, because she can complain as much as she wants, but she’s in this as well and that makes her just as much of a weirdo as it does Suguru and him.
Satoru goes back to concentrating on the sound of Suguru’s heartbeat, on the feeling of his fingers against his skin and he floats for a bit, happy and content with where he is right now.
He’s so content in fact, that he doesn’t notice the niggling feeling at the back of his mind until much later.
~*~*~
They do, eventually, have to get up and go to bed, even though all three of them are perfectly comfortable where they are. But if Yaga finds them piled on the couch like this in the middle of the night when they have missions the next day, hell is going to break loose and no one dares to tempt that.
“Time for bed,” Shoko mutters as she pushes herself off Satoru, rolling off the couch and barely getting her feet under her before she hits the ground. “You should go to bed, too.” She pauses as she regards them. “Preferably to your own ones, but I’m not holding my breath for that,” she then quietly adds and it makes Satoru frown.
“Why go to my own bed, when I can go to Suguru’s?” he asks, turning his head around again to be able to make his frown work better.
Not that it ever works on her.
“Exactly my point,” she sighs out. “Well, I already knew you’re not normal—” she points at Satoru “—but he came as a surprise.” She moves her finger to Suguru and Satoru takes offense to that.
Suguru is perfectly normal.
“Don’t be mean to him,” he chides her, causing Suguru to chuckle under him and Satoru feels as if he’s melting when the sound travels through his entire body.
“She was insulting you, too, you know,” Suguru informs him, but really, Satoru couldn’t care less about that.
He draws the line at people insulting Suguru, though.
“Shoko, take it back what you said about Suguru,” he says, as if he didn’t even hear Suguru, who lets out a fond sigh.
“I will, if you sleep in your own bed tonight. Alone,” she stresses and before Satoru can even open his mouth, Suguru speaks up.
“Not happening,” he decisively says and that’s that, it seems, because Shoko heaves out a huge sigh and then waves at them.
“Thought so. Anything else would have been a surprise with how up in each other’s business you two are,” she says as she walks away from them and it leaves Satoru with a frown.
That niggling feeling is back, more insistent now and he doesn’t like it; doesn’t like it one bit, because it makes it hard to enjoy the head scratches he’s still getting from Suguru.
“We should go to bed, too, though, she’s right about that,” Suguru eventually mumbles and Satoru presses himself closer to Suguru.
“Don’t wanna,” he whines out and smiles when Suguru chuckles again.
“We just have to relocate to bed,” Suguru tries to cajole him, “and then we can go right back to this.”
As if to drive his point home, he scratches at a particularly sensitive spot low on Satoru’s neck and really, that’s not helping at all.
“You’re gonna make my bones melt like that,” Satoru complaints and curses himself when Suguru immediately stops.
“Can’t have that until we’re in bed,” he says and then—because Suguru is cruel and mean and has no regard for Satoru’s safety—he pushes him off himself and the couch.
“Ouch, Suguru,” Satoru whines out, rubbing the aching spot on his butt that met the ground first but he can’t really be mad, because Suguru is smiling down at him as he reaches out and pushes a few strands of hair out of Satoru’s face.
“Sorry,” he easily says and Satoru knows that he’s not sorry at all.
“Whatever,” Satoru grumbles as he picks himself off the ground and just because he can he flicks Suguru’s forehead. “Let’s go then.”
Now that he’s up and away from Suguru he realises just how cold the room as gotten and goose bumps break out all over his arms.
“You’re the one stalling us,” Suguru easily gives back, getting off the couch and simply walking out on Satoru, who is quick to follow him as if there’s a leash tethering him to Suguru.
It isn’t until they are in Suguru’s room—Satoru having followed him there without a second thought—that he hesitates.
Suguru doesn’t notice immediately, because he changes into his sleeping clothes and slides right into bed, but when he finally realises that Satoru is not doing the same, he frowns.
“What are you doing all the way over there?” he wants to know, and Satoru doesn’t know what to say.
“I think—maybe I should—” he starts and points over his shoulder at the door. He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do, but Shoko’s words shook something loose in him and now there’s this pit of worry in his gut that he can’t seem to shake. “You know, my own bed,” he finishes lamely and it doesn’t help when Suguru simply continues to stare at him.
“What’s going on?” he finally asks and Satoru shuffles on his feet.
“Nothing, nothing, it’s just—” Satoru trails off with a shrug.
“Do you want to go to your own bed?” Suguru wants to know and just thinking about it—laying in his own bed, cold and alone with Suguru too far away from him—makes Satoru’s eyes burn as if he’s going to burst into tears.
He doesn’t trust his voice anymore so he shakes his head and Suguru’s face softens.
“Satoru. Satoru, come here,” he gently says and lifts the blanket to invite Satoru in, and really, how is Satoru supposed to say no to that offer?
He’s across the room with two big strides of his legs and back in Suguru’s arms a heartbeat later.
Strangely enough it feels like coming home and Satoru tries not to think too much about it.
“There, that’s better,” Suguru softly says, sounding just as content as Satoru feels and he arranges them to his liking, until they are in the same position as they were the entire evening. “Now, is this about what Shoko said?” Suguru asks while scratching Satoru’s scalp again and Satoru hides his face in Suguru’s chest.
“It’s just—she’s right, isn’t she?” Satoru dares to ask when Suguru doesn’t offer anything else and Suguru sighs.
“Is she?” he wants to know in turn and it’s not an answer, it’s not even helping anything, so Satoru picks his face out of Suguru’s chest to glare at him. “There you are,” Suguru mutters and moves his hand so he can cup Satoru’s cheek in it. “She’s only right if it bothers either one of us,” he then says and Satoru pouts at him.
“But doesn’t it? Bother you? I mean, she’s right about me, I’m all kinds of fucked up and I’m just—doesn’t it bother you that she thinks the same about you?”
“She’s right, though,” Suguru easily says as if it doesn’t mean anything to him. “You being as touch starved as you are isn’t really a surprise with your upbringing and your technique but you both forget that I’m from a normal family.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Satoru wants to know and he doesn’t even have it in him to deny the touch starved part.
It’s true after all.
“Being able to see curses and not knowing when to shut up about it doesn’t make for a lot of friends,” Suguru tells him. “It doesn’t even make for a lot of affection from your parents, not when they are low-key weirded out by you, too. I didn’t have any friends as a child and even later, when I learned to keep my mouth shut about what I could see it never felt as if I could truly open up to someone. I could never be myself with anyone else; not until I came here.”
“Not until you met us,” Satoru says in understanding and frowns in confusion when Suguru shakes his head.
“Not until I met you,” he corrects him. “Shoko’s great and all, but I don’t click with her like I do with you,” he admits and Satoru feels himself go hot all over at hearing that. “I don’t mind being touchy with her, or having her with us like today, but it’s not the same. I wouldn’t want to do this with just her. That’s all you.”
“It feels right, doesn’t it?” Satoru dares to ask, his heart beating nervously in his chest and it only settles when Suguru smiles at him.
“It does. That’s why I don’t mind. She can call us weirdos and freaks and co-dependant all she wants; as long as it doesn’t bother either of us, I really don’t mind. As long as I’m being lumped in with you, it’s all good.”
Satoru doesn’t know what’s happening to him anymore, but he feels so warm all over, his heart is beating heavily in his chest and he feels as if he just has to do something about all of this so he leans forward and presses his lips against Suguru’s.
It’s only when he moves back that he realises what he did and panic grabs at his heart, turning everything that was soft and warm just a moment ago cold and hard. He knows he has to say something, anything, but his voice is failing him and his panic must be pretty visible on his face because Suguru smiles reassuringly at him.
“Satoru, as long as it’s you, it’s all good,” he says, reiterates that point again and then uses the hand that is still on Satoru’s face to bring him closer once more. “So don’t worry.”
The last part is whispered right against Satoru’s lips, before he kisses him and Satoru simply melts.
“Still feels right?” Suguru asks when they part as if Satoru wasn’t the one who did it first and he’s just so overwhelmed he has to hide his face in Suguru’s neck.
“Still feels right,” he then agrees, because he knows he has to say something and Suguru goes back to scratching at his scalp as if nothing even happened.
“Good,” Suguru whispers, pressing his lips to Satoru’s head and he sounds so content, so happy that it wipes all of Satoru’s worries away.
“Maybe Shoko will find us more normal now,” Satoru mutters. “Maybe it’ll make more sense to her when we tell her we’re together.”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to make sense to her at all,” Suguru replies. “Maybe it’s just important that it makes sense to us.”
Satoru knows that he should just take this, should be happy with this, because it does make sense to him to do this with Suguru too but yet again he can’t help the little worry that pokes at his brain. Satoru thinks he couldn’t stand it if Suguru wants to do this without labelling them and it doesn’t make sense because there’s no label for them anyway, and yet—
“I really didn’t know you to be such an overthinker,” Suguru fondly says, turning them around so they can lay on their sides, their foreheads pressed together. “Usually it’s me, overthinking things and worrying about nothing.”
It seems he can read Satoru better than he even thought he could and while it makes him flush it also makes him feel seen in the best kind of ways.
“Maybe you just bring out all of my worst sides,” he shoots back but he can’t deny that he needs Suguru to acknowledge what they are.
“Mh, wouldn’t want that now,” Suguru mutters and brushes their noses together. “Satoru, it’s us. Always. As friends, as partners, as boyfriends. No matter what, it’s always us. And I love you in all instances.”
“Oh,” Satoru breathes out because this is a little bit more than he dared to hope for but it finally melts all his worries and useless, stupid overthinking thoughts away. “Yeah, same.”
“Gods, you’re so lame,” Suguru laughs out and Satoru should be offended—would be with anyone else, really—but Suguru is laughing and he looks so happy that Satoru kind of forgets about that.
“Well, you love me, so that makes you lame, too,” he confidently says and Suguru gives him that one smile Satoru loves so much, the one that softens his entire face, the one that makes his eyes turn into crescent moons.
“As long as we’re lame together,” he gives back and Satoru moves in for another kiss before he chokes on all his happiness.
“Of course we are,” he then says and snuggles close to Suguru, slotting his body against his and brushing his lips over his throat. “I love you, too. No matter what.”
“See, there you go,” Suguru proudly says and buries a hand in Satoru’s hair again. “Shoko will probably be even more disgusted with us now than before.”
It makes Satoru laugh and he has to agree. If she found them annoying and strange before, it will now only make things worse.
“Well, she’ll have to deal.”
“She sure will,” Suguru agrees and then falls asleep between one breath and the next, his hand still in Satoru’s hair, his lips pressed against Satoru’s forehead and if Satoru didn’t know it would wake him back up again he would flail and squirm around with his happiness.
Since that is out of the question, he settles for pressing that little bit closer to Suguru and falling asleep to Suguru’s steady heartbeat, letting him know that it was love all along.
#bt writes#jjk#satosugu#geto suguru#gojo satoru#shoko ieiri#getting together#cuddling and snuggling#codependency#love confessions#first kiss
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bet my heart, part 7
bees are gonna make wild honey
series masterlist
"You're distracted," Jake informs me as the band stops. I knew it. He knew it. We all knew I was distracted. This sound check was going to shit, and we all knew it.
"Thank you for that captain obvious," I roll my eyes at him.
"We can take a break," Damien offers. I shake my head, we couldn't. We needed to get the sound check done, and I needed to know that my show tonight wasn't going to be an absolute shit show. I didn't have high hopes for either one of those things to be successful.
"Let's just run it one more time," I say.
"Sage," Jake says. I glance over towards him, and he has an all-knowing look on his face.
"Okay, five minutes," I agree. I put my mic down and I'm off the stage in a matter of seconds. I hear footsteps behind me and I assume it's Jake. He's in front of me before I realize it, and he comes to a stop so I can't keep going.
"What's going on with you? Is it Quinn?" He asks. I raise an eyebrow, he knew it was Quinn, he just wanted me to give him the confirmation of his assumptions. "Fine, I know it's Quinn, what's going on?" He asks.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. He raises an eyebrow at me this time, waiting for me to elaborate. "I don't know what's going on between us, we have a lot to talk about and I have to wait for him to get here in a couple of days," I explain.
"Oh, so you two are finally going to admit you're in love with each other?" He asks. Apparently, I must have some weird look on my face because his next words are, "Don't look at me like that, we all know you're in love with him, and he's in love with you, the only two people who don't realize it are you and Quinn, it's sad really." My mouth opens, but I don't say anything just stare at him. "Just take five, breathe, do what you need to do, but just know that everyone knows that man is in love with you it's sad," That's all he says before leaving and I'm assuming going back to the stage. I spend the next five minutes with my back pressed against a wall, eyes closed, and trying to get my shit together so I can make it through this sound check and concert.
My mind is still racing when I walk back onto the stage and pick up my microphone.
"You good?" Damien asks. I nod my head, even if I wasn't, I could fake it.
"Can we switch it up for sound check guys?" I ask them.
"What song?" Jake asks.
"Let's do an old one, one that I gave to someone else, Friends Don't," I suggest. I had written the song a couple of years ago, and it didn't fit the vibe I had going on in my music so it got sold to another artist, however, the song was about my not-so-friend-like relationship with Quinton.
Miraculously I make it through our soundcheck song, shocking for everyone. What's even more shocking is when I leave the stage, Quinn is standing there, staring at me. He wasn't supposed to get in until late tonight, so I'm confused as to why I'm looking at him right now.
"I thought you're plane landed at like midnight? I ask him. That's what leaves my mouth instead of hi.
"It was supposed to, but I was going insane so I rearranged my schedule, and here I am," He lifts a shoulder, it's a half-shrug. He was here, we could talk, I needed this conversation to happen. I take a step closer to him and then Lucy appears out of nowhere.
"Hair, makeup, clothes," she says. I glance at Quinn, I'm sure the desperation for this conversation is showing in my eyes.
"Go, do your job, I'll be here whenever you're done," he says, a small smile on his face. I force a nod and follow Lucy down the hall, tossing one last glance back at Quinn.
#quinn hughes#quinn hughes imagine#quinn hughes fic#vancover canucks#jack hughes#luke hughes#nhl imagine#nhl hockey#trevor zegras#cole caufield#quinn hughes x oc
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Dear Hearts and Gentle People 12
Pure Indulgence 3
Summary: You and Cooper have stayed a couple of weeks in Goodneighbor, and as much as John wants the two of you to stay, he knows that he could never ask either of you to. It's a shame the mayor has always had a problem with falling hard and fast.
Pairings: The Ghoul | Cooper Howard x Female Reader / John Hancock x Female Reader
Warnings: Smut and drug use. It's more fluffy than anything, I think. John is sad ����
Masterlist
You wake to the sound of hushed, husky voices. Your head throbs from the alcohol the night before, but it's manageable enough for you to crack your eyes open. The first thing you see is a scared chest, and you peek up to see that you're cuddled against John. The mayor has you tucked close, a cigarette between two fingers on his free hand, and black eyes looking at the other ghoul that sits on the edge of the bed.
"Commonwealth is a dangerous place. We've got shit you won't ever believe," John rasps over you, and you hear the familiar timber of Cooper’s voice respond seconds later.
"Ain't nothin' we can't handle. Besides. It's not like we'll be stayin' long."
You hear the change in John's heartbeat. It speeds up, and the grip he has around your shoulders tightens for a split second before relaxing again. You smell the acidic smoke that Hancock blows out his ruined nose and hear the odd tilt of his voice when he speaks up.
"Yeah, I know, Coop," John exhales heavily with another plum of smoke, "Still plan on leaving today?"
You watch Cooper shrug his shoulders and take in the expance of his scared back. There are bullet and knife woulds everywhere. You've mapped out most of them with your hands and tongue and lips. So has John.
You don't like the thought of leaving the ghoul behind, but exploration calls your name, and you know that it'd be unfair to drag the mayor away from his home. You didn't think it was possible for you to care for another like you did Cooper, but here you were.
"If she wants to. I'm just the muscle. She's the girl with the plans," Cooper rumbles, and the bed dips when he shifts to face John on the bed. He holds a canister of jet and exchanges the chem for the cigarette that the other ghoul holds. He casts his eyes down and smirks when he notices that you're awake.
"Speak of the devil," He quips and reaches out to pat your sheet covered ass, "How long've you been up?"
John shifts below you, and you gift the mayor a small smile. You shrug in answer and turn to place a chaste kiss against Hancock's chest.
"Long enough," you murmur, and John tenses under you. It's obvious that you've been listening in on their conversation. You don't like making the ghoul feel bad, but lingering any longer, and it would be all the worse.
"How'd you sleep, Sunshine?" Hancock asks, and his free hand smooths over your back to gently stroke your hair, pulling it away and out of your face. It's a forced change in subject, but you don't mind.
"Considering I'm the meat in a ghoul sandwich - pretty good," you tease with a snicker. Hancock wheezes a laugh, and Cooper rolls his eyes at you, though you still catch a fond look sent your way.
John watches the smoothskin and the other ghoul. He doesn't want them to leave. He likes having your easy amusement around and Cooper’s dry, western humor. The two of you were like taking one of his favorite grape mentats every time you rolled into Goodneighbor, and it hurt to know that you planned on leaving the Commonwealth.
The two of you belonged in his town, and Hancock could only hope that neither of you would forget about him. It sounded sad and pathetic even to his own ears, but John had always had a problem with loving a little too easily.
He licks his dry lips and forces a smile, "Let's talk serious for a second, yeah?" Usually, John wasn't down for things like this, but you? You made him feel different. He suspected it was the same thing about you that made Cooper stay around.
"You'll be careful out there. The Institute isn't just some fairy tale like you hear people whisper about in the streets. Not to mention those tin cans that still patrol around here-."
The mayor of Goodneighbor shuts up with a disgruntled huff and glares at Cooper, who had grabbed his leg and dragged him down to lay on the bed. The other ghoul glares right back, lips mulled into a mean smirk. You, having been dislodged in the sudden motion, find a comfortable seat on John's lap and grin down at him.
"Told you earlier not to be thinkin' bout that kinda stuff, John, " Cooper groused from where he lounged behind you.
"Yeah, just cause we're leaving doesn't mean we're gonna be gone forever," you say and reach out, placing your palms on his sunken cheeks and smiling down at him, "You're a part of us now, even if we're not here."
John can't help but smile back and turn his face to press a kiss to your wrist. You were right, of course, but the ghoul would still miss the two of you.
"Then how about you give me something to remember you by, Sunshine?" Hancock says, and his hands come up to land on your hips, his own rocking up and against your exposed sex. His cock drags through your folds, and the ghoul groans at the heat you put off. His fingers dig into your sides hard enough that dark marks would bloom by the evening.
Cooper watches from behind you, a satisfied smirk crossing his lips when he sees John's tip catch your opening and you slide home with a hiss. Despite his initial feelings, it's always a pleasure to watch you and the other ghoul fuck. John liked things slow and steady, something that the bounty hunter didn't have the patience for. It wasn't hard to see that the mayor had fallen quickly. Cooper couldn't blame him.
He makes himself comfortable, eyes latched to where John pistons in and out of his smoothskin, your cunt clenching around the other man's length as you dig your nails into the flesh of Hancock's shoulders. The two of you are loud and shameless, and Cooper knows that if he misses anything about the Commonwealth, it would be this.
#cooper howard#fallout#fallout prime#fallout tv series#cooper howard x reader#x reader#the ghoul x reader#dear hears and gentle people#john hancock x reader#hancock x reader#john hancock
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My Interpetation of The Southern Raiders: Part 2 – Zuko
Warning: The views expressed in this analysis will be somewhat uncritical of Zuko. If you aren't likely to agree, you aren't going to enjoy this post. This is your chance to leave. I probably won't have a debate for personal reasons.
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This is the second part out of a three part series trying to answer every question posed by the discourse on The Southern Raiders. If I take some things for granted, it's because I discussed them in part 1, in which I delve into A\ang's role in the episode. Today, I'll set my sights on Zuko.
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1. Was Zuko a negative influence on Katara?
No, he did not. When Zuko merely presents the possibility of tracking her mother’s killer, it cuts through her reply right to her already leaving. In literature, what isn’t in the text holds no relevance and is to be disregarded as mere speculation. We don’t see Zuko convincing her, therefore he had no influence on her, and that she made the choices she did because she wanted to.
All Zuko did later on was defend a decision Katara already made on her own. And in both the first and second disagreements with Aang she had the last word. Ergo she was making her own choice.
Additionally, before they enter the room of who they think was her mother’s killer, Zuko asks her if she’s ready. And when she finally spares Yon Rha, he supports her decision. If he were to influence her, he wouldn’t have done either of these things. He only wanted to help Katara heal and never brought up anything that wasn’t already there.
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2. Was Zuko being too harsh on Aang?
(1) That's cute, but this isn't air temple preschool. It's the real world.
(2) [Forgiveness]'s the same as doing nothing!
(3) Okay, we'll be sure to do that, guru goody-goody.
He was definitely disrespectful towards Aang's culture, although his disrespectful remarks are a response to Aang’s own disrespect, imposing his beliefs onto Katara. And he didn’t say that until after Aang compared Katara to Jet. It was still wrong to come after the Air Nomad teachings, but they’re not as insulting as people paint them to be.
And it’s not like he didn’t take them back by the end of the episode. Zuko had good intentions, made a mistake and learned from it. That’s how characters grow, through mistakes. (More on that later).
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3. What motivated Zuko to find Yon Rah?
He wanted to earn Katara’s trust. The show makes it explicitly clear.
Zuko: What can I do to make it up to you?
And so later:
Zuko: Katara mentioned it before when we were imprisoned together in Ba Sing Se, and again just now when she was yelling at me. I think somehow she's connected her anger at that to her anger at me.
I’ve seen many describe this motive as selfish or manipulative, but I have to disagree. He has no reason to do anything to earn Katara’s trust. He saved her life on that very day, is fully accepted into the GAang, and in this episode he found out that some of her anger at him is rooted in projection. But he still goes out of his way to do the impossible, to give Katara the closure she needs in order to put faith in him.
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4. Why did Zuko think revenge\murder would help Katara?
Katara is a kind soul and murder wouldn’t have helped her heal, but Zuko had good reasons to think it would have. He didn’t know Katara’s soul, she didn’t even consider him a colleague, at that point she hated him. However, he did see Sokka killing Combustion Man in The Western Air Temple. So he has no way of knowing whether revenge would help, but he’s under the impression that murder isn’t a big taboo at least for some of the GAang.
Moreover, he knows that the person who took his mother away from him will receive justice, and that it helps him sleep at night. Katara doesn’t have that, Yon Rha retired in peace. So he offers her the justice he knows helps him.
But the main reason why he thinks revenge would help Katara, is that she told him it will. Zuko plays a largely passive role in the episode, simply assisting Katara in whatever way he can.He’s only fulfilling Katara’s wishes, and she told him that her wish is to seek justice on “the monster”.
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5. Did the trip have an effect on Zuko?
It did. By the end of the episode, Zuko delivers the following line:
This is an important part of his arc of unlearning the Fire Nation’s black and white philosophy that values aggression above all else. He comes around to Air Nomad pacifism and non violent solutions from seeing them work first hand. And as the good (redeemed) person that he is, he admits he was wrong and changes his views. He grew as a character to become a better version of himself.
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In conclusion, despite the somewhat questionable nature of Zuko's actions in "The Southern Raiders", his underlying good intentions shine through. His role was not a devil on Katara’s shoulder, but a natural force backing up whatever decision she makes. And this allows him to emerge with a valuable lesson learned.
#can't believe i wrote this so fast#wow#zutara#zuko x katara#anti kataang#katara x zuko#zukoxkatara#kataraxzuko#pro zutara#pro zuko#zuko#anti anti zutara#zutara analysis#zutara evidence#zutara forever#zutara meta#zutara nation#zutara should have been canon#zutara was robbed
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Dark Forced Family/Overlord Found Family
Having Vox on the team might seem like an odd choice given his bad relationship with Alastor, but what sold it for the overlords that the risk was worth it was the power Vox shares with Alastor over radio waves. Vox has a way of communicating with Alastor that none of the others have, because Lucifer may have suppressed Alastor's magic into nonexistence, but he can't outright destroy it, that would cause unimaginable damage, and Lucifer may be crazy but even he knows taking that step is too far. But that means Alastor's power still exists, just suppressed, so if Vox can get close to him, he might be able to get a sense of what they're dealing with.
This wasn't relevant until the final fight with Lucifer. Zestial and Carmilla as the oldest overlord and the one with a shit ton of angel-killing weapons are at the front, with Rosie and Vox taking care of Alastor's body. Vox can feel how weak Alastor has become, he won't last the night if this continues, but that power is still there under the surface, he can feel it and if he really looked, he could see all of Alastor's pain.
He can't speak for Alastor, he can't wake Alastor on his own even if he tried. All he can do is use that to switch off safe mode and beat it into the king's head just how much pain Alastor is in. He is the overlord of technology, and one of his skills is communication, he can rub that in Lucifer's face as much as he has to if it means Alastor survives.
The fight isn't easy, between coming up with songs on the dime, Carmilla and Zestial dancing around, Charlie trying to defuse, and Rosie taking care of Alastor (she would fight but Alastor needs some blood to drink and to be as far from this fight as possible), but they see Vox's methods slowly making Lucifer break down. Vox doesn't need to say anything, just the aggression he is fighting with and a power Lucifer would know he shares with Alastor is enough to get the point across.
Until eventually, Lucifer stops fighting, and he seems to be on the brink of crying, though none of them can tell because his hat is shadowing most of his face. Before any of them can decide what to do, Lucifer quietly asks, "You'll take care of him?" None of them know how to answer to that, but figured the worst that would happen being honest was a continuation of the fight, so they confirm.
Lucifer snaps his fingers, and a gold chain around Alastor's neck appears, only to shatter in Lucifer's grip. Alastor's soul was free, and that included his magic that without warning caused the entire tower and hotel to be caught in a violent explosion.
The overlords get their bearings only a few moments later, looking around the hotel in ruin, all of its residents and the royal family whisked away to safety, and Alastor protected by a shield but left behind. Nobody knows what to think of what just happened. Was that it? Lucifer wised up and after everything... just stopped? What was going on?
Zestial convinces them the logistics don't matter right now. Alastor has his soul and his magic back, but he has yet to awaken. It would be best to provide him with emergency treatment either in the safety of Vee Tower or Cannibal Town.
The other overlords agree and Carmilla carries Alastor to get him to a hospital, but Zestial lingers behind for a moment, looking behind him and seeing Roo standing there. He thanks her for her assistance, and that is when Roo holds up a contract in her hand. "I was just fulfilling my end of the deal."
What Zestial hadn't told the others was that he had made a deal with Roo, selling his soul so she would say and do anything to convince Lucifer to let Alastor go, all he would need was a final push. He had a good run, and even if the deal was going to damn him in secret, at least his friends and his grandson had been able to survive.
👀
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I hope your weekend won't be bad but just in case I have some questions (mostly about fanon and not canon) to distract you. Pick and choose whatever interests you:
- How/ When do you think bucktommy will make their relationship official? Is it after dating for a longer time or will it be immediately after the wedding?
- Ignoring canon drama, what song should their dance at the wedding be to?
- What was the biggest lesson Tommy learned in therapy?
- Is Tommy still in touch with Sal?
- How would you like Maddie's and Tommy's first meeting to go?
- How would Buck react to Tommy getting injured on the job?
You’re so sweet! And because I definitely need the distraction, I’ll answer them all!
I feel like canonically speaking they’ll put a label on it in one of two places, either right after the wedding or somewhere around 7x10. I’m not sure which one I’m leaning more towards, but I think they won’t wait too long because they know the risks of the job.
Ooooooh I have three possible answers to the dance question. And I don’t listen to a lot of good wedding dance songs 🤣. Either Perfect by Ed Sheeran, All of Me by John Legend, or Halo by Beyoncé.
How to forgive himself. I was going to type how to love himself, but I don’t think he could love himself until he forgave himself. Forgive himself for how he acted, absolutely, but also for all the pain he caused himself. All the stress and the heartache and low esteem that being closeted brought him. Forgive himself for making himself into a person he could barely recognize.
Ooooooh good question. Canonically, probably not. If he’s out, canon Sal would’ve dropped him like a sack of hot potatoes. In my headcanon, it depends on the story. Either no or yes but they talk very little. I feel like Sal being away from the 118 and growing older, maybe having some kids, might have made him into less of an asshole. Or maybe he’ll always be an asshole. Im not sure. Tommy could’ve also chosen to lose contact with him. Again, depends on the headcanon.
Tommy and Maddie’s first meeting! Well we all think that Chimney is being rescued by Tommy, so I can picture them rolling up and Maddie throwing himself into Tommy’s arms, thanking him profusely. Later over the wedding, maybe over the dinner or the dance, she takes the time to get properly introduced and talk to him a little.
Depends if Buck was there! Let’s assume he wasn’t. When he first hears the news (going back to my emergency contact headcanon), he goes still. He vaguely registers that Bobby is telling him to go. Maybe Eddie or Bobby or Hen or Chimney drive him to the hospital. Buck paces around the waiting room. Depending on how serious it is, the 118 might wait with him. Tommy has no family that would come/is close enough to, so when Tommy can receive visitors Buck is first in line to go in. And seriousness of the injury can vary, but let’s say it’s an observe overnight deal, so Tommy’s got his room. Buck barely touches him at first, eyes memorizing every detail of his face. But then Tommy mumbles, “Evan”, and Buck places both hands on his face and gently presses kisses all over it, ending with one to his lips.
#911 abc#911 show#9-1-1#tommy kinard#bucktommy#evan buckley#lou ferrigno jr#911 season 7#tk6 answers
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Sorry, just discovered your public knowledge au, its hilarious. I think 'realistically' I like the Only Miraculous wielders & whoever they tell knows version as it could feel a bit less cracky though it'd still beg why they don't bring other heroes in to collectively stomp Gabriel as they know his location. Though that just has me imagining him palming it off on his various rich friends like a hot potato. Anyway two main thoughts:
`1: For the just Holders know AU, Gabriel owns up to his motives right away & almost convinces the kids. Except Fu shows up & reveals that its basically a monkeys paw and more people will die if he makes is wish. Gabriel insists he s smart enough to work around that (He also just doesn't care) but Tikki & Plagg are like, "Literally we have no control over this, it goes to shit every single time, sorry."
In essence, its his ego and control freak nature that mean Gabriel refuses to give up even when he and everyone else know he should quit. Its probably kind of a sad/rough start for Adrien especially, but also leads to very quick positive vibes with Marinette & more direct mentorship.
2: Rogercop be like
Chloe: Well, seeing as you won't do your damn job, how about our classes two super heroes show you up?
Adrien: I am one hundred percent down for that except I can't find Plagg!
Marinette: Ya know I've wanted to try this anyway, Luck Charm! (Gets a Plagg doll with his head snuck in the bracelet) Well that answers that.
Later
Tikki: How did you even get stuck we can phase through soli matter.., Oh this is interesting and maybe concerning.
Chloe: What can it do magic, is it a Miraculous?
Plagg: Well its tied to a Miraculous, where'd you find this?
Chloe: Back of my mothers cupboard?
Andre: You aren't meant to have that (Tries to snatch)
Chloe: Why, what is it!? Can it do magic?
Andre: If by magic you mean mind control you- don't break it you'll explode!
Chloe: Why do you own a mind controlling bracelet that only works on me and kills me if it breaks and why was it in a fucking dust covered pile of half forgotten trash!?
Andre: ... Its your mot- Gabriel's fault, blame him, now I have a meeting to get to bye! (Runs away)
Butterflies appear
Adrien: Dad, glad you could... Make it.
Gabriel: Well I am here now, also the Amok's treatment is very much 'not' my fault, it is like that because your parents don't love you.
Adrien: DAD!
Gabriel: I am a magical empath son, I know it to be true, your mother and I were much more careful with your Amok & sealed it away so it could never be used against you or damaged. Those two tossed it in a cupboard once they realized it couldn't just rewrite a babies personality, or any personality, to not need things like food or affection, if they hadn't already made the announcement they'd have probably smashed it or given it away.
Gabriel: By it I mean Chloe.
Chloe: Oh... (Uses the Amok to turn herself 'off' IE pass out)
Gabriel: Dammit, I was hoping the truth would cause her to explode in a rage never before seen and become my most powerful Akuma! I can't even use this self destructive self loathing, she's too depressed to even transform! (Leaves)
Honestly this started out kind of funny then I made myself sad.
Gabriel: I wonder if I should mention the sister they had made as a replacement. That one didn't turn out how they wanted either but they did skip the baby phase.
GOD the chaos there.
But also yeah the AU is mostly crack because tbh I can't see an identity reveal happening that doens't immediately lead to an ending one way or another.
But also OOF.
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Ep 25: Live Through
@trigun98watchparty My time has come.
I watched "Live Through" in Japanese and English for this recap. For science. It's not because this is my favorite episode, no. That has nothing to do with anything.
--How did Milly and Meryl get Vash away from LR? Does 1 ile = 1 mile? Did they swipe Legato's Cinderella coach?
--that floppy hair *swoon*
--Some have criticized Meryl for ducking outside as soon as Vash begins to talk. Perhaps that is merited, and she does carry a good measure of guilt for following him, but it felt to me more like she wanted to give him space and / or privacy. Having loud emotions all over the place is frowned on in Japanese culture, and Meryl is very, very polite. Maybe she just doesn't know what to do and panics (Vash has not always been encouraging in terms of having her around, in general). Either way, it tears her up inside to hear him wailing in despair.
--Obviously Meryl has been home tending to Vash while Milly works. It's nice to see Meryl recognize that Milly is busting her butt, but she doesn't know how to address Milly's feelings, either.
--Vash should not be up and about - he's weak and feverish and not a little delirious. Good thing Milly can carry him.
--Get in there, big sis, and tell Meryl it's okay that she loves him. She's absolutely right in that Legato would have found a way to make Vash shoot him whether or not the two of them were involved. Never hold back in matters of the heart.
--My favorite scene. Meryl, alone in the light of the fifth moon, diligently mending Vash's coat. She wants to put him back together and make him whole again, even if she gets hurt in the process. She's desperately in love with him, and she holds the kind person he is close to her heart... but he was the one who put the hole in the moon. How can she reconcile that?
--Vash does look happier.
--He tries to pet the kitty, and Kuroneko gives him a swat, which some interpret as the Trigun Goddess telling Vash to get it in gear. This is incorrect. Cats are just assholes.
--It didn't stop with Legato, now, did it. Knives is pressing harder.
--"Sound Life" must be a song they teach in NML kindergarten. Many people seem to know it, including Kaite and Meryl. (the lyrics really need to scan better, it's so awkwardly phrased)
--This scene is such a tough one. It's lovely - two lovers out under the stars, right? And Meryl is so happy that Vash is considering staying with them. But it's also plain to see that he might have given up. It would be easy, wouldn't it? Let the girls take care of him while he hides. Don't do anything, and wait for an answer.
--What were you doing up so late, Meryl? (we had some ideas)
--There's no way that the townspeople could have captured someone like Vash if he hadn't let them do it. He's so broken that he won't fight back. He's a sinner now, like Knives, like Legato, beyond redemption.
Except...
...Knives assumes that Vash would sacrifice himself for everyone else. Someone else sacrificing herself for him had never been part of the equation.
--So many have stopped believing in Vash, or he thinks they have. They turn their backs on him and he accepts it as the normal course of things. Jessica's crush was childish (I was gonna marry Luke Skywalker when I was four, just saying) but even she ran away after what happened to the ship. That's why it's so important that Meryl loves him. She has made her decision, and she's steadfast in it.
--Maybe Vash doesn't realize how much she loves him until she puts herself between him and the gun, and he hears Rem's words from Meryl's mouth and sees Rem one more time. If Meryl still loves him, then Rem can still love him too. Mistakes happen but you can learn from them, and if you have the right people in your life, they will love you through your mistakes and help you to make it better.
--And finally, Vash realizes that Rem's words apply to him, too, and that he is no less deserving of a second chance and a future than any of the others he's impressed those words on. Does that make Meryl the analogue to Alex? I think it does.
--Awww, such a sweet snuggle. And then Vash has to go doof it up like normal and Meryl has to freak out like normal. It's their love language. (TBH I'd punch my husband too if he rubbed his stubbly face on me like that.)
--What happened after that? (we have some ideas)
--Vash gets ready to go. Seeing him wash up and shave is oddly pleasing, a reminder that despite his Plant-ness, he's a regular dude who has to wash his face and brush his teeth and get haircuts and have breakfast and do all that human stuff.
--Meryl wants to say something to Vash, but she's gotten wiser too. She recognizes that even though there might be a lot that she wants to tell him (and, I think, he might want to tell her too), stating her feelings in the open would be a distraction (or even a burden) he doesn't need right then. Milly is right. There will be time when he gets back.
It doesn't come through in English, but he's so gentle with her in Japanese. He knows what she wants to say. In his own way, at that time, he's saying I love you too.
--Vash takes WW with him, with Milly's love and blessing. May you go with God's protection.
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It Changes, like Water (CH. 1)
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Summary: Akari has just met Gaeric for the first time and is still a little rattled by the experience. Ingo tries to reassure her by telling her a story.
Content Warning: Blood, bodily injury, and wild animal attack
Notes: I've made this in honor of Monsoon-of-Art and their PLA mer au (and just a touch from a different au where Gaeric acts as Irida's guardian). Many of the scenes in this fic are directly inspired by their work, there mer stuff more specifically. I've been a big fan of them since I started playing PLA and I've only grown to love all their characterizations of some of my favorite characters in all of Pokemon. Don't like to read on Tumblr? Read it here on AO3.
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“Hey Ingo?”
The large mer was studying the near microscopic flute that Akari had, humming in acknowledgement but still absorbed in his observations. The light wasn’t the best for looking it over in the tidal cavern, but this was the only place he felt safe meeting Akari so close to shore, the cavern offered some protection from any would be outside observers of the clans or the humans. Ingo was trying to think of any mention of a flute quite like this before in the time he had been with the clan, but nothing seemed to jump to mind.
Akari was in the process of reorganizing her bag before returning to the settlement, how it always got to be such a mess was always a mystery to her but her efforts were thwarted by events of the day. The teenager’s mind was still on her earlier encounter with the not quite so large but infinitely more terrifying Warden Gaeric. He was instantly suspicious of her, commenting on her small size and color of her coat after a brief interrogation, ears pinned back and a snarl on his face as he looked at her uniform like he was trying to place it but couldn’t, that was just before Ingo came to her rescue.
“Gaeric’s the one messing with all the supply ships, isn’t he?”
That caught Ingo’s attention, looking away from his open palm to her. Akari was squinting up at him, trying to parse any subtle emotions in his expression. He knew eventually she would ask; it wasn’t hard to put two and two together given Gaeric’s attitude. Despite knowing this question was inevitable, Ingo felt a cold spike of guilt lance his spine and his ears droop even lower. That was answer enough for her.
“He wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me if he knew for sure, would he?”
“Gaeric doesn’t hurt pups.”
His answer was swift, but it wasn’t quite a satisfactory one and they both knew it. Ingo was certain that, even if anyone else other than himself knew the truth about Akari and her mysterious flute, they couldn’t bring themselves to hurt her. Akari was a child – the magical white coat helped with the illusion, at least at first. It made everyone pause in complete befuddlement. Was she sick? Why was her growth so stunted for someone her age? It was hard to see Akari as anything but a sick, stunted pup with that pale coat. Although she was representing herself illegitimately and she was part of the exploration team that was causing irreparable harm to the fisheries of both clans with their presence, Ingo didn’t think a single member of either clan could bring harm upon her… especially not with how close he was tailing her.
“But I’m not a pup!”
She protested, her stomach souring when she considered how close her call with Gaeric could have been. They both knew the truth and Akari had the sneaking suspicion that Ingo was softening the truth to spare her from the dangers of her situation.
“He wouldn’t hurt you. Gaeric attacks vessels, he doesn’t hurt the people on those vessels.”
“Ingo, he leaves them in ice cold water for hours on end after destroying those supply ships. Some of them don’t make it. They die from hypothermia. We don’t have thick fur like you guys do!”
He flinched, turning his head away and tugging his cap over his eyes to obscure the pain in them. He could see it from both points of view. Gaeric’s priority was the clan, protecting them and their territory, and he saw the Galaxy Team as a threat – which they were. They were horning in on their territory, taking away from their primary food source, and potentially endangering their vulnerable pups. The team’s presence was a threat that no one in the clans knew what to do about. Gaeric, never one for subtly or decorum, did what he thought was best to dissuade the Galaxy Team from settling there. Ingo knew it was too late for that, but there was no point explaining that to Gaeric. It wouldn’t stop him, and it would already make Ingo seem stranger that he was defending humans.
Akari and her team were explorers and researchers, their interests lie in the sea, so of course they were going to butt heads frequently with the elusive mers, whether intentionally or not. Galaxy Team thought of them as monsters, huge moving shadows beneath the water that would destroy all they had built in an instant – Gaeric was certainly not helping in that regard. These people were mostly curious, and he could sympathize with innocent curiosity.
“Gaeric is concerned for the wellbeing of Pearl Clan, Akari. I understand his methods seem drastic, but-”
“Seem drastic? Ingo, they are drastic!”
Ingo’s frown deepened. He wasn’t trying to justify his fellow warden’s actions, but that was certainly how he made it sound. He knew why Gaeric was the way he was. His love for his clan ran deep. The mer glanced toward the sun sinking steadily toward the horizon from the exposed mouth of the cavern, soon to be swallowed up by the sea. He looked back at Akari, jaw set and mouth quirked like she was trying hard not to cry in front of him.
“I apologize.”
Ingo said gently, sinking lower in the water to be more on her level. Akari quickly spun away from him on the rock on which she was perched, her arms folded over her chest.
“I’m not trying to minimize the damage Gaeric has done and the people he has hurt. Gaeric doesn’t feel as though anyone is being proactive in the case of the hu – Galaxy Team. So, he takes it upon himself to be proactive, and takes it too far. He has a lot of misplaced guilt when it comes to protecting the clan… May I tell you a story before you return to your settlement? It might help you understand where he’s coming from.”
Although she was not facing him, he could tell he had caught her interest and he folded his arms over the large rock, resting his head on his forearms. He did his best to recall all the details.
Next Chapter >>
#pokemon#legends of arceus#pla#pkmn#fan fic#fan fiction#fanfiction#fanfic#pokemon legends arceus#pokemon: legends arceus#pokemon legends: arceus#p: la#pl: a#pla mer au#mer au
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Elemental (2023)
#elemental#pixar#elemental movie#ember x wade#animationedit#pixaredit#filmedit#elementaledit#v posts things#v watches elemental#almost forgot this one in my drafts oops#writing the alttext captions is fun because I really get to focus on what they're doing#Wade is really Listening to her#because look at his face. he disagrees with what she's saying#but he doesn't just push back or brush her off#he clearly doesn't think there's anything special about what he does but he doesn't make it about him#it's a subtle difference but i like that he doesn't go like Oh pfft that was nothing and anyway don't feel bad about getting angry#because clearly she admires Something about what he's doing so he doesn't just dismiss it (dismiss her)#and what you're worried about hey sometimes I do that too and here's how i've come to think about it#but it's not like he knows he has the answer either so when she's still huffy and in her head he doesn't push back#Ember is so gd relatable god i love her#she's worked herself up and isn't ready to be reasoned with#but you know the next time she loses her temper that comment's going to pop back up#on animation note i'm still not over Wade's hair IT'S SO COOL#in the 3rd to last gif when he tosses his head and there's the extra strong crash#mwah. beautiful
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