#need to scrape something together for tea

[aldisobey]

Here. ao3 and under the cut for smut. Order up just for you.

He would try again tomorrow. Neve assured him. As soon as Harding returned she would wake him. And Manfred would serve tea and he would have more lyrium to experiment with, and perhaps an excursion to... his steps veered. The detective had seen him to his quarters but surely she wasn't listening? Slowly he reached for a fresh page, new thoughts, new plans, they would have to see if this worked. He was already scratching away, ink set to fiber as he pulled his chair out

ssskkrrrrrt

Immediate betrayal. A shout came from the hall passed his door.

"Don't make me tuck you in professor!"

He groaned. And whether Neve heard it, or guessed it, her exhausted voice spoke sincere. Final.

"I will get Taash to help."

Emmrich sighed, ran a hand through the hair clinging to his forehead, tried to set it back, but the movement of his fingers, the cold touch against his fevered skin, for a moment ghosted memory of a different hand there. His own shook, and he ruffled the mess further with a swallow and weak shout back.

"No!" And the chair scraped in punctuation, some promise made in the noise. "No... I am... going to bed."

And he meant it he would try to rest. But the last two nights had been an ordeal, a useless trial, he'd used the time for research instead. It was a thankful thing when Taash dumbed that bucket over his head to rinse off the blight from Tearstone. Thankful as well when Neve had seen to looking after Johanna tonight. This morning? He blinked, room unsteady, but he needed Hezenkoss he had another... Neve's warning flashed.

He was still leaning on his desk. He hadn't heard his door open. Didn't realize Neve had returned until she put a hand on his shoulder and pried a pen from his pale hand gone bloodless. Gracious, she even had the courtesy to not wrinkle her nose immersed in his 'aura'. She steered him to the door to his bedroom, just out of sight, opened it for him, saw him through.

"And Manfred—" he began as her touch departed and he kept walking. Something about needing a force to stop motion, something easier in continuing directed movements instead of thinking, simply, to stop.

"Fred's helping Lace, remember?"

"Right." He stumbled, stopped as his booted foot stubbed into his end table. A wine glass shivered with a clink. That's right. His last night here. He sniffed.

"Emmrich." And Neve, blessedly, interrupted the thought, "Do you—"

He turned with a wide smile, but his eyes were pinched. Too tight.

"Tomorrow! I'm sure I'll have it then, nothing further Neve, thank you for all your help." His hands clasped together, a short shake in their twist and fold, "I can see to myself to bed now." And he gave a small bow, the grasp released to gentle flare and his hand brushed the wine glass. He flinched, grimaced. But straightened. Stared at it.

We’ll talk back home, Emmrich. I promise.

The sight burned.

But he took a long breath in through his nose.

back home

And let it out even slower through his lips.

I promise.

"Tomorrow."

He met Neve's gaze with the word. And his voice was strong enough, his gaze clear enough, that she nodded once.

"Goodnight, Emmrich."

And left. The door shut soft behind her.

Emmrich listened for her steps. Leather, metal, leather, metal. And then he heard the swing of the outer door, and finally it's louder clang shut.

He collapsed. Thankfully had enough presence of mind to fall backwards. The wrong way across the bed. By chance, fate, or will, his head landed where Rook's ass normally might.

He stared at the ceiling. Couldn't see it. Eyes blurred as their scent registered below his head, next to it, around him in the sheets. He twisted in place, drew his legs up. Hugged hard metal, let the adornments on knee and arm dig hard in. Needed some pressure into chest, thight wasn't enough. Needed something to hold. He wasn't enough. And still. The bedding all around, it was too heavy with them.

He wasnt sure how long he lay there. How long he simply curled in on himself and squeezed as small as he might. There in the dark. He could almost imagine his mother cradled around him again. Still. Soft going stiff as the wood creaked above.

Much the same wood frame creaked below now. He roiled in place. Small stretches and a hard gulp as his wet face burned.

How long that lasted he wasn't sure. He tried to sleep. He tried to breathe. But it all came stuttering and fluttering. The air, the thoughts, the way Fade's sleeping dreams invited and bounced away as if it were a dog with a stick it shouldn't chew.

He twisted again and this time his arm stretched out, long enough to reach the heardboard, and it grasped Rook's collection of pillows. The edge of one, two, and three caught in his wide grasp. He dragged them languid across the bed. Let them gather sheets, blankets, whatever, his way—plow gathering dirt. Leaned one way, and shoveled the whole mess below, clutched the collection to chest, cradled with curl at hip, he enfolded the odd shape with his length, buried leg, arm, pieces of himself in it.

And deepest went his face. He sobbed at the tickle of some hair that wasn't his brushing his cheek. Poured the spill into the spot he knew Rook's head to lay. Knew once a spot where drool had surprised him mid-morning cuddle. Found now his cheek rehearsing the scene without a grimace or flinch away as an aching hitch of lonesome breath dampened stuffing where once it warmed a neck. And his hips thrust, body clenched.

He was so tired. And he wept.

And time had no meaning while the Fade dashed in and out away, back and forth, in play.

Bad dog.

His hips moved again, a more forceful thrust. The sopping pillow mess at his face drove their smell, his despair, and release. He bit down on the edge. Fabric on tongue, grit between teeth, he focused on that grind, as his cock found a spot just right.

The pressure. The comfort. He squeezed into it, and out, slow dumb movements, fully clothed, his bedding a lump below—he humped.

For how long. How hard. He didn't know.

But he couldn't stop muttering Rook, Rook, Rook... and shuddering. Used that shake of his sobs to grind himself more forcefully.

Too hard. For too long. He shouldn't be doing this, couldn't be...

It's natural after all—a lecturing voice in head, his own—helps relieve stress, induces sleep.

He pressed in, hips jerked, cock twitched—aching, but not quite. Again and his hand dove in, fumbled through pillows and sheets, felt only the brush of sash and pants as he thrashed. Over and over, until it came slow and deep once more, just once more as his body shuddered, legs a violent quiver, a high-pitched groan timbre near squeak of relief.

A splash. He shivered hunched in place, and crashed.

His fingers never made it further than feeling his spend on his soaked trousers. For a moment he thought fingers caught a wet lick.

Good boy.

His lectern-voiced mind muttered as the Fade gave up it's stick.

thinkin about emmrich having a sad, shameful wank while rook's trapped in the fade. like, crying and humping the mattress because their pillow still smells like them. he forces himself to sleep in the wet spot out of shame

[navybluetriangles]

.

[lia-linny]

summary: A hilarious TikTok trend changes yn's life when her crush sees the funny video titled "reasons why i would date Lee Felix" and a notification pops up in her phone the day after: "@leefelix_brownieboy posted a video"

genre: fluff, Highschool au, social media romance

words: 1.9k

"What about Wooyoung?"

The chatter in the school cafeteria was as loud as ever, but at the table where yn sat with her friends, it felt like a world of its own. Loud, chaotic, and full of giggles. Typical teenage conversations were held, from the latest fashion trends to celebrity gossip. That day, they first passionately discussed how cute Bang Chan and his new girlfriend the skater girl looked together. Then, the topic had shifted to relationships in general, and her friends had started wondering why yn was still single. Determined to change that as soon as possible, they decided to set her up with someone. All they needed now was to find someone who match all her criteria.

"Wooyoung is way too flirty for me," yn replied with a smirk to Karina’s question.

"Jungwon?" Winter chimed in.

"Nah... not really my type..." Yn was sitting between Karina and Winter, across from Ningning and Giselle, while her friends worked through their mental list of guys with the precision of a detective team. As she twirled the straw in her iced tea can, Giselle asked:

"Sunghoon? Figure skater energy?"

"I’d fall, and he’d definitely laugh at me." That sparked another round of giggles.

Giselle rested her chin in her hand. "Girl, your type doesn’t even exist. You’re picky times ten."

"That’s called having standards," yn shot back with a grin but deep down, she knew her friend was right. She had never been someone who fell in love easily. She preferred to watch, analyze, and take her time. If you were going to fall, then it should be for the right one, right? Why waste time just to find out that he is an asshole?

"Okay, wait." Ningning leaned in, her voice a little softer, almost teasing. "What about Felix?" Something tightened in yn’s stomach. Bullseye.

"Felix?"

"Yeah, you know. Bakes like a god, gamer, freckles." All eyes turned to her. Yn had tried to stay neutral, but the telltale blush on her cheeks had given her away. Plus, she was pretty sure anyone within a ten-kilometer radius could hear her pounding heartbeat.

"Oh my God, she’s blushing!" Karina exclaimed.

"He’s just..." yn sighed, playing with her fork in the food. "He’s exactly my type. Looks-wise. Personality-wise. He’s just so..."

"Sunshine?" Giselle teased with a grin. Yn nodded slowly, a quiet smile playing on her lips.

"Guys, I think our angel is in love! Omg, we have to get them together!!! Sunshine meets sunshine!"

"You two TikTok nerds would vibe perfectly," Winter said.

"You’d go viral before you’re even official!" Ningning laughed. Yn laughed along, but one thought stuck in her mind. Felix. She had never really talked to him just a few fleeting glances in the hallway, maybe some mutual TikTok likes but something about him felt... magnetic.

She pushed the thought aside. It was just a fun conversation among friends, nothing more. It wasn’t like she actually had anything to do with him...

But later that night, while scrolling through TikTok and stumbling upon the new trend “Reasons why I would date…”, a thought flickered. What if?

It was just after midnight, the light in yn’s room dimmed, only the fairy lights above her desk casting a warm, flickering glow across the walls. Her finger hovered above the record button. It was just for fun. She propped up her phone on a stack of books, fixed her hair, and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt slightly over her forehead for the vibe. Then she hit record.

“Reasons why I would date... Lee Felix.”

For social media, yn had scraped together every bit of confidence she could find. It was meant to be funny. She looked at the camera with a grin as she raised her fingers one by one, counting off the reasons.

"1. He's nicer to strangers than 90% of people will ever be.

2. He bakes. And well. I mean, come on.

3. His freckles are cuter than anything I’ve ever seen. They are like little stars on his face. It looks so friendly.

4. His laugh. I can’t even explain it, but my heart literally does a flip. I’m convinced that every time Felix smiles, he saves a life somewhere in the world.

5. His voice is fucking hot..."

At the last point, she had to giggl a bit and hid her face in her hands. She ended the video with a crooked smile and added a caption:

@ just.yn'n.bakin: just girly things ~ only my mutuals will see this anyway lol 🍪☀️"

The next morning, she had just wanted to check if her best friend had replied to one of her messages. Instead, TikTok had been blinking with 999+ new notifications. Her eyes widened with shock.

"Oh my God." The video had gone viral overnight. Not “haha a few likes”-viral. Millions of views. And tens of thousands of comments, like: “I ship you two SO HARD.” “Felix, you’ve got 24 hours, bro.” “Manifesting this relationship.” “Why am I crying over this???”

Yn stared at the screen as her fingers trembled.

Ping!

Message from Karina: “YOU’RE GOING VIRAL?!”

Then Winter: “Felix definitely saw it.” Seconds later, another one: “He’s literally liking the comments?? Girl I see your love story already!”

Her heart had started racing fast. Faster. Way too fast. She had never thought this would turn into something real when she recorded the video. She hadn’t even dreamed that Felix might actually see it. Somehow, it all felt... embarrassing. Did it make her seem hopelessly in love? Would he find it weird? Cringe? She could already imagine a response video: "Reasons why I would NOT date yn!!!!!! 🤢🤮😂"

Ping!

Notification TikTok: “@leefelix_brownieboy posted a new video.” Still trying to steady her breathing, she quickly tapped the push notification. Her video the one she had half-jokingly recorded before bed was now part of a duet.

Left side: her original. Right side: Felix.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed in a hoodie, a blanket half-draped over his legs, his hair messy. But his grin was bright and a little shy. He let the video play in full lenght without interrupting, but it was clear he was struggling not to laugh. His cheeks growing redder with every reason she listed.

Yn, watching, had also turned increasingly red as she saw Felix listening to every single word she had said about him the night before. And just when she was about to die of embarrassment... He started his own list.

“Reasons why I would date yn.

Sunshine recognizes sunshine.

2. She bakes better than me. And I don’t say that lightly. You can literally taste the love in her baking. I almost proposed to her when she handed out those cinnamon rolls on her birthday last year.

3. She makes TikToks that are meant just for her friends and still manages to make me laugh so hard I’ve got a whole folder where I save them.

4. She always likes the same TikToks I do. It’s creepy. But cute. She’s funnier than she admits.

5. And… she stole my heart faster than my friends could even send me her video."

At the end, he looked straight into the camera, tilted his head slightly, his tone soft almost unsure but clearly meant for her.

“Yn, if you’re watching this… I wouldn’t be uninterested. Just saying.” The video had ended with a wink, and her eyes had immediately jumped to the caption:

@ leefelix_brownieboy: Someone tell her I’ll be looking for her in the hallway today.

~☆~

Yn felt like every pair of eyes in the hallway was on her. And she probably wasn’t wrong at least three students had already smiled at her like she was some kind of local celebrity. Some of the younger girls, standing in a whispering circle, looked like they were seconds away from asking for a selfie, the way they were dreamily staring at yn.

She tried her best at stucking close to Karina as they made their way to the lockers. But then yn heard a familiar voice. The same voice she had, just yesterday, publicly declared as hot. “Hey.”

She turned around. Felix stood right in front of her, hands tucked into his pockets, that same crooked grin from his TikTok but somehow more real in person. From the far end of the hallway, the group of girls squealed in delight, and yn was pretty sure one of them was about to faint.

“So… uh. Sunshine meets sunshine, huh?” His gaze turned a little cautious, like he was trying to gauge her reaction. Yn let out a soft laugh, then nodded.

“I guess TikTok shipps us.”

“Then we probably shouldn’t disappoint the internet,” he said with a smirk. A brief pause followed. Yn couldn’t quite tell if he was flirting or asking if she wanted to film a TikTok together.

“Kinda random but... coffee after school? Or cupcake baking? I’ll bring the ingredients, you bring that love-recipe of yours?” Yn’s grin grew.

“Only if you help bake.”

“Deal.”

TikTok or date? Maybe it could be both.

~☆~

The air was thick with the scent of vanilla and melted chocolate, wrapping around the two of them like a second layer of sugar. They both had a natural charm when it came to socializing. Chatting with people had never been hard for either of them but this didn’t feel like just any new aquintance. The conversation flowed easily, jumping from topic to topic, laughter echoing between them as they built inside jokes like it was second nature. Something between them just clicked.

While yn kneaded dough for the second batch with flour-dusted fingers, Felix stood beside her with a piping bag in hand, brows furrowed in concentration like cupcake decorating was a sacred art.

“If you stare at that piece of baked dough any harder, I’m gonna get jealous,” yn teased. Felix looked up, pushed his bottom lip out playfully, and grinned.

“I just want you to know I can do more than TikTok dances. I have to bring out all my baking skills to impress you.” He held up a cupcake with a tiny, hand-drawn heart on top.

“Try it.” She took a bite and immediately burst into laughter.

“You swapped salt and sugar in the frosting, sweetie.”

“What?! No-” He yanked the cupcake back, tasted it himself, and pulled a disgusted face. “Okay, plan B: I bring the romance, you save the flavor.” He wiggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated flirt, which sent them both into another round of laughter.

Once yn had finished baking the rest of the muffins and they had decorated them this time with actual sweet frosting they arranged the cupcakes neatly on the kitchen table. The phone was clipped into the tripod, TikTok already recording. Felix grinned into the camera.

“Okay, guys, you wanted an update…” He gestured to yn, who gave a shy little wave, cheeks slightly pink. “This gorgeous girl said yes mostly to cupcakes, but also kinda to me.” They both giggled and grabbed a cupcake each, holding them up in front of their faces like silly dough-eyed monsters. And just before the recording timer ran out, Felix leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

@ just.yn’n.baking: From TikTok mutuals to cupcake partners. Recipe for love?

The comments exploded: “STOP I’M CRYING THIS IS TOO WHOLESOME” “The internet really just played cupid for a softboy and a softgirl.” “Think I’ll try TikTok instead of Tinder now. This gives me hope.” “If they start dating I won’t even know which one I’m more jealous of.”

~☆~

A warm Sunday afternoon, sunlight spilling golden through the half-open window. Felix’s room was a cozy mess: a gaming setup in one corner, a plushie on the bed that yn had jokingly given him weeks ago now clearly treasured and a fruit plate his mom had brought in with a knowing look. A TikTok tripod stood in the middle of the room.

“Okay, this time you’re nailing the drop, right?” yn teased.

“Hey! I’ve gotten better.” She tossed him a hair tie with a laugh. He caught it and tried to tie back the loose strands of his long blond hair, but the ponytail failed miserably most of his hair fell right back into his face.

“Let me do it,” she said without thinking and stepped closer, gently gathering his hair in her hands. She was standing so close now that Felix had to swallow hard. When her hands dropped, they looked at each other. Their eyes met long, deep, and quiet. But just as quickly as the moment came, it passed.

They both stepped back, the music started. Three… two… one they danced. But at the crucial part, Felix missed the beat, stumbled, and nearly fell backward straight into yn. She didn’t fall, thankfully, instinctively placing her hands on his waist to steady him. His face was just inches from hers. Suddenly everything went quiet. The music was still playing, but they could barely hear it. Yn’s heart thudded in her chest. Felix’s breath brushed against her cheek. The distance between them was so small. So easy to close. But neither moved. They were too new at this. Too unsure. As far as yn knew, Felix had never had a partner. Neither had she.

Later she saved the video in her drafts. Too sweet to delete. Too intimate to post.

~☆~

A gray Tuesday. The sky above the school looked like someone had drained all the color from it. Thick, looming clouds were gathering. something was definitely brewing up there. And right on cue, as the final bell of the day echoed through the halls, a sudden downpour broke loose.

“Oh no,” yn murmured, clutching her backpack closer. Of course she hadn’t checked her weather app that morning. Now she was standing there no umbrella, no jacket just a light top already fluttering from the sharp wind.

“Here.” Before she could protest, Felix had tugged off his hoodie. warm, soft, smelling like him and pulled it over her head, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“But you’ll get soaked.”

“I’m Australian. I’ve seen worse,” he grinned. They walked through the rain together, shoulders brushing. Even though his shirt was getting soaked, he looked at her like none of it mattered like she was the only thing that did.

Cautiously, she slipped her hand into his. And it felt so right, they practically floated home.

“Keep it warm for me. Or keep yourself warm with it. Both work.” That had been Felix’s last message. He’d walked her home, hoodie and all flashing her a shy smile as he told her to keep it. The butterflies it gave her then? Gone now.

Because the rain had left her with a cold. Her nose was red, her throat scratchy. She layed curled up on the couch under a fluffy blanket, some random Netflix series droning in the background as she scrolled aimlessly through social media. The day dragged on like molasses. She had canceled on her friends and was now just... existing in a pile of tissues and self-pity.

The soft chime from the doorbell snapped her out of it. Groaning, she shuffled to the door only to blink in surprise when she opened it to see familiar doe eyes and a freckled face. Felix stood there. One hand held a small paper bag, the other a thermos. His hoodie was pulled up over his damp blonde hair, misted with rain. Somehow, that made him look even more handsome.

“Heard you’re not quite yourself today.” yn blinked.

“How did you…?”

“Karina. And the TikTok silence. Very un-yn to not post something silly all day.” He offered the bag to her.

“Cough drops figured your throat’s killing you. And… ginger tea. I know, it tastes like trash, but it works.” She gave a raspy laugh.

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But cute while doing it.” She let him in. They didn’t talk much he sat on the floor while she remained bundled up on the couch. They both scrolled through TikTok, showing each other their favorites now and then. It was low-energy, simple… but somehow perfect. And somewhere between one video and the next, yn fell asleep.

~☆~

The TikTok started with light and romantic pop music. Felix stood in the foreground, Chan holding the phone, and Hyunjin commentating loudly off-camera: “Okay guys, today’s the day. Sunshine’s asking Sunshine!”

Cut.

A timelapse of the boys decorating a small garden, fairy lights twinkled overhead, handmade paper stars hung from branches, and colorful paintings swayed gently in the breeze.

Cut.

Felix, in a pastel yellow shirt, tried to mask his nerves with his signature crooked grin.

“She has no idea,” he said to the camera. “when this works, it’s gotta be the most wholesome TikTok move of the year. Holy crap, I’m nervous.”

Cut.

Yn appeared, led into the garden by Ningning, who could barely suppress her squeal. When yn saw the lights, she froze. Her eyes widened. The boys stood in a line, each holding a sign. Above them hung a banner: "REASONS WHY I WANT YOU TO BE MY GIRLFRIEND:"

Cut.

A clip played showing the signs up close:

1. Because every day with you feels like my favorite song and I never want to hit pause.

2. Because you wear my hoodie like it’s always been yours.

3. Because you’d give me the last cupcake.

4. Because you record our cringe moments and turn them into my favorites.

5. Because you’re sweet. But not just that. You’re brave, smart, funny… and most off all perfect for me.

6. Because your laugh makes me laugh even when I have no idea what’s funny.

7. Because you make me feel chosen. And you’re picky. But you picked me.

At the end, Felix stood there holding a cupcake, his eyes soft, his smile quietly excited.

Cut.

YN’s eyes glistened as the realization hit. Gently, Felix stepped closer.

“Yn… from the first video, I knew you were special. And with every laugh, every cupcake, every second together… I knew it even more.” He cleared his throat, voice shaking slightly as he looked into her eyes.

“So… will you be my girlfriend? Officially? My Sunshine?” Yn covered her mouth, eyes wide. She was laughing half overwhelmed, half head-over-heels.

“Yes. A hundred times yes.” She threw her arms around him, and as cheers erupted behind them, she kissed him. Soft. Warm. Honest.

The boys exploded behind them. Changbin shouted, “FINALLY!” Hyunjin zoomed in dramatically. Seungmin threw confetti. Jisung yelled, “THAT’S MY BOY!”

Pure chaos erupted. The video ended on a freeze frame of the kiss, calmly lit by the fairy lights.

@ leefelix_brownieboy: Sunshine x Sunshine official now! 🙀🥳💙

[leyavo]

Ghost x mute!reader (electronics engineer)

Simon didn’t expect to get so close to you. He thought he’d hand over the busted radio and return an hour later to get it. But you’re the only one there at 2am, no one else to test it. You could tweak it and fix it, but you couldn’t test it.

No you needed Simon to speak into the coms, your gloved hand raising the radio to his masked mouth waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t complain, rolling his mask up and resting it over the tip of his nose as he speaks again. Your gaze flitting to his moving lips, his low gravely voice pulling you in.

The first time the speaker is crackly and you shake your head, setting the radio back on the table. Taking it apart and putting it back together. He sits beside you, hunched over the uncomfortable plastic chair. Comical really, the way he shifts in the seat trying not to widen his legs as not to touch his knee to yours.

You’re aware of the lack of space surrounding your workstation. Wires and spare/recycled parts scattered every inch of the surface. Lieutenant Riley sticks out like a sore thumb, headphones and tactical vest still on, sunglasses resting on top of his masked head. His warm umber eyes following your every movement, standing out against the charcoal paint smeared around them.

He hasn’t spoken to you directly since he entered, other than to test the radio. Just the buzz of electric and metal scraping, a drop of the screw in your grasp. You’re wiring the earpiece back to the main part and inserting it into the seam of his tactical vest when your commanding officer walks in. You glance over the lieutenant’s shoulder, the C.O signing you’re wasting a lieutenant’s time. A slight pull of your brow, fingers hovering ever so close to side of Simon's neck.

Simon can see the guy’s hands in the reflection of the glass cabinet behind you. “I’m in no rush, ain’t had a chance to sit down till now.” His words alone smoothing the line between your brows.

The guy huffs, throwing a disapproving glare your way and dumping a hard drive on your desk. Simon doesn’t know why, but he finds himself talking. Filling the silence. Telling you he’s just come back from an op, but was too wired to sleep so he thought he’d get his coms fixed instead. Least he wouldn’t have to fill out a form in the day and wait around.

You might not speak, but you’re a good listener. A nod of your head, hum of approval and a flick of your hand when you sign something back to him. He’s a little rusty with his sign language, an excuse to see you more often when he returns a week later with a shattered phone. Even manages to get your number, you know just incase he breaks anything else.

He notices you around base, can’t miss you now that he knows you and he finds himself going to your workstation for a cup of tea a couple times a week. You're desk a lot tidier as if you've made space for him. You’re starting to relax around him, hands moving animatedly as you communicate with him. He has to grab your wrist sometimes, asking you to teach him what a certain sign means and he does it as an excuse for you to guide his hands in signing, which you later catch on to. You even make up stuff to catch him out.

You’re quite popular around base too, medics and techs greeting you in the corridors on your way to the canteen. Simon’s watched you playing with the service dogs whilst on some smoke breaks. You seem to gravitate to the particular section and he finds out your brother’s part of the designated training teams. Wonders if you’ve mentioned his name and if he’ll get warned off.

[Masterlist]

[sheepispink]

havent posted in a minute so heres some character analysis.. kind of.

i think Ghost’s biggest flaw in the relationship wouldn't be his roughness, or like the nightmares and the fear of commitment.

Ghost treats you like a soldier; he doesn't expect you to do 50 pushups, lord forbid. No, he forgets to explain his strange choices, then he expects you to listen without question because he knows it’s good for you even if you dont know whats happening, and sometimes, he’ll even scrutinise your thinking.

“I dont need new ones.” He grunts, pulling on his worn boots as you argue, trying to coax him into getting a fresh pair rather than these tattered ones. The brand logo has all been scraped off now, and you’re positive he’s worn a hole into a shoe.

“But Si-”

“No.”

He doesn't consider that you want to help him, that you just want to make life comfortable for him because no one has done that before. No one’s meddled in his personal life enough to get angry at his worn attire. In turn, the door closes with his typical rough slam, but it feels amplified to you.

Similarly, this also happens when you’re nervous about something mundane. You’ve been doing his bloody head in all morning as you mumble about the tattered car he drives, and in turn lets you use it until you eventually buy your own. “I just- it looks so unsteady—“

“It’ll get you to work and back in one piece.” He manages to shove down the scoff, but his words are no less blunt, stabbing his fork into the plate.

“But it creaks when i get in and the wheel cover is peeling—“

He’s been through worse, damn he’s drove a plane with a damaged wing to safety before, let alone a damn rusty car. You watch as he pinches his brow, unbelieving that you can be so agitated by something so minor. Yet that minor issue is the worst thing that has happened in terms of driving for you.

Sometimes he’ll raise his voice, just because that’s how he always gets the rookies to listen to him. But you’re no rookie, and you just stare at him as he bellows for you to just ‘ignore it’. He’s stirring his tea in the kitchen when he hears the door of the bedroom close, your form leaving him behind. The stench of blood weighs heavy in the air, the one he refuses to clean off because he’s just so desensitised to it. He’s exhausted after all of this— can't you just cut him some slack? His soldiers would, they wouldn't care if he had blood on his damn face, touching the rim of the mug as he sipped from it.

But you did, you always cared because no one barks at you like that, no one brushes off the horrifying stench, no one thinks that driving a car whose wheel has gone flat three times this past week is normal.

He does though. Never has he known anything different, and that wont change but he does know that the closed door is different. And when he steps in to see the pinched brow, the hands over your face as your knees hunch together— he knows that your normal is very different to his normal.

buy me a kofi!

[heavenbarnes]

need our simon to come home from deployment IMMEDIATELY 🫶🏼 | p1 p2 p3 p4

your older bf!simon comes home from deployment at dinner time on a tuesday.

herb alpert on the kitchen radio, knife tearing through a bunch of parsley, garlic and onion simmering on the stove behind you.

simon can hear it- smell it through the mail flap.

smells like home.

your ears prick at the sound of the door swinging open, the hinges alerting you to a secondary presence. back tensing for just a moment before you hear steps you could pick out in a lineup.

he sees your fluffy slippers first, then your little shorts, then his t-shirt. finally, he’s met with wide eyes and the kitchen light hits the curve of your face so nicely.

simon could cry.

you already were.

“oh my god, si”

he doesn’t really want to touch you with his outside clothes, tactical gear smelling like the back of a cargo plane and you’re so soft and lovely he’s afraid he might mess it all up.

but there’s nothing stopping the way you leap at him across the kitchen and swing your entire self around him and he’s forgetting what he’s wearing and he’s wrapping his arms around you like he knows you won’t break.

his tongue is immediately in your mouth and he’s taking one gasping breath and filling his nose with the scent that’s overwhelming him.

simon realises right then that the house smells like dinner but you smell like home. you are home. he’s home.

when he finally lets you let him go you’re telling him to leave all his gear by the washer and you’ll sort it all out tomorrow but right now he needs to sit down so you can feed him.

he’s back in the kitchen with a sweatshirt and shorts on and he’s never found his own clothes so comfortable. maybe it’s because he can smell you on the fabric.

you’d only been cooking enough for one but at this point, you’re so happy to have him home that you’re plating up the whole thing for him as he sits at the dining table.

his chair scrapes back along the floor and he’s patting his thigh, simon eats his tea with you curled up in his lap telling him everything he’d missed.

apparently, old-mate next door broke up with his missus and it was quite the scene.

apparently, they finally finished the roadworks on the junction at the end of your street and there was no longer a blur of orange cones on the drive to work.

apparently, there was going to be a barbecue at the house down the street and the two of you were invited. you might make a salad to take with.

you could’ve been reading him the phonebook and simon would be a happy man. his hand was holding under your thigh and your face was in the crook of his neck.

he was home.

dishes done (together) and tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him, simon isn’t sure this couch has ever been this plush. he could melt into it, as long as it was just like this.

bare feet up on the ottoman and one arm wrapped around your side as your head lay against his chest. you could hear his heartbeat and he could hear the football you’d recorded for him whilst he was away.

deployment was fucking rough, seen and done things he didn’t even want to think about. but this is what he comes home to.

you.

you who curls up in his lap and idly twirls the drawstring of his shorts round your finger.

you who offered up all of your food to him to fill the pit that’d been growing in his stomach over the weeks.

you who couldn’t give less of a fuck about the football on tv but watches in quiet contentment for the sake of being closer to him.

you who doesn’t ask once about what happened while he was away but will always listen without judgement if he needs to get something off his chest.

ideally, simon would like to give you the world in return. then again, he doesn’t think even that’d be enough.

instead, he takes you up to your shared bed and, miraculously, he doesn’t fall asleep as soon as his back touches the mattress.

he could, very easily, but instead he pulls you down on top of him and gets his lips back on yours. the kiss when he came through the door had been passionate but it’d been fleeting.

simon had kept it like that, knowing if he spent a second longer with your tongue on his then he’d have you over the kitchen bench and that wasn’t what he wanted.

really, he wanted this. the full weight of you on top of him and your hips rolling messily against his as his hands went up underneath your his shirt.

he wanted to run his fingertips along your bare back and feel skin so soft he almost couldn’t remember the things his hands had done just last week.

he wanted to map out every spot, every freckle, every ridge across your shoulders and commit it to memory so the next time he had to up and leave he could trace you like a constellation in the night sky.

truthfully, simon didn’t want to leave next time. he wanted to get the call from price and tell him that he was sorry but he couldn’t do it any longer. he now had something- someone to live for and he just couldn’t gamble odds like he used to.

he wasn’t entirely sure he’d still hold the sentiment on the other side of blowing a load so simon put those thoughts in the back of his head and decided he’d work them out on tomorrow morning’s run.

right now, simon felt the soft skin of the inside of your cheeks and your spit tastes like the nectar those gods harped on about and he’s pulling hard on your hips as he rolled something hard between them.

you were moaning, whimpering, whinging into his mouth while you ground yourself into the hard line of his cock. raging erection didn’t even cover it and his head was tipping back as a-

yawn, deep and all consuming broke from his throat.

simon was fucking knackered.

exactly what he didn’t want to happen was happening in front of him, you were sitting up and cooing at him so fucking sweetly.

“si, you’re exhausted- we’ll go to sleep”

strong grip around your waist was anchoring you to the spot so you couldn’t climb out of his lap like you were currently trying.

“sweet’art”

you could hear it in his voice, he couldn’t even lift his head off the pillow. you conceded, however, letting him rub soft little circles into your hips.

“jus’ gimme’ one and then we’ll sleep”

laying back down against his chest, you felt the air woosh out of him as you relaxed your body on his. face fitting into the crook of his neck like you were made for him (you were) with a hand running along his collarbone.

“we’ve got tomorrow”

you knew it was futile, he was already slipping your shorts to the side. head tilting just a little to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“and i need you tonight”

settled.

you felt one large hand lift you up as his other freed his cock out his shorts. just enough, just enough to get the job done because any extra effort was going to render him unconscious.

bringing a hand to his mouth, he spit in his palm quickly before rubbing it along the head of his cock. deep groan rumbled beneath you as you felt him pressing against your entrance.

“lift y’top up, sweet’art- wanna’ feel y’on me”

you did him one better, leaning up enough to slip the shirt over your head and onto the floor. forcing him to hold his arms up for just a second, you pulled his sweatshirt off and discarded it in the pile.

bare chest to chest, you could feel simon shudder beneath you. snaking one arm under his armpit and the other around his ribs, you snuggled in tight as you felt him slip right in.

that’s all he wanted.

weeks of photos, videos, imagination to go off of. this was all he ever wanted. you so close to him that it was entirely possible to imagine the two of you as one. that there was no version of reality without you together in it.

lazily rolling his hips up into you as you met him halfway, rolling yours back down to share half of the load. simon’s arms wrapped around your back, keeping you close and keeping you moving against him.

“sorry love, s’not gonna’ be a long one”

you could only respond with a whimper, gently nodding your head into his neck as your lips press soft little kisses into the skin. you didn’t need a long time, you just needed him.

unable to help yourself from noticing the couple new scratches he’d come home with, your fingers idly traced along them as he sucked in a breath at the feeling.

what you wouldn’t give to keep him home and keep him safe.

a thought for another day as you felt yourself constricting around his cock, grinding yourself into his lap as firm muscle rubbed against your front.

tiny little gasps flitted from your mouth and into his ear, you could feel his body tensing up beneath you. it wasn’t just with sheer tiredness, you knew this man like the back of your hand.

left hand coming out from under where you’d buried it behind his back, you ran the tips of your fingernails down simon’s chest. you stopped at his nipple, gently scraping along the peaked flesh until you heard him.

“need y’to cum right now f��me please”

slipping your other hand between the two of you, you let your fingers wander against yourself until you could feel the tide breaking in the pit of your stomach.

body clenching involuntarily, your mouth dropping open against his skin. no doubt drool pooling against his collarbone as you came with a pathetic whimper. hips bucking a little crazy in his lap as his hand ran the length of your back.

“god that’s it, sweet’art”

simon went rigid, gripping you tight like you might go somewhere as the dams broke and he filled you up. hot and sticky and dripping out of you and onto the waistband of his shorts.

he fell so still the only way you’d know he was still alive was the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. his arms were already starting to fall limp around you.

coming back from the bathroom, slipping off the rest of your clothes and adding them to the pile. simon wasn’t asleep, there were no snores, but he had been rendered totally immobile.

pulling the remainder of his clothes off for him and settling in beside, you pulled the sheets up over the both of you as his arm began drawing you in.

draped across him, you could feel his lips pressing against the crown of your head.

“m’gonna’ rock y’world in the morning”

you snorted a little laugh, nuzzling in closer as his breathing starts to even out. no use in replying, snorings about the only answer you’re going to get.

not that you’d mind.

he was home.

[wileys-russo]

leah, training, “can i sleep on you please?” or something like that

just one more II l.williamson

"oh no leah come on do we have to!" you groaned as your fiancé clicked into netflix and loaded up yet another season of the crown.

"yes! babe, this is educational and entertaining." the blonde patted your knee with a grin as you groaned even louder and slumped down deeper into the sofa.

"leah i hate to break it to you but as an australian i have zero interest in the royal family, or their arguments over tea trades and affairs!" you scoffed, you respected that the blonde had an illustrious interest in it however that respect lessened when she tried forcing it onto you.

the pair of you had been together for years now and somehow you'd managed to scrape by mostly unscathed, growing very able to block out her ramblings with hums and nods which seemed to appease her.

but then beth just had to go and get her into the crown, interrupting the calm and steady flow of your home routine and especially your once sacred movie nights.

no more would you be curled up together, sharing commentary and laughter and an occasional kiss, arguing over who got the last handful of popcorn, half of the bowl littering the ground where you'd been tossing it at each other trying to catch it in your mouths.

no now you had to try and stay awake through the gruelingly boring slow burned torture that was this show and leahs obsession with it, fighting to keep your eyes open and having to put up with leahs 'tests' that you were paying attention.

you'd tried to leave her to it, going to watch a movie or a show of your own in the bedroom but the moodiness and sulking and the pouts and the dramatic sighs that would echo out for hours from the living room just weren't worth it.

"okay baby, its eleven and we have to be up for the morning session at six, we can't be late again!" you decided for the pair of you, reaching for the remote and quirking an eyebrow when leah quickly snatched it back.

"leah-" "just one more! you can go to bed, but i have to finish this season." "lee there's three more episodes in the season! you may as well come to bed with me now, and watch them tomorrow afternoon when we get back." you tried to bargain but it was no use with the stubborn blonde who firmly shook her head, remote still held tightly to her chest.

"fine! you're a grown woman, you can make your own choices. one more leah, don't be stupid." you warned sternly as your fiance hummed with a firm nod. "just one more pretty girl, i promise."

"goodnight, your highness!" you mocked, pressing your lips to hers a few times as she squeezed your hips, nipping at your bottom lip for the teasing comment.

only as you woke suddenly around four in the morning needing to use the bathroom, you realised maybe you should have fought a little harder to get leah to come to bed with you, the defenders side still empty.

"for fuck sakes." you grumbled tiredly, wiping the sleep from the corner of your eye and swinging out of bed, stomping off to the living room where sure enough the blonde was hanging half off the sofa with her mouth wide open.

she choked on air and hit the floor with a thump as you smacked her in the face with a cushion, gasping as she sat up and found you to be glaring down at her.

"why the hell would you do that jesus christ woman are you trying to put me into cardiac arrest!?" leah clutched her chest and exhaled shakily. "leah it is four in the fucking morning, get your ass into bed right now!" you growled pointing behind you as the taller girl got to her feet, trudging off still grumbling under her breath.

"i swear to god leah you better get up when that alarm goes off tomorrow, if you refuse i'll leave you here and go by myself." you warned seriously getting into bed beside her and smacking away her hands which tried to draw your body into hers.

"seriously?" "seriously, goodnight williamson." "you know a few more months and you'll be a williamson." "well i haven't said i do yet." "hey!"

~

"nope!" your hand banged down on the table with a loud smack causing the blonde across from you to shoot upwards where her head had once been resting on the cafeteria table.

"i warned you leah." you took a bite of toast as the girl whined and buried her face in her hands. "long night then eh?" beth teased as she joined the pair of you, steph, lia and laura not far behind.

"this is your fault!" you poked at the girls chest accusingly who scoffed. "me? what did i do!" she frowned as once again your hand smacked down against the table causing leah to jolt and sit upright again.

"got her into that awful show that she stayed up until four in the morning watching. its taken over our house, our date nights, our dinner conversations, you're a menace!" you huffed, stabbing at your eggs and shoving them into your mouth.

"what show?" "the crown! she's addicted!"

"oo what season are you up to? i really liked-" steph started excitedly, falling short at the dirty glare you sent her in response. "stephanie you're supposed to be on my side!" you scowled making the older girl grin, reaching over to shove your head to the side.

"nah, where's the fun in that?" "traitor to your own country." "aw does it make you mad?" the brunette cooed pinching your cheek as you swatted her hand away, everyone finishing up their food as leah fought to stay awake, munching away on her toast.

"baby please, let me just take a little nap, i'll say i need physio or something." your fiance grumbled as you all filed out of the cafeteria heading for the change rooms, the air ablaze with chatter.

"nope, not a chance. i already warned them!" you shook your head firmly with a slight smile at the way your fiance threw her head back with a groan, moping after you into the change rooms where everyone was already swapping over their trainers to cleats.

"come on, can i sleep on you please? just five minutes." the blonde slumped over into you, grabbing onto your shirt and pressing her face into your neck.

"i love you. you're so pretty. and i'm so tired!" leah whined as you unhooked her fingers from the material of your training top. "well you should have listened to your pretty fiance when she told you to come to bed." you pouted mockingly, kissing her cheek and bending down to lace up your boots.

~

"oi watch it kyra!" leah yelped, ducking the ball which was booted at her head where she'd been leaning against the goal post in between drills. "sorry leah!" the brunette grinned showing she was anything but, alessia grabbing her in a headlock as you snickered.

"what did you do?" steph appeared beside you with a knowing look at the amused smile on your face, having seen it many many times in the years she'd known you and played beside you for country and club.

"me? nothing!" you gasped with mock offence, steph humming and staring you down as your grin widened. "i might have slipped kyra a little money to make sure leah stays...sharp, today." you admitted with a sly smile, steph shaking her head though it wasn't with disbelief.

"oh she's going to kill you, pest." "well she can't do that if she's asleep now, can she stephanie?"

"kyra i swear to god if you kick that ball at me one more time i'm going to shove it down your throat!"

[idkyetxoxo]

Four | Silky Lies | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.5k

Warnings - Angst, pregnancy anxiety

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"You're hiding something."

The words slipped from Eris's mouth so casually that, for a moment, I thought I'd imagined them until I choked on the watermelon I'd just bitten into. I spluttered, coughing around the sweetness, eyes watering as I forced it down.

Eris only arched a brow, gaze far too sharp for this early in the morning.

We were having breakfast together, a rare event, and a strangely peaceful one. Morning sunlight filtered through the wide glass windows, warming the dark wood of the table. A quiet breeze stirred the silk curtains. It should have been serene. 

It was, until he opened his damned mouth.

The nausea had lessened over the past week, now that I'd crossed into my third month. 

Still, maintaining the glamour had become its own kind of exhaustion, one I could barely afford to slip. 

I was due to visit Criva later today to consult on another tincture, but I was running out of time. And apparently, luck.

"What exactly am I hiding?" I asked, setting my fork down with calculated calm. I leaned back in my chair, aiming for indifference.

Eris tilted his head, studying me with that same wolfish curiosity he used on adversaries across war tables. 

"That's the problem," he said, swirling his tea. "I don't know. But lately you've been—off. Secretive. Irritable. More than usual."

I gave him a look. "Says the male who throws tantrums like it's part of his morning routine."

He snorted, but the humour didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've been snapping at everyone. You sleep more. You disappear without explanation. And you're drinking juice instead of wine, which is frankly the most disturbing part of all this."

I rolled my eyes and raised my glass in mock salute before taking a sip of the carrot-orange blend that Criva insisted would "nurture vitality." Whatever that meant.

The juice was sweet, grounding, until, abruptly, it wasn't.

A hot wave of nausea rolled through me, and I barely managed to clap a hand over my mouth before the gag slipped free.

Eris sat bolt upright, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "What the—?"

I didn't make it far. Before I could even stand, I doubled over, vomiting violently onto the floor beside me. The sharp stench hit instantly, and humiliation bloomed hot in my chest.

So much for improving nausea, right?

Criva was already waiting by the time I arrived, always early, always composed, the very picture of patience in her long moss-colored robes. 

The scent of dried herbs clung to the air, sharp and grounding, and the faint clatter of glass vials echoed softly in the stone-walled space.

The moment the door shut behind me, I let the glamour fall. My breath left me in a quiet whoosh as the illusion collapsed, revealing the faint curve of my belly, the tired pallor of my skin. 

I rolled my shoulders and twisted my neck, the ache of it constant now.

Criva smiled gently, though something flickered behind her eyes. "You're glowing," she said, her voice warm but cautious.

I gave her a flat look. "I look like I've been awake for a week straight."

"You still glow," she said, her tone mildly reproachful, as if stubborn exhaustion were somehow charming. 

She motioned for me to sit and I gratefully obeyed, sinking into the worn cushions of the low-backed chair.

"You need to eat more," she added, not unkindly, her long fingers lightly pressing against my abdomen through the fabric of my dress.

"I am trying," I sighed. "But everything that goes in seems determined to come right back out."

Criva frowned, clicking her tongue softly. "You should be gaining weight—not losing it."

"I didn't exactly ask for this," I muttered. "I'm juggling court politics, dodging my father's ever-watchful eye, and doing everything short of running to keep my existence tolerable. And now—this."

My voice cracked, and before I could say more, Criva's hand shot out and covered my mouth with surprising swiftness.

"Breathe," she murmured, lowering her hand gently after a beat. "You're strung so tight I can feel it from across the room."

I inhaled, sharp and shallow, and forced myself to let it out slowly. 

"What have you learned?" I asked, watching as she moved to the workbench, sorting through vials and powders. Her hands stilled for a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but I caught it.

Something was wrong.

"To put it simply," she said at last, not meeting my gaze, "the pregnancy may be more dangerous than we anticipated."

I went still. The words settled like a stone in my stomach. My pulse ticked up, fast, shallow beats. 

I dropped a hand to my bump, brushing over the delicate rise of it, still barely visible beneath the folds of my dress.

Criva finally looked at me. Her burnt-orange eyes were steady, but kind. "The child is... Illyrian. Half, yes—but that part matters more than I'd hoped. The wings—"

"Are wings a bad thing?" I asked, my voice quiet, brittle.

She sighed and crossed the room, sitting opposite me, her hands clasped in her lap.

"It's not only the wings themselves. It's what they represent—structurally. Illyrian infants have different bone formation. Your body isn't built to accommodate that kind of development. Not without... complications."

I stared at her. I could hear her. I could understand the words she was saying. 

But the fear came slowly, quietly. Not in a rush of panic, not yet. Just a sense of something fraying at the edge of control.

"I'm not saying it can't be done," she added quickly, placing a warm hand over my knee. "Only that we're moving into uncharted territory. We'll need more care. More strategy. There's more I have to learn, and I will find solutions. But I need you to understand the stakes."

Stakes. As if I hadn't been balancing on a knife's edge since the moment I first picked up the scent.

My fingers curled around the fabric of my dress. I didn't trust my voice.

"Don't panic," Criva said softly, as if reading my mind. "You've already come this far. That means something."

But I saw the flicker in her gaze again. The way her fingers tightened on mine. She wasn't panicking. But she was worried.

And now, so was I.

Back in my chambers, the cold greeted me like an old enemy, sharp against my skin and biting at my bones. 

I didn't hesitate, just flicked my fingers toward the fireplace. Flame bloomed instantly, leaping to life from the wood with practised ease. The firelight bathed the room in warmth, flickering against the walls, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts.

Then I cursed under my breath. I was supposed to avoid my magic.

I sighed, more tired than scolding, and peeled myself out of my heavy coat. The dress came next, slipping off my shoulders in a whisper of fabric until I stood in nothing. 

Donning on a silk robe I padded across the room barefoot, the floor cool beneath my toes, and paused as I passed the full-length mirror.

My reflection stopped me cold.

I glanced over my shoulder at the closed door and slowly let the glamour drop. It peeled away from my skin like a second, false layer of myself, until what remained was the truth.

The scent hit me first. His scent. Faint, but there, embedded in me now, whether I wanted it or not.

I untied the sash of my robe and let it fall open, baring the slight, soft curve of my belly to the room. It wasn't much. Not obvious. Not yet. But it was there. Real. Tangible.

I stared.

Then, without thinking I pressed my fingers lightly against the skin, tracing the smallest arc of that curve.

"Hi, baby," I whispered. The words felt strange on my tongue. Foreign.

Was that weird? Talking to something that couldn't answer? I'd never done it before. I didn't even know why I was doing it now.

"I guess I'm your mother," I murmured. "Not I guess—I am. Gods, that sounds insane."

I let out a soft laugh. Nervous. Disbelieving.

"This feels weird," I admitted, stroking once more across the bump. "But I just wanted to—"

The door slammed open.

I yelped, wrenching the glamour back into place in a split second, the robe cinched shut with shaking fingers as I turned, fury sparking through me like lightning.

"What is wrong with you?" I snapped, half-breathless, stumbling toward the intruder.

Azriel stood in the doorway, calm as anything, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders. But his eyes, they were already assessing. Scanning. Reading too much.

"Do you not knock?" I hissed, clutching the robe tighter. My heart thundered in my chest. 

Had he seen? Heard? Smelled?

"What were you doing?" he asked slowly, his gaze narrowing as he studied me. His shadows slithered forward, brushing against my ankle like smoke.

I could've screamed.

"You don't get to barge into my room and interrogate me," I snapped, backing up toward the dresser. "What are you doing in Autumn? Why are you even in my room?"

He leaned a shoulder against the bedpost, too casual for my liking. Too observant.

"Rhys and I have business with your father," he said simply. "We're staying for a while."

My blood ran cold.

"So you just thought you'd stop by?" I shot back. "What—see if I'd fall into bed with you again like nothing happened? Are you truly that reckless?"

"If I was reckless," he said quietly, "someone would know I'm in here."

I turned away, unable to meet that gaze. I grabbed my brush off the dresser and began dragging it through my hair with more force than necessary.

"Azriel," I said, voice low, steely, "we are done. I told you that already."

He didn't move. Didn't speak. I don't think he even breathed.

"I don't know what you expected to happen when you walked in here," I continued, brushing through the same spot over and over again, "but whatever it is—forget it. It's not happening."

My hands were trembling. The silence grew heavy. Suffocating. Like it had weight and shape and teeth.

Azriel still hadn't moved. His shadows stirred faintly, as if even they were hesitant, unsure whether to linger or retreat.

Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and a little rough.

"At least give me a reason."

I froze mid-brush stroke.

The question was simple. Too simple. And yet it undid something in my spine. I straightened, slowly, turned to face him. My expression was ice when I spoke.

"No."

That single word, sharp as broken glass, landed like a slap between us.

He scoffed, his jaw tightening, and rolled his eyes like he was trying to act like none of this mattered.

The brush in my hand trembled. I clenched my teeth to keep it still.

"Don't tell me you're in love with me or something," I sneered, arms crossing tightly over my chest. "Because I really don't think I can stomach hearing that from you."

Something flickered in his eyes then, just for a heartbeat. Pain. Real and raw.

But he swallowed it down like poison, like he'd been practising. His voice when it came was flat, too neutral.

"Of course not."

But the words rang hollow. Like a cracked bell. Like a lie neither of us could name.

And still, they hit me like a blade to the chest. My breath hitched. Just slightly. But enough.

My hand dropped to my stomach, unthinking, instinctual, as if the child growing inside me could shield me from what his words had just shattered.

A quiet beat passed. Long enough for him to see where my hand landed. Long enough for the shadows to twitch.

"Perfect," I bit out, voice shaking now, not with fear but fury I couldn't direct anywhere safe. "So leave me the fuck alone."

His eyes dipped once to where my hand curled over my stomach. Then back to my face.

He didn't ask. Didn't speak. Just studied me like he already knew something was breaking. Something he didn't understand. Something I wouldn't let him close enough to see.

When he finally turned to go, his wings rustled softly in the still air. No goodbye. No parting words. The door clicked shut behind him.

Only then did I let my knees buckle. Only then did I let myself breathe again.

Dinner was agony.

Of course, my father had insisted Rhysand and Azriel dine with him. A show of civility. A performance for power. As if forcing the High Lord of Night to eat his food somehow made him the bigger male. 

And of course, Eris and I were dragged along like accessories—furnishings for the table.

I wore a deep red gown that clung to my body in elegant waves, every inch the portrait of Autumn's perfect daughter. My hair was slicked back, twisted into a crown of braids. 

Composed. Controlled. Regal.

But inside, I was wildfire.

I sat across from Azriel. I didn't dare look at him, not properly. Not after the way he'd left my room. Not with the phantom weight of my hand still tingling against my stomach.

The wine beside my plate glinted like a taunt. I hadn't so much as touched it. Gods, even the scent made my stomach churn. I clutched my water glass too tightly, knuckles white, willing myself to look bored. Normal.

Then my name was called, sharp enough to slice through the haze in my mind.

"Sorry?" I blinked, looking up. I didn't even know who had spoken.

Beron's jaw twitched, the muscle feathering as he narrowed his eyes at me. "Rhysand asked how the marriage prospects are looking."

I blinked again. "He what?"

"I was informing him of a potential match. Kallias's younger brother. A noble union between Autumn and Winter" he boasted.

I froze. The glass in my hand slipped slightly. I caught it—barely.

Marriage?

My throat constricted, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Across the table, Eris looked like he'd been slapped but only for a flicker. He schooled his expression so quickly no one else would have noticed. I knew him well enough to see the shift.

He hadn't known. If he had, he would have warned me.

I dared a glance at Azriel.

He was already looking at me. No, through me. His hazel eyes sharp with something that looked suspiciously like rage. His scarred fingers had gone white-knuckled around his fork, the metal groaning softly beneath the pressure.

I dropped my gaze.

"Yes," I choked out, forcing a smile, "Kallias's brother...uh—"

"Kain," Eris supplied smoothly, slicing in with calm authority. "It's still in early discussions. Far too soon for formal consideration."

Beron's eyes snapped to him and I knew Eris would suffer for that interruption later. But it was enough. The topic shifted. Barely.

My heart hadn't stopped pounding. Azriel still hadn't looked away.

I couldn't do this. I couldn't sit at this table, dressed in red silk and lies, pretending I wasn't drowning beneath the weight of everything. 

Pretending I wasn't three months pregnant with the child of the male sitting across from me while my father bartered my womb to strengthen his court.

I could run. I should run.

Day. Dawn. Maybe even the human lands. Helion had always taken an interest in me, he might hide me. Or Thesan. They valued compassion.

But the thought of my father's wrath was a noose tightening around my throat. Beron would raze everything in his path to find me. And if he found out about the child—

I swallowed hard, suddenly cold all over. I couldn't afford a misstep. I couldn't afford weakness.

And Eris... for all his flaws, for all the danger stitched into his every breath... was the only one who might protect me. Who might keep this secret. Who might... care.

I shifted slightly, pressing my palm to my stomach beneath the table. The bump wasn't showing through the gown but I knew. 

I felt it.

A/n - So we've established baby has wings, this is set before Nyx so both reader and Criva have limited knowledge. They know it's risky, but not howrisky exactly.

And then we've got reader about to have a little moment with baby for the first time only for Az to barge in, not fully understanding but unable to stay away. Poor, stubborn Az :(

Beron dropping a bomb out of nowhere asw—clearly a lot goes down in this part and I wish I could say things settle in the next one... but they absolutely do not. Buckle up xx

Thank you for reading, I hope you're enjoying so far <33

I really want to start posting this every other day instead of every third day because i'm having sm fun with all the feedback on all my platforms but I don't want to overwhelm or annoy anyone :/

Shadow and Flame tag list - @coffeebooksrain18 @jaybbygrl @slut4acotar @justtryingtosurvive02 @mortqlprojections @sheblogs @moonlitlavenders @windblownwinston @queenoffeysand @tothestarsandwhateverend @saamanthaag3 @metaphysicaldoom @natalijassav @bookishbishhh @yourenothingbutnottome @holb32 @etsukomoonbeam @fxckmiup @i-am-infinite @megwan @cuethedepession @rinalsworld @whoreforfictionalmen18 @asahinasstuff

[kathryn-maraudersversion]

Serpents & Stars Part 3

Summary: You refuse to admit your feelings for the Marauders. They refuse to let you push them away. It’s a battle of wills, and you are absolutely determined to win.

Pairing: Poly!Marauders (James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin) x Slytherin!Fem!Reader

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4 Pt 5 Pt 6 Pt 7 Pt 8 Pt 9 Pt 10 Pt11

After that night on the Astronomy Tower, you decided you were going to ignore it. All of it.

The way James looked at you like you were his favourite challenge.

The way Sirius got too close just to make you squirm.

The way Remus saw right through you every damn time.

It didn’t matter. 

You didn’t like them. You couldn’t like them. Right? 

Ignoring them was easier said than done because they weren’t making it easy.

“Morning, sweetheart,” James greeted you in the Great Hall, sliding into the seat beside you even though this was the Slytherin table, and he had no business being here.

You shoved his arm off the table. “Go away, Potter.” 

James beamed. “You’re so cute when you pretend you don’t like me.” 

You resisted the urge to throw your goblet at his face. 

You were reading by the Black Lake when Sirius flopped onto the grass beside you, head resting in your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You froze. “What the hell are you doing?” 

He grinned up at you, completely unbothered. “Getting comfortable.” 

Your hands clenched into fists. “Move.” 

He stretched out more. “Make me, princess.” 

You shoved him off. He laughed the whole way down. 

Remus, of course, was the most dangerous.

Because Remus didn’t flirt obnoxiously like James, and he didn’t invade your space just to watch you react like Sirius. 

No. Remus was subtle. Remus was kind.

Which meant that when he brushed a stray piece of hair from your face during study sessions, you couldn’t even pretend he was being annoying. 

When he carried your books after class, you couldn’t even call him a show-off. 

When he gave you the last chocolate in the pack without saying a word, you couldn’t even insult him for it. 

Remus wasn’t fighting you. Remus was just there, waiting, knowing and that was the worst part. 

They knew you were cracking.

It happened on a particularly bad day. 

Professor Slughorn had paired you with an absolute idiot in Potions, and after an hour of them nearly setting the classroom on fire, you had a splitting headache. 

You stormed into the library, slamming your books onto the table. 

The second you sat down, a fresh cup of coffee slid across the table to you. 

You blinked at it. Then at the hand that had placed it there. 

James, Sirius, and Remus sat across from you, watching you expectantly. 

Sirius smirked. “You looked like you needed it, love.” 

You stared at the coffee. It was exactly how you liked it. 

“…This means nothing,” you muttered, grabbing the cup. 

James grinned like he had won something. “Of course not, sweetheart.” 

Remus just sipped his tea, amused.

You hated them. You hated them so much.

It was late.

You were sitting in the Gryffindor common room (Dorcas has dragged you along to say hi to Marlene), the fire flickering, when it happened.

A group of Gryffindor girls walked past, giggling and whispering about James and Sirius. About how handsome they were. About how Remus was the sweetest and something in your chest tightened.

You scowled, shaking the thought away. 

It didn’t matter. They were annoying. You didn’t care if other people liked them. 

You didn’t care. 

And then you saw them.

James, Sirius, and Remus, sitting across the room, laughing together, smiling, looking like the sun itself lived in their bones.

And you felt it.

That undeniable, horrible, traitorous ache.

You wanted to be near them. 

You wanted to be in that light. 

You cursed under your breath, standing up so fast your chair scraped the floor. 

No. No.

You wouldn’t do this. You wouldn’t-

“Going somewhere, love?”

Sirius was watching you, his grey eyes too knowing.

James and Remus turned too, curiosity flickering in their faces. 

You clenched your jaw. “Bed.” 

James smirked. “Need company?” 

You scowled. “Die, Potter.”

Sirius laughed. “She’s flustered. It’s adorable.” 

Remus just tilted his head, studying you. 

And you? You ran.

Taglist: @amatoanima @flaviaandbooks @nymanas

[stylesispunk]

Blind faith | part x (part 1/2)

Priest!Joel Miller x dancer!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: Joel and you fall back into each other with an aching need. You begin to piece together a hopeful future from broken pieces. One where home is no longer a place but a person.

w.c: 4k>

Warnings: smut (sloppy, you know, is not my best thing to write about) fluff, angst, them being honest with each other. I didn't proofread this one, but I'm sure there are no mistakes because I don't feel too stupid today. The picture I used is only for reference.

A/N: This is part 1 out of 2 of chapter 10. A more emotional chapter for my couple here. I owed you a fluffy chapter. I already told you I'm about to end this story and it will become a manuscript :) Thank you all so much for reading this story. It's my favorite child. Reblogs and comments are always important for me.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Kissing Joel again felt like having air coming back to your lungs after months of drowning in the ocean. Back at belonging, at having a home to come back to. At gathering every shattered part of you that had scattered to the wind the days you left no having a clue if you were ever going to see him one more time.

At this very moment, his touch, his breath, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, you had found a flicker of flame rising.

His hands roamed your body like he’d never forgotten a single inch of it, like memory alone had kept him alive this long. One slid to the small of your back, the other to your jaw, holding you there like you might vanish away.

And then, after breaking the kiss, he slowly, without leaving your gaze, he knelt in front of you.

Right there, in the dim light of his modest apartment, with the scent of tea cooling in the air and the city humming beyond the terrace.

His big, calloused hands traced down your hips to your thighs, settling there like he belonged. Like this wasn’t a man who'd worn a collar and spoke of sin, but one who was ready to worship something else entirely now.

You felt your breath hitch, your heart pounding in your chest so loud you wondered if he could hear it.

And he looked up at you, eyes filled with something raw and aching and so tender it almost undid you, and said, voice rough, “I ain’t ever letting you go again.”

He kissed your stomach just over your bottom belly, while your hands scrapped his hair and his hands caressed your skin underneath your shirt, leaving kisses and lowering and following down towards a really dangerous place.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, lifting his face to yours. The moment your eyes met, the air thickened, heavy with every unsaid word and every night spent alone. You didn’t hesitate, you simply couldn’t.

You claimed his lips, tasting him like a memory you’d been dying to relive, like salvation wrapped in ruin.

You both had descent your way back and forth to hell just to meet again.

Joel groaned against your mouth, a wrecked sound, his hands gripping your thighs before lifting you effortlessly. It was instinct, muscle memory, the way your legs wrapped around his waist like they’d never forgotten how.

His mouth was still on yours when he stood, one hand fisting the back of your shirt, the other splayed against your thigh, and you clung to him like you’d drown if you let go.

You barely noticed when your back met the wall, his body pressed against yours, mouths moving like it was the only language either of you had left to speak.

“I missed you,” you breathed, the words breaking between kisses, your hand cupping his jaw like you could tether yourself to him that way.

“God, baby,” Joel rasped, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky. Principio del formulario

Final del formulario

He carried you through the little apartment like you already belonged there.

perhaps, you already did.

The sound of your breath, the rough rasp of his voice, the ghost of old prayers neither of you believed in anymore hanging between you.

This wasn’t a kind salvation. It was something bigger.

You landed on his bed with a soft thud, his weight following yours, and for a moment neither of you moved, just breathing the same air, your foreheads pressed together, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek like he was memorizing you all over again, staring at each other after so many time apart.

The room smelled like him, like old wood and soap and something that had always felt lie safety.

Joel’s voice was rough, barely a whisper. “Been dreaming of you for so long.”

You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to ground yourself in this, in him, in now.  

His mouth was on yours again before words could even leave your lips, and this time it wasn’t careful. Right now, he was claiming a place where he had poured his soul and heart into. Years of his own ache mixed with yours, months of silence, of almost and regrets poured into the press of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the weight of him holding you like you’d go away if he let go.

And God, maybe you would. But right now, you were here.

And you didn’t want you go anywhere.

Your fingers tightened in his hair as his mouth moved, trailing from your lips to the line of your jaw, then lower, the rough scrape of his stubble against the sensitive skin of your neck making your breath catch.

Joel groaned softly when you arched beneath him, his hands steady on your hips, thumbs pressing into the curve of your waist like he was still trying to convince himself this was real.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured against your throat, the words like a prayer, like a confession or those words he was used to say once.

But now, they hold a real truth beneath.

You tilted your head, giving him more, the ghost of a desperate laugh slipping out. “I do,” you whispered, your voice thick, one hand tracing the back of his neck. “I felt it… every night. Miles away, I felt you. I always felt you.”

His lips brushed the pulse pounding at your neck, lingering there, tasting the proof you were alive, you were his.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making this right,” Joel swore, voice cracking like something breaking open.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your mouth found his again, kissing him like you meant it, like you’d been waiting all these months to come home to him.

Joel groaned into your mouth, kissing you like a starving man, desperate, bruising, reverent. His hands mapped every inch of you, relearning the weight and warmth of your body like it was something holy.

You tugged at his shirt, needing him closer, needing to feel skin against skin. He broke the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head, tossing it aside before he was on you again, his mouth crashing to yours, his body heavy and solid above you.

Your fingers traced the lines of his shoulders, and stories you knew by heart. You kissed the spot just beneath his ear, felt him shudder, a curse falling from his lips.

“Missed you,” you whispered, the words spilling out raw and unguarded. “God, Joel…”

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “I am not whole without you. Don’t want to be.”

And then his mouth was on yours again, and nothing else existed, not the past, not the pain, not the months apart. Just him. Just you. And the unspoken promise you were both too wrecked and too in love to ever outrun.

Clothes scattered like discarded regrets across the floor in mere seconds. It was like shedding the weight of every ache you’d carried. Every lie you told yourself about moving on, about forgetting him. It was all gone now, scattered like ghosts at your feet.

His lips claimed your breasts before you could even get time to catch a breath from all the ectasis you were holding into.

The sounds escaping your lips made him wilder. They were desperate, raw, the kind of sounds born from months of missing someone so fiercely it carved you hollow.

Each noise you made only seemed to fuel him, make him rougher, needier, a man unraveling in real time.

“Jesus, darling,” he rasped, voice thick with want, with wrecked devotion. “You sound so beautiful.”

You could barely breathe, barely think beyond the feel of his mouth and his hands and the way your bodies fit together like some reckless, sacred thing.

And you knew, deep in the marrow of your bones, that no matter how hard either of you tried, you’d never be free of him.

You tugged at his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours, swallowing his groan as your lips crashed together. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t neat, it was messy, teeth clashing, breath ragged, all the ache and fury and unbearable tenderness of six months poured into that kiss.

His hand slid down your stomach, rough palm grazing your skin like he was relearning every inch of you by touch alone. When his fingers reached the heat of your core, you gasped against his mouth, your hips arching into his touch like instinct, like muscle memory belonging to him, like a need that had never really left.

“Goddamn,” Joel muttered against your lips, his voice rough, reverent. “Listen to those pretty sounds you make for me.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and for a moment the world was just that, the press of his mouth, the heat of his hands, the sound of his ragged breathing tangled with yours. Every stroke of his fingers was an apology and a promise all at once, and you found yourself unraveling, breaking open in his arms like you’d been waiting for this moment to happen.

When your forehead pressed to his, breath hot and mingling in the small space between you, you whispered, voice barely there, “Don’t stop, Joel.”

He broke the kiss, while his calloused hands trailed down your thighs as he knelt between them, eyes fixed on you like a ravenous man.

Your breath hitched as he hooked his hands under your knees, parting your legs and settling himself there like it was where he was meant to be, where you desperately needed him to be, not a man of faith anymore, but a man brought to his knees for something far holier.

You, your body, the claiming of you.

His mouth found your clit, and it was nothing but heat and tenderness and aching hunger. His tongue moved against you slow at first, savoring, tasting, learning you all over again. One of your hands buried in his hair, your hips arching into him, and the low, satisfied growl that rumbled from his chest nearly undid you.

“Joel—” your voice broke on his name, a plea and a prayer all at once.

He hummed against you, the vibration making your whole-body shudder. His tongue worked you with the kind of patience only he had, like he was content to spend forever here. Every flick, every slow circle felt like it was mending something in you, those cracked places he’d promised to water.

When you came apart for him, your body trembling, your fingers tightening in his hair, Joel didn’t stop. He held you through it, kissing you soft and slow, this wasn’t only about lust anymore, but love and forgiveness. About everything you’d both lost, and finally, finally found again.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were slick, his eyes dark, and his smile a little crooked.

“You’re still mine,” he whispered.

Joel kissed his way up your body, each touch of his lips another vow he didn’t need words for. When he reached your mouth, you pulled him into a bruising kiss, tasting yourself on him, the salt and heat and hunger between you coiling tight.

“Please,” you whispered against his lips, the word catching on a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Joel didn’t need to be asked twice. He settled between your thighs, his hand cradling your cheek, gaze locking with yours in that way that made your chest ache. No priest, no sins, no ghosts of the past. Just Joel. Just the man who’d always been yours, whether either of you admitted it or not.

The first push of him inside you was slow, deliberate, a claiming, a homecoming. You both let out matching groans, the kind born from relief and ruin all tangled together. He filled you like he’d been made for it, like nothing had ever fit quite so right.

You clung to him, nails scraping his back, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that was both desperate and unhurried. Like you had all the time in the world, like you were making up for every second spent apart.

“God, baby,” Joel murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, his thrusts deep and unrelenting. “I’m not ever letting you go again.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, mix of pleasure and grief and love nearly unbearable.

“I’m here now,” you breathed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding the spot that made your body tighten around him, your head falling back with a cry. He watched you like a man witnessing something holy, like you were a prayer answered too late but all the same.

Your nails raked down his back as his hips pressed against yours, deep and steady, each movement a vow, a confession, a prayer. He murmured your name against your skin like it was sacred, like it was the only word he’d ever believed in. And you gave yourself to him, every scar, every ghost, every piece of the girl who’d been both lost and found in his arms.

When you fell over the edge, it was with his name on your lips, his hands grounding you, his body following you into that place of pleasure. And he stayed with you there, chasing his own release, a low, rough sound torn from his throat as he spilled inside you, burying his face in your neck.

For a long while, neither of you spoke, your hearts racing, limbs tangled, the world outside his apartment forgotten.

Then, in a voice so soft it made your chest ache, Joel whispered, “Welcome back home to me, baby.”

You closed your eyes at his words, your fingers still tracing lazy patterns along his back, feeling the tremble in him, the way he held onto you like he was afraid all of this was one of those dreams where he would wake up to an empty bed missing your warmth. It wasn’t just a place, wasn’t the walls or the worn-down furniture or the little plant on the windowsill. It was him. It had always been him.

The achilles heel, all over again.

You turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “I didn’t think I’d ever have a home again,” you whispered, voice breaking on the last word.

Joel shifted, leaning up enough to meet your gaze, his hand cradling your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, and his eyes, dark brown, tender, a little shattered, a little whole, held yours like they could stitch your pieces back together.

“You will always have one,” he said quietly. “Right here.”

And with your forehead pressed to his, his breath mingling with yours, the ghosts quiet for the first time in six months.

Somewhere deep in the night, Joel startled awake, reaching for you instinctively, only to find the space beside him empty.

Panic gripped him sharp and fast. His feet hit the floor, heart pounding as he moved through the quiet apartment. It wasn’t until he reached the living room that he saw you, curled up on the couch, legs pulled to your chest, a mug of tea cradled in your hands.

Your gaze lifted to his, tired but soft, like you’d been waiting for him.

This sight felt so natural to him, like this was the life you both deserve. A quiet one.

Joel exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me,” he muttered, moving to crouch in front of you.

“For having been a priest, you curse a lot” you murmured, lips lifting in a small. “Couldn’t sleep,” you murmured, voice scratchy from hours ago, and from the weight of everything still unsaid between the both of you.

He touched your knee, thumb stroking over your skin. “Are you okay?”

You gave him a small, worn smile. “Getting there.”

And without another word, Joel reached for the blanket draped over the couch and pulled it around you, settling beside you like he belonged there, because he did, right next to you.

Joel sat beside you in the dim light, the night outside thick and silent. His hand found yours, calloused fingers wrapping around yours like he was anchoring himself to this moment, to you.

He swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice was raw, not gravel this time, but something softer, like the part of him he kept buried was surfacing for you.

“Tell me,” he said, eyes steady on yours. “I want you to tell me everything. I owe you that. I owe you listening.”

The words cracked something open inside you.

For a long moment, you just stared at him, feeling the sting in your throat, the weight of everything you’d carried in silence, the nights you didn’t sleep, mornings you woke up with your hands shaking, the ache of missing him like a phantom limb, the terror in your gut when Gabriel’s face came to your mind, the guilt, the anger, the goddamn grief you were carrying.

And you nodded.

“I don’t know where to start,” you whispered.

“Anywhere,” Joel murmured, pulling your joined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss to your knuckles. “We’ve got time now. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed hard, feeling your throat tighten, but you didn’t look away from him. Not this time. Not now, when the weight of everything you’d carried alone was finally able to see the light, you didn’t want to hold it in.

“I was part of the socialist party,” you whispered, your voice rough, almost unrecognizable in the hush of the room. “I grew up believing in that. My parents raised me to always fight for what was fair. So then, back when… when things started to shift, when people began disappearing, when friends stopped answering doors. Gabriel… he came into my life right then.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, his grip on your hand firm but steady, as if to remind you that you were here. That he was listening.

“He said he liked how I danced. That I was the best ballerina he had ever saw on stage,” you went on, a bitter little smile twitching at your lips. “He lured me somehow. Said he wanted to protect me. And I—I wanted so bad to believe someone could. That someone saw me.” Your breath trembled. “But it was a lie. They wanted to get rid of me, Joel. Because of who I was. Because of what I knew. For what I did.”

You saw him close his eyes, like it physically hurt to hear it, but he didn’t flinch away. He never would. “When he got right when they want me, he backed off. He tried to help me or perhaps he lied, but I didn’t trust him and I ran away from the country with the help of my brother, thinking that my family would be safe.”

"He was the Achilles heel I talked to you about once." You said.

His eyes widened,

"He was the breaking point. The weakness that led me to failure."

You felt Joel’s hand caressing your cheeks now, looking his eyes with your watering ones.

“I spent these months in England,” you murmured, your gaze drifting to the window, the dark horizon beyond it. “And I… I was happy, I guess. I could walk the streets without looking over my shoulder. But I had to light every room before I walked in. I had to smoke two cigarettes back-to-back just to quiet my head."

You looked back at him then, tears stinging, a confession year overdue.

“I couldn’t sleep with the lights off. I couldn’t go to bed without drinking tea at night, because it made me feel like you were there. I missed you, Joel. Despite it all. What you did, what you didn’t say, how you let me go, I missed you so goddamn much it felt like it was killing me.”

Joel let out a rough, broken sound, leaning forward until his forehead touched yours again. His voice was wrecked when he spoke. “I have no words for how sorry I am. For every way I failed you. But you, you coming back, telling me this. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right. If you’ll let me.”

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping free, and nodded. Because even if it was a mess, even if you didn’t know how to start, you finally believed you weren’t meant to carry it alone.

“What you did to me, Joel…” You sobbed, a sound so small and sharp it cut the space between you. “It broke me. I thought—I thought I was never gonna forgive you.”

He let out a choked breath, head bowed like he was praying again, though you knew this time it wasn’t to any god.

“I know,” he rasped. “I know, baby. I—I’ve hated myself for it every day. If I could tear it out of me, what I did, if I could give it back to you, take it on myself, I would.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers over his rough jaw, feeling the tremble there. His lashes were wet when he lifted his gaze to you, and it shattered something in your chest to see him like that. Laid bare. Unmade.

“But,” you whispered, your thumb ghosting over his cheek, “I’m gonna try. Because you didn’t know who he was. Because you were trying to protect your also wounded heart, and because I love you so much that the thought of not having you around, it scares me so much.”

Joel’s breath hitched. A tear slipped down his cheek, and you caught it with your thumb.

“I love you,” you said again, voice steadier this time.

He surged forward, cradling your face in his hands like you were something holy, his forehead pressed to yours as his breath shook out.

“I swear to you,” he whispered, broken and whole in the same breath, “I’ll spend every day of what’s left of me earning that love of yours.” Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, lingering there like it was a vow.

“Besides, I think it’s wonderful you fought for something, for your conviction and beliefs” he murmured against your skin. “That you believed in people, that you saved so many lives. You’re… you’re beautiful. Smart. Braver than anyone I ever met.”

You let out a soft, shaky breath, eyes burning again.

“But not my family,” you whispered, voice breaking like glass. “I couldn’t save them.”

Joel’s hand cradled your cheek then, turning your face toward him. His eyes, dark and heavy with everything he’d carried too, met yours.

“That pain,” he said quietly, “it’s never gonna go away. I won’t lie to you about that. That kind of loss, it settles deeply, and you just learn to carry them differently.”

His thumb brushed a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“But you’ll have me now. And I’ll be the place you come back to. Whenever you need. However, you need.”

You closed your eyes at that, the ache in your chest easing just a little as he pulled you against him, wrapping you in arms that felt like safety for the first time in years.

Your home, right there in the shape of him.

“I will build a house around you if it’s necessary.”

You let out a shaky, broken laugh at that, because God, only Joel could say something so plain and so big all at once.

I’ll be the place you come back to. I’ll build a house around you if it’s necessary.

Like your grief wasn’t a burden. Like your ghosts could be made welcome, too. Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. And you kissed him.

Slow, deep, not desperate this time, not angry, not hungry. Just full of every word you didn’t have, every night you’d spent missing him, every bone-deep ache you’d carried without him. His lips moved against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of this new world, one where you existed together without lies between you.

His hand cradled the back of your head, the other pressing to the small of your back, holding you so close you could barely tell where he ended and you began. You felt him sigh against your mouth, a sound like surrender, like coming home.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the quiet night.

“I don’t care where it is,” you whispered, voice raw but sure. “A house. A tiny apartment. A patch of dirt. As long as it’s with you.”

Joel swallowed hard; his eyes wet again as he cupped your cheek.

“It’s yours,” he murmured. “All of it. Me. Whatever’s left. Whatever we can make.”

A soft, breathless laugh escaped you then, something light in the middle of all the heaviness, like the first crack of sunlight through a storm. You pressed your hand over his, leaning into his palm, and gave a tiny, aching nod.

“Come on, let’s get you in bed, you bug” he rasped.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, let’s go to bed.”

Joel kissed your forehead, lingering there for a beat like he was grounding himself in the feel of you, and then he stood, his hand never leaving yours as he tugged you gently toward the room you already knew would smell like him, would feel like him.

“Come here. Love,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. “Let me hold you proper.”

And you let him. Because, for the first time in too long, you didn’t need to switch the lights on to sleep.

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[solxamber]

Fairytales and Fever Dreams - Vil Schoenheit x reader

When you decide to beg a fairy for help at your lowest point, you didn't expect that he'd decide to help you— at the cost of you making skincare for him.

You’re a mage at the academy, and life has officially declared war on you. Seriously. You’re about this close to having a full-on breakdown, the kind where they find you cackling in the library while surrounded by half-finished spell scrolls. One more minor inconvenience and you swear, you’re going to walk out onto the quad, set fire to the herbology building, and just stand there, staring blankly as it burns, sipping tea.

And why? Because you have four—count them—four finals on the same day. You don’t know who pissed in the universe’s cereal, but apparently, you’re the one paying for it.

"Okay, it’s fine," you mutter to yourself while chewing on the end of a quill. "You just need one little miracle. Just a small one. Like, I don’t know, a meteor wiping out the school. Or the headmaster spontaneously combusting. Something normal like that."

But then, you remember the rumor—the kind of rumor people whisper about when they’re this close to a mental collapse. Oh yes, the whispered tale of the fairies in the forest at the edge of town. Supposedly, if you bring an offering to the fairies, they’ll grant you a wish. Any wish. No strings attached.

You snort. It’s probably a load of magical nonsense. But considering your current state of sleep deprivation (and let’s be honest, mild hysteria), you’re willing to give it a shot. Desperate times and all that.

So, you scrape together the fanciest honey and milk your student budget can manage, which is probably a 5/10 by fairy standards but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. You pack it up in a basket like some weird, broke Little Red Riding Hood and trudge out to the forest.

The second you arrive, you’re not even trying to be subtle or respectful about it. No, you go straight to begging.

“Please, fairies, PLEASE!” You fall to your knees dramatically, waving the basket around like you’re presenting some holy relic. “I’m begging you. I need help. I haven’t slept in three days, I’m running on a liter of coffee and sheer spite, and if I fail one more class, I’m gonna have to turn myself into a toad and live under a rock. Just—just one wish, that’s all I’m asking!”

It’s bad. Like, so bad, you’re half-expecting some animal to come along and put you out of your misery out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.

But then, there’s this rustling sound behind you, and when you look up, someone is standing there.

Correction: the prettiest person you’ve ever seen is standing there.

He’s tall, ethereal, and glowing—literally glowing, like he bathes in moonlight and stardust. His hair’s all silky and perfect, his skin looks like it’s never heard of acne, and the expression on his face tells you that he’s about two seconds away from calling security on you.

“Why, exactly,” he starts, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow that could cut glass, “are you kneeling in front of my forest and making this embarrassing display?”

You blink. Several things occur to you all at once:

1. Fairies are real. Huh. You thought you were just being insane.

2. Holy hell, he’s the most beautiful person (fairy?) you’ve ever seen.

3. Wait—his forest?

You quickly wipe the pathetic tears from your face and stumble to your feet. “A-are you… a fairy?”

“No, I’m a sentient dust bunny,” he deadpans. “Yes, of course, I’m a fairy. What are you even doing here?”

You hesitate. He’s giving off serious annoyed model on a runway vibes, and you’re not sure if he’s going to hex you out of his forest or just roll his eyes so hard that you get flung into another dimension.

“I, uh… finals,” you mumble, the tears starting to well up again. “Four finals. Same day. And I haven’t slept. I’m one failed exam away from permanently turning into a raccoon.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like your existence is just too much for him. “And you thought the best course of action was to come here and… grovel?”

You nod pathetically. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

For a moment, he looks like he’s about to just walk away, leaving you to your breakdown. But then his eyes narrow, and he points at your backpack. “What’s that?”

“Huh?” You look down and see the sunscreen bottle sticking out. “Oh, uh, that’s just something I made. I’ve been working on a skincare formula for sensitive skin.”

He steps closer, plucking it from your bag with the grace of someone used to handling priceless artifacts. “Skincare, you say?” He opens it, sniffing it cautiously before dabbing a bit onto the back of his hand. His eyes light up for a second, and you swear you hear an angelic choir in the background. “Hm. Not bad. A bit of a lavender undertone. Smooth texture. SPF 50?”

You nod. “Y-yeah.”

He looks back at you, and for the first time since he appeared, you see the barest hint of approval on his face. “It’s hard to find good skincare products these days, even among the fairies.”

You’re not sure how to respond. Is this your life now? Trading finals survival for skincare tips with a beautiful fairy?

“Well,” he says, still admiring the product, “I suppose I could grant you one wish. One. But only if you agree to make more of these skincare products for me.”

“Really?” You blink, not entirely believing your luck. “You’ll help me?”

He gives you a sidelong glance, a smirk playing on his lips. “I don’t do charity. But your skincare is adequate. And it’s not every day I meet someone this close to unraveling. It’s almost entertaining.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open like a fish. “Deal. Deal. I’ll make you whatever skincare you want, just get me through these finals.”

He gives a nod, satisfied. “Then we have a deal.”

And just like that, you’ve somehow bartered your way out of academic doom with a fairy obsessed with sun protection. Let’s hope this arrangement works out better than the rest of your life so far.

Apparently, fairies like Vil don’t believe in things like cheating or, you know, the basic decency of using magic to fix your problems instantly. No, that would be too easy. And Vil—your very pretty, very exasperating new fairy overlord—has decided that the best way to help you pass your finals is to tutor you personally.

His price? One skincare product per lesson. And you, being surprisingly decent at making potions and cosmetics (alchemy major, what else), agreed because, at the time, you thought, How hard could it be?

Sweet summer child. You had no idea what you were getting into.

Because Vil? He’s not just strict. He’s villain origin story strict. His “tutoring” is so intense, so grueling, that you’re starting to wonder if he’s secretly training you for some kind of sadistic mage boot camp. At one point, you fail a poison-brewing technique, and he makes you redo it. Then again. And again. And again.

By the fifteenth attempt, you’re seriously contemplating bottling the poison and taking a little sip just to see what happens.

“Again,” Vil says, his voice icily calm, like he hasn’t just been watching you fail for an hour straight.

“I think I’m seeing stars,” you mutter, staring at the cauldron. “Should potions be giving me a near-death experience?”

“Focus,” he says, completely unfazed by your descent into madness. “If you can’t even get this basic potion right, I have serious concerns about your competency as a mage.”

You’re on the verge of a mental breakdown. One more failed attempt, and you’re going to throw yourself off the nearest cliff. Or better yet—turn yourself into a toad and hop into a pot of boiling water. Anything to escape the relentless perfectionism of Vil Schoenheit.

“Maybe I’ll just hex myself into a mushroom and live out the rest of my life in peace,” you grumble under your breath as you stir the potion yet again.

“ What was that?”

“Nothing!” You stir faster.

To your utter shock, the potion finally turns the right color. You’ve done it. You’ve successfully brewed the poison, and it only took, what, half your lifespan?

Vil inspects it with a critical eye, and after a long, painful pause, he says, “Acceptable.”

“Acceptable?!” You want to scream. This is the culmination of blood, sweat, tears, and the remnants of your sanity, and all he has to say is acceptable?

“Yes, acceptable,” Vil repeats, as if your suffering isn’t the most amusing thing he’s seen all week. “You’ll need to refine your technique, of course, but this will suffice for now.”

You groan, head in your hands. “I’m going to transmute myself into a sock and live in someone’s laundry basket.”

But here’s the kicker: despite all of Vil’s strictness, he’s actually the nicest person (fairy?) you’ve ever met. You don’t know if that’s pathetic or straight-up depressing, but still, it’s true. He’s picky, yes, but he cares.

Apparently, Vil has a radar for poor life choices because one day, after what feels like your 57th failed poison attempt, he takes one look at the sad pile of instant noodles and energy drinks cluttering your desk and clicks his tongue in disapproval.

"You've been eating this?" He gestures at the disaster that is your meal—a cup of ramen sitting next to an open bag of questionable chips. His expression could curdle milk. "Do you actually value your internal organs, or are you trying to audition for the role of a trash panda?"

You blink, staring at your gourmet spread, and then back at him. "Excuse me, I’ll have you know, this is an advanced student diet. We run on caffeine and MSG."

He raises an eyebrow. "You’re not running on anything. You’re sputtering at best."

You open your mouth to argue, but then glance down at the pathetic excuse for food in front of you. Okay. Fine. Maybe you are sputtering. But what are you supposed to do, handcraft five-course meals between four finals and Vil’s poison-torture sessions?

Vil sighs dramatically, as if your very existence is a personal affront. "I’m not letting you continue this… self-destruction. You’re going to eat real food even if it kills you." He waves a hand, and suddenly a basket of the most beautiful, vibrant fruits and vegetables you've ever seen appears out of thin air. It's like the entire organic section of a high-end grocery store, but, you know, without the soul-crushing price tags.

"Where did you even get all this?" you ask, poking suspiciously at a particularly shiny apple. "Did you steal it from some enchanted Whole Foods?"

Vil glares at you like you’ve personally insulted his lineage. "I foraged it from my forest, you uncultured turnip."

You blink. "I’m a potato now, and a turnip? What’s next? Are we making a root vegetable salad?"

Vil rolls his eyes. "No, we’re making something that doesn’t resemble a cry for help. Get to it."

You sigh, but with Vil watching like a disapproving food critic, you figure you might as well try to impress him. You rummage through the basket, grab a few ingredients, and somehow manage to throw together a halfway decent stir-fry. You may be broke, but you can cook. It’s one of the few things that hasn't gone completely sideways in your life.

You serve it up with a flourish, smirking a little. "Voilà, a proper meal. Happy now?"

Vil inspects the plate with his usual level of judgment. You half-expect him to whip out a magnifying glass and start searching for flaws. Finally, he takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and then gives you a rare, grudging nod of approval.

"Surprisingly competent for someone who survives on garbage," he says, in what you can only assume is Vil’s version of high praise.

"Wow, a compliment. I feel blessed," you deadpan, but you’re grinning. It’s not every day you get validation from a fairy with standards so high he probably judges oxygen.

Vil continues eating, and you join him, secretly proud of the fact that you managed to cook something that didn’t send him into a rant about toxins and poor life choices. For a moment, the two of you sit in companionable silence, just… eating. It’s weirdly nice.

After you both finish, Vil leans back, looking mildly satisfied. "If you continue to feed yourself like a proper human being," he says, "you might actually survive your finals."

"Yeah, well, if I keep spending time with you, I might also survive on sheer fear," you mutter.

He smiles, that rare, dazzling smile that makes your brain short-circuit for a moment. "Fear is a good motivator. But I expect more than just survival from you. I expect excellence."

You groan. "You know, for a fairy who showed up because of my embarrassing begging, you sure do expect a lot."

Vil just smirks. "You begged for help. I’m making sure you don’t embarrass yourself further by failing."

"Touché," you admit, stuffing another bite of food into your mouth to avoid further conversation.

You know, maybe being insulted by the prettiest fairy in existence while eating fresh, organic food isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to you.

But soon enough, it was back to work. After the food debacle, you whipped up a fresh batch of moisturizer for him. It’s something you’ve done a thousand times before, so you’re not expecting much.

Then Vil tries it. And his entire face lights up like you’ve just handed him the elixir of eternal youth.

“This is… impressive,” he says, his voice soft with genuine surprise. “It’s incredibly hydrating, and the texture is—” He pauses, then flashes you a smile that’s so dazzling, it practically sparkles. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

And then, out of nowhere, he leans over and kisses you on the cheek.

You freeze.

Your brain flatlines.

“Wha—Did you just—?”

Vil pulls back, completely unfazed by the fact that he just KISSED YOU. “If you continue to make products of this quality, I may have to keep you around longer.”

Your heart is still trying to restart, but you manage to nod. “Yeah… yeah, sure. Skincare. I can do that.”

You stare at him, wondering if this is real life or if you’ve just died and gone to some bizarre, fairy-run skincare hell. Because if that’s what’s happening, it’s starting to feel weirdly okay. Especially with the way he’s smiling at you.

And as you walk away, still reeling, you catch yourself thinking, Is dropping out of the academy to become Vil’s personal skincare maker really such a bad idea?

Honestly? With a smile like that? You’re starting to think it’s the best idea.

You’ve finally survived—ahem mastered—the hell that was poisons and advanced magical theory under Vil’s terrifyingly perfect supervision. You can now confidently brew lethal concoctions and analyze obscure spells without mentally cursing out every deity you can name. That’s progress. But of course, your next subject is Magical Beasts, and because life apparently hates you, it’s your worst one yet.

When you express this to Vil, expecting some helpful advice or perhaps even a break (hah, wishful thinking), he just waves a hand dismissively.

“I’ll ask a friend for help,” he says simply.

And that’s how you end up in the presence of the most extra fairy you’ve ever seen in your life. (Okay, you’ve met a grand total of two fairies, but still.)

The fairy in question bursts into your study room in a whirlwind of sparkles and sheer chaos, trailing a cloud of rose petals and the distinct scent of overly expensive perfume. He’s tall and elegant, his wings shimmering with iridescent hues, and before you can so much as blink, he’s speaking a mile a minute in a mix of French and pure gibberish.

“Mon cher! Quelle horreur! This room is an insult to aesthetics! Non, non, I simply cannot work in these conditions!” he cries dramatically, gesturing wildly at your meticulously organized notes.

You blink. “…What?”

But he’s already prancing around, rearranging your books and scattering glitter like some kind of deranged fairy godmother. Then, with zero transition, Rook starts rambling about magical beasts and their habitats in a way that has your head spinning. One minute he’s critiquing your choice of ink color (“Black? How dull!”), and the next he’s rattling off obscure beast facts with the enthusiasm of a caffeinated professor.

“The Hippogriff prefers moonlight baths! Ah, and the Knarl must be serenaded with music, or it will—how you say?—stab you!” he chirps, waving his delicate hands around in a way that seems more dangerous than helpful.

You’re sitting there, bewildered and slightly concerned for your sanity. “Wait, wait, wait, so—hold up, what do I do if a Knarl shows up in the daytime?”

Rook stares at you like you’ve just asked if water is wet. “Why, you run, of course!” Then he bursts into laughter, as if this is the funniest joke he’s ever heard.

By the end of the afternoon, you’ve lost count of the number of strange and sometimes horrifying tidbits he’s thrown at you. You’re pretty sure you’ve somehow become an expert in magical beast theory without consciously realizing it, and the sheer absurdity of the situation is enough to make you feel like your brain’s been hijacked.

“And that,” the fairy declares with a dramatic twirl, “is how you tame a Chimaera!”

You blink, staring at your notes, which are now a colorful mess of drawings, beast diagrams, and snippets of what you hope are actual instructions and not just fashion advice. “…I feel like I’ve learned a lot. But also absolutely nothing.”

“Perfect!” he crows. “You have done magnifique!”

Before you can process what the heck just happened, you decide to thank him the only way you know how: by giving him a small, beautifully-packaged vial of a custom serum. You’ve worked hard on this formula, combining the best of alchemy and skincare magic, and as soon as you hand it to him, his eyes go wide.

“Pour moi? C’est incroyable!” He clutches it dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve just gifted him a crown jewel. Then, without warning, he’s leaning in way too close, inspecting your face with an intensity that borders on obsessive. “Mon Dieu, you are a true artiste! So beautiful! So—”

“Excuse me,” a low, frosty voice cuts in.

You turn just in time to see Vil gliding over, expression smooth but eyes narrowed. With the grace of a professional diplomat (or maybe a particularly possessive cat), he slips between the two of you, placing a firm hand on the other fairy’s shoulder and gently guiding him away from your personal space.

“Thank you for your assistance, Rook,” Vil says with a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We appreciate your expertise, but I believe that’s enough for today.”

Rook pouts but finally relents. He throws one last, longing glance at your serum and then at you, as if you’re both equally captivating. “Ah, c’est dommage… I shall return!” With that, he flits off, leaving you standing there, more confused than ever.

You turn to Vil, raising an eyebrow. “Uh… thanks?”

But Vil isn’t looking at you like a savior. No, he’s looking at you like you’ve just betrayed his entire bloodline.

“Excuse me,” you ask, blinking in confusion. “Did… did I do something wrong?”

“You,” Vil says slowly, his voice dangerously soft, “are my skincare human.”

You stare at him. “Um. What?”

“Mine.” Vil’s gaze flickers pointedly between you and the direction Rook flew off in, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I did not agree to share your talents with anyone else.”

Oh. Oh.

“Vil,” you say, a grin spreading across your face despite yourself. “Are you… jealous?”

The way his expression shifts from imperious to indignant would almost be funny if it weren’t so incredibly satisfying. “Jealous?” he scoffs, tossing his hair back with a haughty flick. “Don’t be absurd.”

You glance pointedly at the pink tips of his ears, which are steadily darkening into a bright red.

“Riiight,” you say slowly. “Totally not jealous at all. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m not,” he insists, crossing his arms, but his voice is just a fraction too defensive.

“Sure, sure,” you say with a mock-serious nod, fighting to keep a straight face. “It’s just that, you know, your ears are kind of giving you away.”

Vil sputters, shooting you a glare that could melt glass. “You—!”

“I’m just saying!” you chirp, smirking as you lean back. “I’m your skincare human. Got it, boss.”

He narrows his eyes, but the flush on his ears betrays him. “Remember it,” he huffs, turning sharply on his heel. “And don’t you dare give away my products to anyone else without consulting me first.”

You watch him stalk off, your grin widening. Maybe studying under Vil isn’t so bad after all.

Finally, your last subject: Offensive Magic. You’re almost at the finish line, but there’s one little problem. Apparently, dueling Vil or Rook is a fast track to the afterlife, and you aren’t too keen on becoming a cautionary tale.

That’s how you find yourself facing off against the youngest of the bunch—a fairy named Epel. He looks as thrilled to be there as you are, which is to say, not at all.

“Vil made me do this,” he mutters under his breath, glaring at nothing in particular.

You quickly realize that Epel’s main emotion is mild resentment, which honestly? Relatable.

The duel begins, and you’re expecting something simple—maybe some low-level spells, something to pad out your barely passing grades. But then Epel smirks, lifts his hand, and suddenly, half the field explodes in a brilliant display of magic that has you rethinking your life choices. Like, seriously reconsidering everything that led you to this exact moment.

You’re left standing there, jaw practically on the floor as bits of dirt rain down around you. “Holy shit,” you breathe. “You’re so cool.”

Epel freezes. His eyes dart to you, clearly shocked by the praise, and he suddenly looks a lot less surly. “...Really?”

“Yeah! That was amazing! I didn’t even know you could do that!”

He rubs the back of his neck, trying to hide a smile. “Well, I’ve been practicing…”

And just like that, you’re friends. Bonded over the mutual understanding that Offensive Magic is both terrifying and awesome when Epel’s involved.

Later that day, after a lesson where you actually didn’t almost explode yourself (personal growth!), you, Vil, and Epel are lounging in the forest. Rook’s off doing...whatever mysterious thing he does, leaving you all in relative peace. You’re casually chatting about the lessons when Epel, totally offhandedly, drops the biggest bomb of the century.

“Yeah, well, you’re pretty lucky the king of the fairies decided to help you out.”

You blink. “The what?”

Epel gives you a look like you’ve just asked if the moon was real. “The king of the fairies. You know, Vil.”

You almost choke. “Vil’s the king of the fairies?” Your voice cracks like you’ve hit puberty again.

Vil, lounging nearby, doesn’t even flinch. “Didn’t I mention that?”

“NO. YOU DIDN’T.”

“Well, now you know.”

You stare at him, mind reeling. “I’ve been—wait—what in the Sevens—you’re the king of the fairies? And you just—casually tutor people? Like it’s no big deal?!”

Vil sighs, flipping through a book as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “I thought it was obvious.”

“It was not obvious!” You’re flailing at this point, and Epel is snickering behind his hand, clearly enjoying your existential crisis.

Vil’s still cool as a cucumber, but when you stammer, “No wonder you’re the most beautiful fairy I’ve ever seen,” you catch the faintest flicker of a smirk on his face. He straightens up just a little bit, clearly preening at the compliment.

Rook suddenly appears out of nowhere, laughing like he’s just witnessed the funniest thing in his life. “Ah! How charming! Our humble little mage finally sees the light!”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble, feeling your face heat up. “This is too much. My brain can’t handle this.”

The lesson ends, and you decide to thank Vil the only way you know how—by crafting him a night cream as a parting gift. You’ve gotten pretty good at making skincare, and you can tell he’s been eyeing this particular blend.

But then, in a rare moment of what can only be described as vulnerability, Vil hands you the jar and says, “Could you…apply it for me?”

You freeze. “Huh?”

He’s holding it out to you, but he’s not meeting your eyes, and—wait, are his hands shaking? You squint. Is he nervous?

Nah. Can’t be. Vil doesn’t do nervous.

“Sure,” you say, trying not to overthink it. You take the jar and start gently massaging the cream into his flawless skin. Vil closes his eyes, and for a moment, it’s almost…peaceful.

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

You smile to yourself, oblivious to the emotional storm brewing inside him. “Thanks! I’ve been practicing.”

What you don’t realize is that this was your last lesson. Vil knows this. And for some reason, it’s hitting him hard. He’s spent all this time tutoring you, teaching you everything he knows, and now…you won’t need him anymore. You won’t come back. You’ll pass your exams and move on with your life, leaving him behind. And the thought of that—it stings more than he wants to admit.

Meanwhile, you’re completely unaware of his inner turmoil, humming to yourself as you finish applying the cream. “There you go. All set!”

You stretch, packing up your things, already mentally planning your next skincare batch for him. “Well, I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Wait.” Vil’s voice is soft, almost hesitant. You blink as he suddenly pulls you into a hug, catching you completely off guard.

“Uh…Vil?”

He’s holding you tightly, and when he speaks, his voice is a little sad. “Good luck.”

You frown, confused. “Why do you sound so sad? I'll pass my exams for sure after all your help.”

He doesn’t respond. You shrug and hug him back, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Alright, see you later, drama king.”

And with that, you stroll off, leaving Vil standing there, still holding on to the weight of his unspoken feelings.

Rook, watching from a distance, smiles knowingly. “Ah, how bittersweet…”

Epel just rolls his eyes. “Man, this is like watching a soap opera.”

You passed your exams. Scratch that—you topped them. You’re basically an academic legend now, leaving everyone wondering what kind of ancient god you made a pact with. The professors are whispering your name like you’re some ancient prodigy who’s been secretly acing exams since the dawn of time.

Naturally, you’ve decided to celebrate by making your magnum opus: the most legendary lip balm the world has ever seen. The kind of balm that could revive a dying star, or, more realistically, soothe the chapped lips of a certain fussy fairy.

With your glorious lip balm in hand, you set off to the forest to see Vil. The path is familiar, and yet, today something feels... off. The trees look droopy, the flowers are wilting—like someone forgot to water this whole section of the forest.

“Oh, great,” you mutter, stepping over a vine that looks like it’s given up on life. “Did everyone just forget what hydration is?”

When you reach Vil’s cottage, your gut instinct kicks into overdrive.

Something���s wrong. Really wrong. Your heart is racing. You knock once. Twice. Still nothing. Panic sets in, and before you know it, you’re knocking the door clean off its hinges in your haste.

“Oops,” you whisper, but there’s no time to dwell on it because you see someone on the bed. It’s Vil, and he’s looking about as far from his usual flawless self as you’ve ever seen. He’s feverish, pale, and frankly, it kind of looks like he's dying.

“Vil!” you rush over, shaking him gently. He opens his eyes, squinting at you like you’re an overly bright light in the middle of his fever dream.

“I didn’t know hallucinations could be so vivid,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse.

“What hallucinations? I’m real!” You’re practically crying now, shaking him harder. He just smiles faintly, completely convinced that you’re some fever-induced mirage.

Fantastic. Not only is he sick, but he also thinks you’re a figment of his imagination.

Frantically, you start brewing a cooling potion, your hands shaking as you mix the ingredients. Vil just watches you with a dazed, slightly amused expression, like he’s impressed that his hallucination has such a good grasp on potion-making.

“I’m real,” you repeat, as you pour the potion down his throat. He gives a tiny nod before slipping back into unconsciousness.

Cue full-on panic mode. You don’t know what’s happening or why Vil’s like this, so you do the only thing you can think of—you send a carrier pigeon to Rook, because of course fairies don’t have phones.

Rook shows up in record time, practically gliding into the cottage like some kind of majestic hunting bird. He takes one look at the pitiful scene—Vil feverish and weak, you hovering like an anxious mother hen—and smiles.

“Oh, he’s heartbroken,” Rook declares, as if that explains everything.

“Heartbroken?!” you echo, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “I saw him two days ago, and he was fine. How could he be heartbroken in two days?!”

“Ah,” Rook says, his eyes twinkling with dramatic flair, “fairies can only fall in love once, and when they do, they fall hard. He thought you wouldn’t return after your exams. He was suffering in silence, believing you’d move on without him.”

You stare at Rook, dumbfounded. “Is he blind?!” You throw your hands in the air. “I’ve been horrendously in love with him since day one! How could he not notice?”

Rook just beams at you, like you’ve confirmed his favorite romantic theory. “Ah, l’amour. So tragic, yet so beautiful.”

At this point, you’re ready to throw your hands up in frustration. How does Vil not notice? You’ve been making him skincare products, practically living in his cottage, and hovering over him like a lovesick puppy. Could he really think you were just going to leave? But of course, Vil—being Vil—had assumed you’d outgrow him and move on to something better, leaving him behind like a discarded serum bottle.

With renewed determination, you take care of Vil, nursing him back to health with potions and plenty of water. You even manage to coax him to eat something other than the fairy equivalent of air-dried kale. Slowly, he starts looking more like himself, his fever fading and his color returning. But when he finally wakes up, fully lucid, his eyes widen in shock.

“You... you’re real?” he whispers, staring at you like you’re some miraculous vision.

“Yes, I’m real,” you huff, crossing your arms. “And I made this.” You pull out the lip balm you’ve been working on, your prized creation. You swipe some on your lips and then lean down to kiss him.

Vil blinks, stunned into silence. After a moment, a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “That’s... a surprisingly effective balm.”

You grin, feeling the tension melt away. “Maybe you should test it again.”

Vil wastes no time, pulling you in for another kiss, his lips soft and cool from the balm. He kisses you a second time, then a third—because, well, it’s important to make sure the balm has long-lasting effects, right?

But then, you pull back slightly, the grin slipping from your face. “Vil, I... I passed all my exams. I even got an offer to move to the capital.”

Vil’s entire body tenses. His hands, still resting on your waist, tighten slightly as his eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—fear? Dread? Whatever it is, it’s like a storm cloud settling over him.

“Oh.” His voice is soft, but there’s a weight to it, like he’s bracing himself for the inevitable. “I see.”

You can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself so carefully, as if preparing for you to tell him you’re leaving. That you’re going to take the offer and disappear from his life, just like he feared. He’s already trying to let you go, even as his hands tremble slightly against your waist. It hits you all at once—how terrified he must have been, thinking you’d leave him behind.

For a moment, you just watch him, your heart aching at the sight of his barely concealed distress. And then, finally, you say, “I declined the offer.”

Vil’s breath catches. His eyes snap up to yours, wide with disbelief. “You... you what?”

You smile, leaning in closer. “I declined. I’m not going anywhere, Vil. In fact...” You take a deep breath, your grin widening. “I’m opening a skincare shop right here, on the edge of the forest. And I’m going to live here. With you. No arguments.”

For a moment, Vil just stares at you, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Then, slowly, the tension in his body dissolves, replaced by pure, unfiltered relief. His hands, which had been shaking moments ago, steady as they pull you closer, wrapping you in a tight embrace.

“You’re staying?” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“I’m staying,” you confirm, your heart swelling at the way he’s holding you, like he’s afraid to let go.

Vil presses his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as he takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice so soft, you almost miss it.

Your heart skips a beat. You smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you too, drama king.”

Vil huffs out a small, breathy laugh, pulling you down into the bed with him, his arms wrapped securely around you. For a moment, everything is still, peaceful, as you lie there together, tangled in each other’s arms. Neither of you says a word, content just to hold each other, the weight of the past few days finally lifting.

And as you drift off to sleep, you can’t help but feel a sense of warmth, knowing that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be—by Vil’s side, where you’ve always belonged.

I'm so deeply in love with this man it's kinda embarrassing

Masterlist

[7ndipity]

BTS As Girl Dads

Ot7 x Reader

Summary: Headcanons about how the members would each handle being girl dads

Warnings: none

A/N: Thanks to @coffeedepressionsoup for this request! This got me soo in my feels, they’d all be such great dads(I may have gone a lil self indulgent but who cares lol). Obviously, some/most of these could also apply to any kid, regardless of gender, but for the sake of the Hc, we’re focusing on daughters

Masterlist

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Jin:

He’s honestly such a girl dad, argue with the wall

I totally see him wholly embracing the title and all the things that are typically considered ‘girly’, like pink and sparkles and all that

He would indulge every single one of her interests. She likes animals? They’re going to the zoo every weekend. She likes music? He’s signing her up for lessons for whatever instrument she’s into

I have this mental picture of them sitting on her bed together while he’s reading her bedtime stories, using all these silly voices and wearing one of her princess hats or something bc she insisted he needed for the character and just-😭

Yoongi:

Yoongi would be the softest girl dad ever, like she had him wrapped around her finger from day one. He took one look at her tiny little scrunched up face, that reminded him waay too much of his own expression when he’s annoyed, and he was a goner

I see him just sitting soo patiently while she gives him makeovers, wearing like three different pairs of clip-on earrings at the same time

He would really focus on teaching her to stand up for herself and makes sure she never takes any shit from anyone

He might come off a little stern sometimes, but it’s just because he worries and wants the best for her

Hobi:

Okay, Hobi as a girl dad might be one of my favorite headcanons, bc he’d be soo fucking sweet with them!

The tea party King. Like he shows up dressed in the most ridiculous outfits to make her giggle, and ready to talk imaginary gossip with her and any plushies that are joining them🤭

He would love shopping with/for her, constantly trying to find the coolest outfits or pieces for her, and they would definitely wear matching outfits when she was little(she would be the best dressed toddler ever, lol)

I also see him being quite protective of her at times, being super nervous/worried about her doing things like riding a bike for the first time or on her first days of school

Namjoon:

Omg Namjoon as a girl dad would be soo fucking protective. Like if someone does anything to hurt or upset her, they’re fucked

I see him loving daddy-daughter days out together, taking her to the park or museums or bookstores, really just wanting to indulge her curiosity and interests

Like Yoongi, he would really work to make sure she knows how to stand up for herself, as well as others

For all of his sternness tho, he would have the biggest soft spot for her, he’s 100% the type to let her have dessert before dinner or something bc she gave him puppy eyes

Jimin:

Omg he’s soo girl dad coded, like it’s not even funny(he literally confirmed that on that ep of “are you sure?” like 🥺)

He would treat her like a little princess, doting on her at every possible opportunity, buying her toys/clothes/treats, taking her on special outings, etc. If she wants something, he will do whatever he can do give it to her

He would not be able to stand seeing her in any sort of pain. Like even her just having a scraped knee would make him slightly misty-eyed, even tho she’s not upset/crying about it

I see them having lots of long talks about whatever’s on her mind. He would really strive to be her safe place to ask questions about anything, from school and friends to life and the future

Taehyung:

I see him being an amazing girl dad! He has this amazing, comforting dynamic with the girls that he’s worked with/is friends with, so I can only imagine how supportive he would be with his own daughter

He would be so indulgent in whatever she wanted. Ice cream before bed? Heck yeah, let him grab a spoon too. She wants a new plushie/toy even tho she just got one like yesterday? Well, the new one needs a friend, soo-

But he would still have his more stern/protective moments with her, just moreso in little ways like making sure she’s always wearing her helmet and elbow/knee pads, brushes her teeth, does her homework, etc

He would play along with all/any of their imaginary games, fully committing to the role(and adding waay too many silly death/fainting scenes bc they make her laugh)

Jungkook:

Junkook would absolutely adore a daughter. Like she would be his little princess and anyone/anything that upsets her will have to answer to him.

On the flip side of that protectiveness tho, he is so unbelievably gentle with her. As an infant, he handled her like she was made of glass, and as she grows up, he would always speak to her in a softer tone than he uses for anyone else 

(Also dodon’t think about him singing her to sleep every night as an infant. Getting up with her in the middle of the night and walking her around the house, singing to her softly till she drifts back off to sleep in his arms)

He would love teaching her things and playing games with her(I totally picture him teaching her boxing in tiny and falling over all dramatic when she lands a hit, lol)

Taglist: @sopebubbles-replies @btsw1fe @this-must-be-my-tardis @whitefoxgirl @bethanysnow @coffeedepressionsoup @main-bangtansmauyeondan @feminympho @classicalelephant @dfqcsqueen @mother2monsters @comingupwithacoolnameishard @universal-travel-er @bo0ghol @captainorangegoose @k4ngelz

[foxmurdock]

Soft Spots and Solar Flares.

Paring: Matt Murdock x GN Reader Summary: Acts of service is your primary love language, but it starts to feel like more than that, when it comes to your friend Matt Murdock. Tags: Blood and injuries, mild angst, hurt/comfort, um reader has questionable healthy boundaries for themself? Denial of feelings, no use of Y/N word count: 2600 A/N: This is my submission for @mattmurdocksscars Writing Challenge , Thanks for letting me participate and congrats on 2.5k followers!

“Oh, You're a saint.” It was that exhausted, raspy mutter from your study partner as you had placed a dinged up thermos in front of him. Just a simple expression of Matt’s gratitude as you plopped your bag and books on the table across from him, before uncapping the thermos. The gentle murmur from him as you poured crappy dorm coffee into paper cups you’d snagged from the residence hall’s kitchen.

The glossy wooden library table contrasted sharply with the scuffed surface of the container holding several ounces of hot coffee. There hadn’t been time for you to make the run to your usual cafe, so you had opted to brew some yourself. You had to boil the water using the microwave in the residence hall’s kitchen but you were too worried about other things to care. At least you had been able to use your french press brought from home to brew it and your favorite honey to smother the bitter flavor from the poor water quality.

It was the start of your undoing.

You prefer tea.

But it was just one little change. It was a simple thing to do that brought a little relief to Matt.

But that one single adjustment turned into a recurring action.

You scraped up a bit of extra money to buy a kettle, keeping it in a cardboard box with your french press and your honey. You started to buy coffee grounds instead of tea bags, even though it was a bit more expensive.

But every time you earned a smile from him, there was a rush in your system. You would study his reactions when you tweaked something. You’d adjust the ratio of honey and creamer in the coffee, eye Matt over the rim of your flimsy paper cup, and ask him how it was. Matt would always tell you it was good, but your gaze flicked over his face, looking for the details you needed. During all of your time together, in between classes, late night study sessions and early mornings scrambling to finish projects, you had developed a proclivity for reading the little details of Matt's body language.

A wrinkle in his brow, when he lifts the cup closer to his lips, pausing briefly before drinking, likely means you got the water temperature wrong, and the brew is too bitter. If his nose twitches right after a few swallows, then you probably put too much honey in, but if his lips twitch instead, just after the first sip, then you got the balance right.

It's like a small sugar high every time Matt murmurs thank you in that soft rumble, or if you succeed in doing something that makes him smile. You can almost feel your brain lighting up, the neurotransmitters sparking off in your skull like fireflies on southern summer nights, especially if he tacks your name on to the end.

Even the slightest bit of approval from him fills you with a warmth that you grow to crave. What started as simple acts of fondness became much more.

So you make adjustments. Changes and silent accommodations that start going beyond tweaks to Matt’s coffee.

Your time with Matt and Foggy in college had given you time to perfect that, but after graduation, you don’t get to see him almost every week with a curated cup, so it snowballs into other things.

Once your little group transitions from struggling college students to slightly less struggling adults, you start meal prepping, making a few extra for Foggy and Matt. It isn’t enough for a whole week but enough that you can casually say that you happen to have extra for them, without it appearing like you had done it on purpose.

When you take the food you made, still wrapped tight in foil, out of your bag and place some in Matt’s hand with a little quip about him needing a better meal routine, or he won’t last, he gives you that soft huff, the one that's not a full laugh, but a breathy, boyish chuckle.

“I’ll survive another day, thanks to you.”

Sure, it’s just Matt’s dry humor, thrown at you in deflection of your good intentions, but you can still hear the soft gratitude underneath. It sweeps up the fireflies in your brain, swirling them around on the gusts of his gratitude, sending them sailing on summer air, further rewriting the chemical configuration of your thoughts.

“Let me know if you like it?” you murmur in parting, turning to leave the office with a soft smile, acting like there isn't a sunset lodged in your ribcage.

Life becomes hectic. Between internships, finding a firm to work under, and making sure rent is paid on time, you don’t get to interact with Matt the way you used to. The space you made for him in your soul will ache sometimes, and when you stare out of your streaky apartment window, with twitchy hands and a knot in your gut, you wrack your brain for other things you can do for him.

You went to law school together, but they became defense attorneys, and you took a different path, meaning your work and clientele don’t often overlap. Any opportunities to help Matt there are lacking, so there’s not much you can do there to contribute. You do meet with them at Josie's to catch up after long weeks of work and life. It’s how you get introduced to Karen, and get enough updates that don't break privileges on some of the cases they pick up after starting Nelson and Murdock. Your stomach twists sometimes, and you have to shut down the part of you that wishes you had joined them in starting up their firm.

You would have had more chances to be useful to Matt then.

Instead, you sip your drink and offer occasional input or jokes with them, for work or just for fun, and pretend like you aren’t in knots over the choices you made.

Sometimes Matt joins you, but it becomes increasingly common that he skips out on meeting up, so you see him less, and the ache, the need, burns through that soft spot in your chest, expanding it by increments, then cooling rapidly and leaving jagged obsidian edges every time Karen and Foggy walk into the bar, without Matt trailing in behind them.

You love seeing your other friends of course, and you feel almost guilty each time the disappointment hits you. You have to dig claws deep into your mood to keep it from dropping and tell yourself it’s just because you miss seeing all your friends at once, and nothing else. You should put more effort into being a good friend to Foggy and Karen, wanting to be fair to them, especially when Matt skips out on them too.

Matt would want you to look after them when he can’t.

That’s just one more thing you told yourself when you were helping a drunk, heartbroken Foggy up to Matt’s apartment, the grief of what happened to Elena Cardenas driving his desperate need to help and make positive changes in the city that you all love. You recognized it in Foggy, and it's one of the many things that fostered the kinship in you with both him and Matt a long time ago. So when he insisted that he needed to go talk to Matt after you left Josies, you didn't protest.

But the changes that came out of that night weren't positive. Finding out Matt’s secret life threw so much off-kilter, and the only way you could find balance was to make yourself useful while you floated in the divide that was driven between your friends.

You can’t say your perception of him didn’t shift some when he gave you a vague breakdown of how his senses work. Your initial reaction held some panic of course, but that instinct to help him just flared brighter, overriding everything else at that moment.

You just cleaned up the blood from his skin, not asking if it belonged to Matt or someone else. He would try to insist he could take care of himself, but you were just as stubborn. He would sigh out your name when you showed up at his door with a whole bag of medical supplies, but even with the slight tremble in your fingers as you pressed gauze to a fresh wound on his side, your voice was steady and insistent.

“Let me do this.”

You keep the ‘for you’ off the end of your plea. As ridiculous as it may be, when you’ve gotten his literal blood on your hands, adding that one extra part just felt too intimate.

Your first aid skills are lacking, but you add it to the list of things you can change or improve. It has grown a bit extensive, after learning the depths of Matt’s abilities and senses, but you don’t mind.

This gives you more opportunities to try and help.

You hate that it's because Matt gets hurt that you have these chances, but that just drives you harder and makes you want to be better, to improve.

There are multiple courses you can take, both online and in person, so you start doing that. You commit to it in between your caseloads, and responsibilities. You mix it in with planning meals out for the new week. Lunch for you and then go drop some ‘extra’ off at Matt’s place, using it as a chance to take stock of what condition the previous week has left him in, and nudging him to let you check him over. You feel the familiar buzz of light through your brain when Matt thanks you for the food while you change out some bandages for him.

The new changes to your routine have been enough to sustain you, so you aren’t expecting the tap on your streaky apartment window on a random weeknight. The video on your laptop about how to pack a wound is paused, and an unread case file slips off your lap, as you sit up, twisting in the direction of the sound.

Your already fast pulse spikes a bit at the silhouette of The Devil in your window, perched on your fire escape.

“I thought I was the one who made the house calls.” You try to keep your voice light; even though you know, he can hear the loud drum of your heartbeat from seeing him like this.

It's not common for Matt to come to you first. Not unless he truly needs something, and even then it’s still rare for him to ask.

Apparently, he does need help because he doesn’t quip back at you, and your face drops when you hear him murmur your name, low and pained. You go to pull him in through the window, not even thinking about anything, just burning with that ever present need to help him.

Matt hisses when your hand lands on his arm, and when you yank back, there's a dampness on your fingers. You try not to panic, but your heart still lurches as he pushes his way inside your apartment, your now bloody hands still hovering. There aren’t any words, no scolding him, or a barrage of questions. You just help him to your couch, which Matt all but collapses onto.

Your mind flashes back to the night you and Foggy had found out Matt was The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, bleeding out and half dead in his apartment, and, when everything finally came into focus, how terrified you had been. Not of Matt, but for him, of the possibility of losing him.

You can’t.

You try to steel your nerves, even as you smear bits of Matt’s blood on the handles of your bathroom cabinet while yanking out the first aid supplies you’d stashed away. This is what you’ve been practicing for, isn’t it? It’s why your social media algorithms are full of recommendation videos on wound care, and why you get random ads for trauma kits. It’s been weeks of cramming in as much knowledge as you can.

Because you need to be useful. You have to make sure that Matt stays okay.

You return to where you left him, supplies dropped on your coffee table, placing yourself beside him and assessing the damage. He’s got a few deep gashes on his upper arm, and a nasty laceration on his torso, and when you help him out of the slashed up black compression shirt, you can already see multiple red splotches that tell you he will have some ugly bruising soon.

Setting to work quickly, Matt has to talk you through some things, which doesn’t make you feel very confident, but you force yourself past it. What you feel isn’t important right now, you need to do. You can’t say who flinches and winces more at the moment, you or him when you start stitching up the cuts on his body. Your pulse never fully settles, and there is so much blood. On your hands, cloying your senses. It’s what you blame your watery eyes on.

You focus in and manage to get him fixed up, cutting the last thread in the final stitch in his skin, leaning back to stare at your work.

Your lack of experience glares back at you, bright red and bloody, etched in Matt’s skin and you feel your breath start to come faster through your nose, eyes stinging further with every blink.

But then that soothing rumble hits your ears, and there's a gentle touch on your arm. Your eyes jump from Matt’s abdomen to his face as he pulls your attention out of your anxious mind with a soft murmur of thanks.

“The kit I used for trial stitches didn’t have all the blood.” this is all you manage to respond with, feeling stupid as soon as it’s out of your mouth.

Matt gives a ragged huff, his mouth twitching along with the little touches on your arm, small circles of his thumb rubbing lightly on your skin.

“I can tell you’ve been practicing." he says in something that's slightly too soft to be teasing.

Like you’re the one who needs soothing. Maybe you do. Of course, he can tell.

Maybe you need just a little more. Usually, you don’t ask Matt for more, and only accept whatever gratitude and reassurance he willingly gives you, But you can’t get your pulse to slow down enough, and your eyes keep dropping back to the black thread poking out of his skin.

“Did I do good?” you question, trying not to fidget with your fingers as you rest your hands on your lap, feeling so exposed that it almost burns. You don’t know why it feels so different tonight. Is it because he came to you first, this time? You've cleaned up Matt’s less severe injuries and had some blood on you, But this feels like more than just the nerves of doing something for him that you've only practiced. It’s gone beyond just simple accommodations now. This time you’ve left marks in his skin.

You’ve adjusted his body with shaky stitches, and you need to know if all your effort has been enough.

‘You always do good.” Matt murmures, his warm hand finding your fidgety, still slightly sticky fingers, and holding them gently.

“You're honestly a saint, with the way you keep looking out for me.” he tells you, voice subdued with pain and exhaustion from his bad night.

You would argue, because you feel like all you do is the bare minimum of what he needs, but his touch, his words, it sends up that flare, the embers in your chest catching on the spark of Matt’s affection.

While you can’t agree with his statement, you wonder if the glowing feeling in your heart, in your soul, is what a saint feels like, set alight by the simple action of service. You don’t know. The only thing you’re sure of, as Matt slumps back on your couch, leaning his tired head on your shoulder, is that you will let the light that he ignites in you, burn you up if it means keeping him warm.

[bunny-jpeg]

hey bunny! Could i get a root beer and an iced tea with a lemon slice with max verstappen?

bakery menu!

want to suggest your own order? the bakery is open! please come in and check out the menu! i was very interested in this combo for the order! photography + accidental reveal of your relationship, VERY saucy! thank you for the order! hope you enjoy!

lemon slice ("i'm sorry, what was that? i can’t hear you over all that noise you’re making.) + root beer (filming/recording) + iced tea (accidentally launching relationship) served by max verstappen (formula one)!

cw: smut/pwp, photography/filming, (accidental) hard launching a relationship, rivals to lovers, rivals au, driver!reader, cowgirl position

"hey, verstappen. i have a question for you? you asked as you cut up the chicken for dinner. to split between you and max.

he was getting plates from the cupboard as he responded with, "i guess you could. is it a hard question?"

"not really." you said as you turned around with the knife in your hand, "you wouldn't hard launch our relationship with consulting the team first, right?"

"should i be worried about the knife in your hand?"

"no. unless you do something stupid."

"no, it would be something we did together. i'm not going to leave you out in an announcement of our relationship." he split the chicken and vegetables between two plates before you went to eat.

"i mean you have all those photos." you said.

"i'm certain most of them will get me in trouble with instagram." he chuckled, "plus, most of them are in a safe file. no one can get to them but me.. and i guess you."

"what's the code."

he took a bite out of his food as he said, "oh, your birthday." then smiled at you. it was reassuring.

"you said most of them. why not all of them?"

he scratched his jaw as he said, "because sometimes, when we're apart. i want to look at you. and i can't look at you too long while in interviews. people will notice. so some of the... nicer photos are kept out. i promise they don't make us look like a couple!"

you two were both drivers. have been for some time. you were two years younger than him, but had already made a big name for yourself. this arrangement you two had, see-sawed between rivals and lovers.

you pushed each other for greatness, but if there were any bruises or scrapes, you'd kiss them gently. you knew that he wanted you on his team, you'd often joke that either you'd kill one another or be too powerful.

he one time joked, "we could just get married and have the strongest team on the track." then gave you that smile of his that made you weak.

you both tried not to talk about the future too much. who knows what it will all come to in a few years. if you'll even be together or driving or alive. there was always the risk of it all ending, and you two have had enough scares over your careers.

but you knew that max looked at your left hand and let the thoughts wander. and in all fairness, you let him have that. because deep down if he proposed, you'd say yes.

after dinner the two of you were in the bedroom. you were straddling his waist, kissing him deeply on the lips. the kisses were wet and sweet, his strange arms around you.

you pulled away and made a small moaning noise as you felt his clothed erection up against him.

he asked, "i'm sorry, what was that? i can’t hear you over all that noise you’re making." as he kissed at your jaw, his cock stirred in his pants.

you swallowed, "i need you, max. i need you in such a painful way. you've all i've been thinking about since the last race. i wanted to see you so badly when you got out of your car."

he held you by the hips and laid out onto the bed. he looked up at you with a smile on his face. you slowly got out of your clothes and he eyed every inch of you. even when you struggled to get your pants off. when you were naked, you got him naked in return and his hands roamed your naked body.

oh you were a sight to behold under all of those baggy clothes you often wore. he gripped onto the meat of your hips, and let out a soft groan. now both naked, it felt great between you two.

you rubbed your slick pussy up against his hard cock. you clawed at his chest as you rolled your hips across his cock. you felt the pleasure leap in your chest, which made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

"that feels good." he said lowly, "you're so pretty when you're like this. on top of me, your pretty cunt about to take me whole." he massaged your hips as he tried to coax you onto his length.

"i know you always loved a woman on top." you chuckled as you spread your hands across his abdomen and slowly sank down on his impressive cock. it fit perfectly and made your back arch at the feeling. you cursed under your breath as you held onto him.

you felt the heat on you as rolled your hips against him. your skin was flushed as your rolled your hips. you leaned in and kissed him on the lips.

he moaned into the kiss, he got his arms around you. he pulled your chest close to his and moved against you. those strong arms kept you pinned to him as he felt the rush of pleasure in his body.

you sloppily made out with him as you held his shoulders. being so close to him made intimacy bloom in your chest. it felt so good being so close to you. you were a lucky woman to have met a man like him.

even though you two were rivals, tied in ways that others weren't. a string of fate connected you two together. but, you couldn't think of a better rival.

a man who pushed you to be the best, and let you shined when you succeeded. a man who remembered your birthday, the day you started racing, even what day you got that scar on your arm from. you understood him piece by piece too. you were both intertwined with one another.

you continued to move against one another, pushing each other to heightened pleasure. you felt the leap in your chest as you clung to him. your kisses were messy and your core throbbed for him.

he adored you in every way he could, he'd have you anyway he could. his kisses trailed past your lips and down your neck. you gripped onto him and continued your movements.

"it feels good being this close to you." he said softly, "i love how you feel against me. you're so good to me, you're a perfect lover."

you looked at him and said, "every time i look at you, i feel myself lose track of everything. when i'm with you, i just want to be with you." then pulled him in for another hot kiss. you drag your tongue across his bottom lip and he groaned.

"you drive me crazy."

"like you're a saint, i know that you'd raised those are a little higher sometimes to let me see some of that middle of yours." you groaned.

"the amount of times you've told me that you want to run your tongue across my stomach should be studied. i think you're the only person who wants more of it."

you smiled against his cheek and said, "perfect for me." you felt his grip on you tighten more as you rode him. his cock nudged against the softest parts of you and it made your stomach flip.

the bed shifted a little under your movements, but you remained close to him as you felt yourself edge closer to orgasm. you felt it crawl up you like a live wire as you rutted against him. his cock felt so good inside of you.

you two made out once more and you arched your back a little against him. the kisses got quicker and hotter. your heart pounded in your chest. it was all so much and it made it all feel so hot.

he was close to orgasm as well, really putting in the work to match your pace. to keep his lips against yours. you made a good match, a perfect pair.

both on and off the grid.

"fuck, verstappen." you arched your back and let out a loud moan. your nails raked down his biceps as he continued to thrust into you. his pace relentless as he bullied his heavy cock into you.

he panted heavily and replied with something under his breath as he moved. he could feel it all come to a head and with a searing kiss on your lips, he gave it a few more thrusts before he finished inside of you.

you broke the kiss and reached for his face. you gazed into his eyes as you felt your pulse jump once more. you both slowed down to a stop then began to sloppily made out. the heat radiating off your sweaty bodies.

by the end, you remained curled up with max, his strong arm around you. his nose nestled in your hair. your breathing slowly evened out as you felt close to him,"do you think we'll ever spill the beans on this relationship?" you asked with a small yawn.

"my treasure. yes." he laced his fingers with yours, "one day." then settled into a sleep. he held you like his life depended on it. his comfort blanket, his rival, his lover.

-

you woke up the next morning to the sound of your phone frequently going on. you shifted under max's arm and grabbed your phone. through bleary eyes you saw the sheer number of notifications on the device.

you opened your phone and all you needed was a text message from george that said, "if this isn't buried under a million other messages, but please just check instagram."

you knew something was very wrong.

there, like the front page of a newspaper. was a picture of you in max's lap, your hands on his face while he snapped a picture in the low light. but what else was there were pictures of your time together. everything from that time you tried his helmet on to that time you got ice cream and the stuff ended up all over your face. they were cute... domestic.

there was no caption, no tags. it probably wouldn't have gone noticed had he not had millions of followers.

you turned to face him and slapped him on the arm, "what the fuck, verstappen! what is wrong with you?"

he opened his eyes a little and said in a sleepy voice, "what are you talking about?"

you showed the phone in his face, but his eyes were barely open. you hissed, "this, this you idiot! literally people have made fan edits of it already!"

"oh, those were meant to go into a file." he yawned, seeming unfazed. he got his arm around you and his nose in your hair, "i mean, they were going to find out soon enough." he tangled his legs in yours. you were stuck against him. he yawned again, this time a little louder, "after all, i picked out the ring already."

you realized that this was probably all a dream to him. you laid there with your eyes wide open and your phone still going off, your back to max's chest. everyone from fellow drivers to upper management to that one cousin you barely talk to. even people you hadn't seen since high school were trying to get in your dms.

you turned off the phone fully and placed it down on the nightstand. you shifted in max's arms until you were face first in his chest. two questions weighed heavy on your mind.

how were you going to talk your way out of this one, and what did he mean by 'the ring'? <3

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 18

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 18

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6|Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: You struggle under the weight of guilt, convinced you've become a burden in Tommy’s life.

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.

A/N: Hey y'alllll, thank you again for reading this far. I'm getting my gallbladder taken out tomorrow (wish me luck) so I won't be able to update for a little while. In the meantime, please feel free to send me suggestions / feedback for if you want this story to continue or if I should start something new :)

--

The scent of fresh bread and strong tea hung in the air as you moved around Tommy’s kitchen, the morning light filtering through the windows in hazy streaks. Your head still ached faintly, but the worst of the pain had dulled since the night before.

You poured tea, keeping your movements steady, deliberate. It felt good to be upright, to be functioning, to be contributing in some small way, even if your body still moved slower than it used to.

Tommy sat at the table, cigarette in one hand, the morning paper in the other, half-read and already smudged with ash. He glanced at you once over the rim of his cup, eyes lingering a second longer than necessary, like he was still waiting for you to collapse.

The front door creaked open a few minutes later, and you heard the familiar shuffle of boots and low voices. Arthur’s laugh carried in first, followed by John’s unmistakable muttering and the lighter tap of Ada’s shoes across the floor.

“Morning,” Ada called, walking into the kitchen and pausing when she saw you. “Oh good, you’re up. How’s the head?”

You offered a small smile. “Better. Sorry I missed the dinner you lot had planned last night.”

“No need to apologize,” Polly said as she appeared behind Finn and Esme, her voice gentle but resolute. “You rest when you need to.”

You nodded, but that gnawing guilt nestled just a little deeper beneath your ribs.

Everyone filtered into the kitchen, plates pulled down, chairs scraped along the floor, casual conversation building between bites and sips. For a moment, it almost felt normal.

Then Finn, already halfway through a slice of toast, leaned towards you and frowned. “John said someone knocked your head around pretty bad. Are you alright now?”

You managed a soft smile, trying to keep your tone light. “I’ve had better weeks, Finn.”

Finn gave a small, sheepish grin. “Yeah… well, you still look better than Arthur after the bar fight he had last spring.”

Arthur, mid-sip of tea, snorted. “Oi! What’re you sayin’ about me over there?”

Finn chuckled, shaking his head before muttering, “It’s true. You looked like a mucky boot. Plus he ended up puking in Polly’s roses.” 

“That was one time–” Arthur grumbled. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Polly interrupted, though the corner of her mouth twitched with the faintest amusement. She turned her attention back to you. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation for taking time to heal. Especially not us.” 

You nodded again, but the guilt didn’t ease. Not fully. You could feel it growing roots beneath your ribs.

As the noise returned, mugs clinking, light teasing continuing, Tommy quietly set a plate down in front of you, his hand brushing your shoulder for the briefest moment before he took a seat across from you.

You looked up, catching the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his posture carried more tension than usual.

John leaned forward. “Tom, you set to still head to London tomorrow?”

Tommy didn’t even look up from his tea. “No.”

John blinked. “Thought you said you needed to meet with the solicitor about that deal.”

“I’m not going,” Tommy said flatly, final.

There was a small beat of silence around the table.

Arthur glanced at him. “Tommy…”

“I said I’m not going,” he repeated, voice quieter now, but firmer. “It can wait. Or one of you can go in my place.”

The guilt tightened around your chest like a vice. He hadn’t said it, but you knew. He wasn’t going because of you. You dropped your gaze back to your plate, appetite slipping away entirely.

Across the table, John frowned. “Tommy, we’ve been working on that deal for weeks. If you’re not there–”

Tommy cut in, sharper this time. “You and Arthur can handle it.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “It’s not about whether we can handle it. You’ve been lead on this since the start. They’ll want to see you.”

Tommy leaned back slightly in his chair, his jaw tight, eyes cold and unreadable. “Then they’ll have to learn to deal without me.”

John scoffed under his breath. “Right. And what happens when you keep pushin’ things off? You think that’s not going to cost us?”

Tommy set his tea down with a heavy clink. “What happens when I’m not around someday, aye?” His voice was low but firm, edged with something that cut deeper than the surface tension in the room. “You two need to stop acting like I’m going to hold your hand through every meeting.”

Arthur and John both stilled at that, exchanging a quick glance.

You kept your eyes down, fingers curling slightly around the edge of your plate.

Arthur leaned forward, his forearms braced against the table. “This deal… it’s not just numbers on a bloody page, Tom.”

John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s the shipping route. That new line through the South docks– if we lock it down now, we control half the imports before anyone else even knows it’s on offer. Weapons, whiskey, opium, whatever the hell we want moved.”

Arthur exhaled sharply. “And if Sabini or Solomons get wind of it first, it’s gone. Slips right out from under us.”

You looked up slowly, watching the tension settle deeper into Tommy’s frame. He didn’t move, but his jaw worked, tight and deliberate.

John added, more quietly now, “It’s not just money. It’s positioning. Power. This deal puts us ahead of every other crew this side of Camden.”

Arthur nodded, tapping his fingers once against the table. “Could make the Blinders untouchable for a long time– if it goes through.”

There was a long silence. You could feel Tommy’s gaze drift your way, just for a second, and the guilt in your chest twisted tighter.

“You lot always balk about having more responsibility. You want to run the business like we talked about,” Tommy added after a beat. “Then run it.”

Ada's gaze flicked between the three of them but she didn’t speak. Even Finn had gone quiet. The clatter of cutlery and soft rustle of chairs filled the silence, but the unease lingered just beneath the surface, along with the guilt still blooming in your chest.

The tension still lingered, heavy in the air like smoke, but Polly, ever the one to smooth sharp edges, lifted her teacup with a pointed glance around the table. “No more talk of business over breakfast. Not today.”

She didn’t raise her voice, but it was final. The kind of tone that settled everyone without question.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Since when do we have rules at breakfast?”

“Since now,” Polly said sharply. “Some of us would like to finish our eggs without hearing about bloody ledgers.”

Ada chuckled. “Amen to that.”

John muttered something under his breath, earning a swat on the arm from Esme.

Then Finn piped up, voice light but earnest, “This is the first time we’ve all had breakfast together in weeks. That’s something, innit?”

Ada grinned and ruffled his hair. “Look at you, getting all sentimental.”

Finn shrugged. “Just sayin’. It’s nice, that’s all.”

That earned a few smiles, a little warmth returning to the room as conversation shifted to less business, and more stories and teasing.

Eventually, the clatter of cutlery slowed, plates emptied, and conversation mellowed into quiet chuckles and soft sighs of contentment. Esme stood to pour more tea. Ada started teasing Arthur about his terrible handwriting. Finn tried to sneak another piece of toast before Polly swatted his hand away with a muttered, “You’ve had four already, love.”

But you stayed mostly quiet, your fork absently nudging crumbs around your plate.

Tommy hadn’t looked at you since the London conversation. Not directly, anyway. But you felt his presence beside you, steady and close, the way you always did.

Eventually, the table cleared, and the others filtered out of the house after saying their goodbyes, leaving only the two of you behind. You stood at the sink, rinsing plates in slow circles, your movements more for something to do than out of necessity. The ache in your head was growing now, along with the heaviness in your chest.

Tommy was still seated at the table, cigarette between his fingers, eyes following the lazy curl of smoke drifting upward. 

“You didn’t eat much,” he said softly.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

A beat passed. The only sound was the soft clink of porcelain and the faint hiss of his cigarette. You wiped your hands on a towel, lingering at the sink a moment longer before finally turning back toward him.

“Tommy, why aren’t you going to London?” you asked quietly.

His eyes didn’t move from the smoke curling toward the ceiling. He took another slow drag before replying, “John or Arthur can go for me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His gaze dropped to you then, steady and unreadable. “It’s not urgent.”

You studied him, arms folding across your chest like a shield. “But John said it was. That it was a deal that needed to be handled in person.”

“It can wait,” he said again, the edge of finality creeping into his voice.

You hesitated, the words sitting sharp behind your teeth. “Is it because of me?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he didn't deny it either. Instead, he just sat there, smoke curling from his fingers, jaw tightening slightly.

You stepped closer, your voice softer now. “Tommy, you don’t have to stay here with me all the time.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours, sharp and unreadable. “I know.”

“Then why are you?” The question came out thinner than you’d meant, wrapped in guilt you hadn’t quite managed to bury. “I’m not asking you to babysit me. I’m not asking you to put everything on hold.”

“You’re not asking,” he agreed, voice quiet. “I’m choosing."

The finality in his voice left no room for argument, no space for guilt to take root again.

So you just nodded, small, almost imperceptible.

“Okay,” you murmured softly. 

Tommy held your gaze a moment longer, then slowly stood. The chair scraped gently against the floor as he moved, shoulders rolling back with a quiet exhale. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and struck a match with one fluid motion. The flame flickered briefly before catching, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke curling through the air in soft ribbons.

Then, without a word, he picked up the folded paper from the table, eyes scanning over the print like nothing had just happened.

You watched him move, watched the shift of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled around the edge of the paper, the quiet steadiness in him that always seemed just out of reach but somehow comforting.

After a moment, your voice broke the silence again. “Can I at least make myself useful and go back to the Garrison soon?”

Tommy’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable. You pushed on, quieter now. “I can work the bar. Just a few hours to help Harry out.”

His mouth twitched, not in amusement, but something closer to disbelief. Tommy stood slowly, cigarette still between his fingers. The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stepped toward you, eyes fixed on your face.

“When you can make it through an entire day without going blind or vomiting,” he said dryly, “we’ll talk about it.”

You looked down, lips pressing into a tight line. You nodded again, biting back the sting in your chest. His hand found your shoulder, warm and steady. A moment later, you felt the press of his lips at your temple, soft, grounding, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.

He didn’t say anything else. Just let his hand drift down your arm briefly before stepping away, footsteps soft as he walked toward the door.

When it clicked shut behind him, the silence wrapped around you again.

…

Three days passed.

You could feel it– the distance growing between you and Tommy. Not because he had changed, but because you had.

It was Campbell’s shadow that lingered, not Tommy’s. But it didn’t matter. Every time Tommy reached for you, every time his hand grazed your waist or his lips found your temple, your body flinched before your mind could catch up. And it wasn’t fair, because he wasn’t the one who hurt you. But the memory lived under your skin like poison, curling in your muscles, coiling behind your ribs.

There were moments when you reached for him first. When you pressed into his arms and, for just a breath, the world stopped spinning. Because somehow, in his arms, you didn’t feel fragmented. Only when he held you did you feel put back together, like your pieces might actually belong somewhere again. Like you weren’t entirely broken.

But only when it was on your terms. Only when your body didn’t feel like a battleground, when your skin didn’t feel like it still belonged to someone else.

And then came the shame, the quiet, creeping shame that made you want to crawl out of your own skin. That made you feel like none of it should be this hard. Like you should’ve healed faster. Like it was your fault that every soft, loving touch still carried a ghost.

That night, back at the house, the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. Tommy sat in his armchair, legs stretched out slightly, a stack of papers in his lap, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His eyes skimmed over the documents, brow occasionally furrowing in thought, the silence between you filled only by the scratch of the fire and the rustle of turning pages.

You watched him for a while from your spot on the couch– watched the way his jaw flexed as he read, the way his fingers shifted the pages with that same quiet control he carried in everything he did. The ache behind your ribs hadn’t lessened, not really. 

But your body moved before your mind could talk you out of it. Quietly, without a word, you rose from the couch and padded across the rug toward him.

Tommy looked up, eyes flicking to you, but he didn’t speak, just set his papers aside slightly, already shifting in the chair to make room.

You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees folding on either side of his hips as you settled into him, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Still, he didn’t ask. Didn’t question it. He just opened his arms and let you in.

One arm curled around your back, anchoring you gently against his chest. The other reached for the papers again, as if this was nothing unusual, as if holding you there, close and steady, was just as natural as reading through business ledgers.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as his warmth wrapped around you. His heartbeat thudded softly beneath your ear, and for the first time all day, your chest eased just enough to breathe.

Tommy’s fingers absently ran along the curve of your spine, slow and comforting, like he didn’t even know he was doing it. Then his hand drifted upward, tracing lightly over your shoulder blades before settling at the base of your skull.

His fingers moved gently there, slow circles worked into the tense muscles at the nape of your neck, easing the tightness you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

After a moment, his voice came low, near your temple. “How’s your head tonight?”

You didn’t answer right away, just let yourself lean a little heavier into him, eyes still closed, letting the rhythm of his touch lull some of the ache from your bones.

“It’s okay,” you murmured eventually. 

His thumb brushed tenderly along the edge of your hairline. “You’re a horrible liar.” 

You sighed. “So you’ve said.”

Tommy’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed that slow, grounding motion at the base of your skull.

The fire had burned low by the time you drifted off in Tommy’s arms, but at some point during the night, you vaguely remembered the feeling of being lifted– strong arms curling beneath you, the warmth of his chest against yours, the soft rasp of his voice murmuring something you were too far gone to understand. A door creaked open. Sheets shifted. A blanket tucked carefully around your shoulders.

Now, you stirred again to quiet stillness. The bed beside you was empty, the space where he’d been still faintly warm. You sat up slowly, your head heavy but clear. You rubbed your eyes and glanced toward the door, catching the faintest trace of light beneath it. Voices followed, low, hushed, but tense.

You stood, careful not to make the floorboards creak, and padded silently toward the hallway. Down the stairs, flickering firelight spilled from the open door of Tommy’s study.

And then, the voices grew clearer.

“I told you they were skittish,” Arthur was saying, his voice low and tense.

“They didn’t just get skittish,” John shot back. “They pulled out, full stop.”

A pause.

Then Tommy’s voice, sharper, more clipped. “Just tell me what happened.”

“The deal is shot, Tom. The whole fuckin’ thing,” John muttered. “Said they didn’t like that you weren’t there yourself. Didn’t trust it.”

“Thought you were hiding something,” Arthur added darkly. 

You stayed frozen at the bottom of the stairs, barely breathing.

“Word is they’re talking to Sabini,” John said. “Maybe already signed with him.”

A beat of silence. You could picture Tommy now, leaning back in his chair, jaw clenched, that familiar flicker of calculation in his eyes.

And then you heard it, the thing that made your throat tighten and your chest ache.

“Because you weren’t in London,” John muttered. “Because you stayed here.”

You stepped back instinctively, the words hitting like a blow to the chest. It wasn’t said with malice, not really, John’s voice hadn’t carried blame. But the implication rang louder than anything else in the room. The guilt crawled up your spine like something cold and living.

You turned quietly, retreating up the stairs before your presence could be noticed. Each step felt heavier than the last, your head buzzing, chest tightening with the weight of everything unsaid.

By the time you reached the bedroom again, the silence felt different. Not comforting this time, but thick and echoing, like it was pressing in around you.

You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curling in the bedsheets, eyes unfocused.

You had to get it together.

You couldn’t keep falling apart every time the air got too still, every time your head ached or your heart clenched with a memory. You couldn’t keep leaning on Tommy like he was the only thing holding you upright, not when it was starting to cost him.

He’d already sacrificed too much. And if things kept slipping, if the business continued to suffer, you’d be the reason. You couldn’t stomach that. Not after everything.

Even if your chest still tightened at night. Even if there were moments when the world tilted sideways and it felt like your ribs might crack from the weight of it all.

Even if it meant smiling when your head was pounding. Even if it meant pretending your hands weren’t trembling the moment Campbell’s face flashed behind your eyes. 

You’d just have to hide it better. Be steadier. Stronger. More convincing.

…

The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen.

The dull ache in your head had returned– not blinding, but ever-present, pulsing quietly behind your temples like a reminder that your body was still catching up to your bravado. You sat up slowly, blinking away the haze, willing the room to stop its slow tilt. It didn’t. Not entirely. But you braced your palms against the mattress and breathed through it until it passed.

When you made your way downstairs, the scent of tea drifted from the kitchen. Tommy stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as he stirred something in a pan.

You straightened your posture and forced your steps to stay steady.

“Morning,” you said lightly, grabbing a mug from the counter like your limbs didn’t still tremble faintly.

Tommy glanced over his shoulder. “You’re up early.”

You shrugged, taking a sip of coffee, trying not to wince at the way the bitterness sparked behind your eyes. “Figured I’d get a head start. Thought I might stop by the Garrison.”

Tommy’s brow lifted, his stirring slowing just slightly. “You thought you might?”

You nodded, pretending not to notice the weight behind his gaze. “Just for a few hours. Nothing too much. I’ll help Harry with the stockroom or polishing glasses– whatever he needs.”

He said nothing at first. Just turned back to the pan, jaw tight, the silence dragging.

“I feel fine,” you added, softer now, trying to meet his eyes.

Tommy didn’t turn around right away. 

“Do you now?” he said finally, low and clipped.

You held your ground, trying not to shift under the weight of his voice. “I do.”

He turned slowly, setting the spoon down, his eyes narrowing just slightly as they met yours. “You’re still flinching when you stand up too fast. You get quiet when the light’s too bright. And you think I haven’t noticed how your hands shake when you think no one’s looking?”

You swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “I’m not saying I’m at a hundred percent. But good enough to go back."

Tommy studied you, arms folding across his chest now, brow furrowed in that unreadable way that always made your chest tighten. “You pushing yourself to prove something to me isn’t going to help you heal faster.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything to you,” you said, voice steadier now. “I’m just trying to be useful.”

He stared at you for a long beat, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Then finally, he sighed, slow and reluctant.

“One shift,” he said, pointing toward you slightly with the hand holding the cigarette. “A short one. And if you so much as wince or wobble, you come straight home. You don’t argue.”

You nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “Fine.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched, barely a smile. He stepped forward, pressed a kiss to your temple, and muttered against your skin, “You’re bloody stubborn, you know that?”

“Must be catching,” you murmured back, just under your breath.

He gave a faint scoff and turned back to the pan.

...

Your shift had started slow– organizing glasses, taking light orders, helping Harry restock the shelves in the back. At first, it felt manageable. Easy, even. The motions were familiar, your body moving on instinct, muscle memory guiding you through the steps. For a while, you almost felt like yourself again. Like things could go back to normal, if only you tried hard enough.

But somewhere along the way, the hours had slipped by unnoticed. You’d told yourself it was fine. Just one more hour. Then another. And another after that. You hadn’t even realized how long you’d been standing, how much you’d been pushing, until the dull throb behind your eyes started to build into something sharper.

Now your head was pounding– a slow, pulsing ache that bloomed beneath your skull like a storm brewing just out of reach. The lights above the bar felt too bright, the low chatter of the patrons far too loud. Every clatter of glass, every burst of laughter sent a fresh spike of pain radiating through your temples.

Still, you kept moving.

You couldn’t fall apart here. Not in front of everyone. Not when you were trying so damn hard to prove you could handle it.

You smiled politely at the next patron, even though it felt like your skin was stretched too tight across your face. You wiped down the countertop with a damp cloth, even though your fingers trembled slightly against the rag. Your vision blurred at the edges, just enough to make you blink hard and press your lips together to keep from swaying.

Harry glanced over from the end of the bar, eyes narrowing slightly. He’d been watching you more closely than usual all day, though he hadn’t said much. Until now.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked, tone low but gentle, concern evident in his lined features as he approached.

You straightened a little, forcing a breath through your nose and nodding too quickly. “Fine,” you said, a little too brightly. “Just a bit warm in here.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the ache pulsing again– like a warning just beneath your skin.

Harry didn’t look convinced.

In fact, his brow furrowed deeper as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Thought Tommy said you were only meant to do a few hours,” he said, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “You’ve been on your feet half the bloody day.”

You gave another faint smile, trying to keep it casual. “He worries too much.”

Harry huffed. “Aye, well… in his shoes, I might too. You look pale, love.”

“I’m fine,” you said again– quieter now, more like a prayer than a statement.

But before Harry could push further, the front door creaked open. A rush of cool air filtered in with it.

And there he was.

Tommy's eyes scanned the Garrison with calculated ease before locking onto you behind the bar. His jaw tensed instantly, just a flicker, but you saw it. It felt it like a punch to the ribs.

You stood a little straighter, tried to summon a smile, pretended like everything was fine. You even picked up another glass to polish, just to look busy.

But Tommy didn’t move right away. He just stood there in the doorway, watching you with that unreadable look– like he already knew everything he needed to know before you’d even said a word.

Harry muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “Shit.”

You turned to face Tommy fully, heart thudding as if the pounding in your skull wasn’t already loud enough.

“Hey,” you said, feigning lightness. “Didn’t think you’d come by tonight.”

His eyes flicked to the rag in your hand, then back to your face. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

His voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t sharp. But it cut through the room like a blade.

You straightened your spine a little more, holding that polite smile like a shield. “Just lost track of time,” you said softly, setting the glass down. “It’s not a big deal.”

Tommy stepped forward now, slow and measured, his eyes never leaving yours. “You were supposed to be here for a few hours.”

“I know.”

“And how long’s it been?”

You hesitated, your eyes darting toward the clock. The answer hung in the air between you. Too long. Long enough for him to be right. Long enough to feel it in every throbbing pulse behind your eyes.

“I’m fine, Tommy,” you said again, quieter this time.

“I’m not asking how you feel,” he said, voice lower now as he came around the bar, closer to you. “I’m telling you your hands are shaking.”

You instinctively curled your fingers tighter around the rag, hiding the tremor. But it was too late, he’d already seen it. He always saw everything.

“I said I’m fine. Let me finish wiping down–”

“No.”

You stiffened. The word landed heavy between you, sharp and final.

You blinked up at him, your jaw tightening. “You don’t get to tell me when I’m done.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice stayed calm. “We’re not doing this here. Let’s go.”

You shook your head, the frustration swelling in your chest like a rising tide. “Christ, Tommy. I’m not made of glass. You can’t keep dragging me out of rooms like I’m going to fucking collapse every time I breathe too hard.”

Tommy sighed, like this whole thing was a massive inconvenience. “I’m not dragging you anywhere. I’m telling you you’ve done enough for one day.”

“Enough for your standards, you mean.” You stepped back, trying to shove past the heat crawling up your throat.

"Yeah, my standards. Last time I checked, I was the one employing you."

Your jaw flexed. Fuck, you thought. He was right. You hated that he was right. You hated that your body was still betraying you. That every time you tried to prove you could keep going, you ended up like this, shaking, dizzy, broken glass at your feet and tears you couldn’t swallow down fast enough.

"I'm not something fragile that needed protecting all the time."

“Then stop acting like it,” he snapped. 

Your eyes widened, breath catching hard in your chest. 

The words cut deeper than they should have, sharp and unrelenting, worse than the sting of the glass or the pounding in your head.

You turned on your heel before he could say anything else, pushing your way into the back room and slamming the door shut behind you. You needed space– just a second to breathe, to collect yourself, to stop the way your chest was tightening.

You reached for a glass on the shelf, anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to keep from feeling the sting in your eyes.

But your fingers trembled. The ache in your head flared sharp again. And before you could even react, the glass slipped from your grasp.

Crash.

It shattered against the floor, loud and jarring. And that was it.

The tears came before you could stop them– hot, angry, humiliated tears. Not from the glass, not from the pain, but from the frustration, the helplessness, the exhaustion of pretending everything was fine when your body was still screaming otherwise.

You clenched your fists at your sides, trying to blink it all away, trying to hold yourself upright even though your legs suddenly felt too weak.

But then you heard footsteps behind you.

“Are you done proving your point–”

Tommy stopped mid-sentence.

You didn’t have to look at him to feel the shift in his presence, or the way his entire demeanor softened the moment he saw your shoulders shaking, the tears on your cheeks.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentler now, quiet. “Hey.”

You turned away, trying to wipe your face, but he was already there, stepping over the broken glass, reaching for you carefully like he was afraid you’d break just like the pieces on the floor.

“Come here,” he murmured, arms outstretched, steady and warm.

You turned, eyes wet, throat tight, just in time to see his arms start to reach for you.

But you stepped back sharply, shaking your head. “Don’t.”

Tommy stilled.

“I’m so sick of this,” you snapped, voice cracking. “Sick of being treated like I’m some fragile thing that can’t take a deep breath without falling apart.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t speak. Just stood there, steady, watching you with that infuriating calm.

“I’m trying,” you said, voice rising. “I’m trying to feel normal again, to be normal again. But you don’t get it,” you said, bitter now. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and not even recognize your own body anymore. To be afraid of your own mind and what it can do to me.”

Your breath hitched, another tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. “I don’t want to be a burden, Tommy.”

He stepped closer again, slower this time. “You’re not.”

You shook your head, hands curling into fists at your sides. “You can say I’m not all you want, but I am, Tommy. You’re giving everything up just to babysit me, and I–” Your voice cracked, raw and exposed. “I heard you.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Heard what?”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening. “The other night. You were talking to Arthur and John… about the London deal.”

Tommy went still.

“I wasn’t trying to listen,” you rushed to add, voice shaking. “I’d woken up, and you weren’t there, and I came downstairs and… I heard John say it. That they pulled out because you weren’t there. Because you stayed here with me.”

Tommy’s expression didn’t change much, just a subtle flicker in his jaw, the smallest shift in his eyes.

You blinked through another wave of tears. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. That I cost you something important. That the whole reason it’s falling apart is because I couldn’t keep it together.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting the sting behind your eyes. “What happens when you fall behind on business? When things start slipping? What happens then?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “Since when are you up for giving me business advice?”

You straightened slightly, heart pounding, the tension curling tighter beneath your ribs.

“I’m not giving you business advice,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just saying… you don’t have to stay with me all the time, Tommy. I’m not expecting you to.”

He looked at you then, and there was something unreadable behind his eyes.

“You think I’m here out of obligation?” His voice was low, steady, but there was a clipped edge beneath it. “You think I stayed because I felt I had to?”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched.

“I think you’ve got a business to run. A family to look after. And you’re putting that on hold.”

His jaw flexed. 

“And I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t.”

He let out a humorless breath, more a scoff than a laugh, and turned away.

You pushed a little further, the guilt pressing harder. “You stayed in the hospital with me for a week– you must have missed other meetings, other deals.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the profile of his face, his clenched jaw, the flicker in his eyes. “What’s your point?”

You stepped closer. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re falling behind. Christ, I’m not completely helpless– I can take care of myself.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I heard the way Arthur and John talked to you.”

You swallowed, eyes dropping briefly to the floor. “I don’t want to be the reason things start to unravel.” You hesitated, your throat tightening. “They think I’m holding you back. And maybe they’re right.”

His expression hardened slightly, not with anger, but something quieter. Something wounded.

“I’m not trying to cause a rift between you and them,” you added. “They’re your family. Your blood. I’m not even–” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “I’m not part of that. Not really.”

You crossed your arms tightly, the tension in your shoulders finally catching up to you, dragging you down with it. Your hands came together in your lap, twisting over one another, trying to wring the nerves from your fingertips.

There was a beat of silence. Tommy’s jaw ticked, his shoulders squaring as he studied you. The muscles in his throat moved as he swallowed, slow and deliberate.

“You think that’s how I see you?” he asked finally, low and quiet, but laced with something that stung more than shouting ever could.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. 

After a moment, Tommy’s mouth tugged into a crooked, humorless half-smile. “I’ve had lots of women in my bed before,” he said, voice low. 

Your eyes stung before you could stop it, a sharp pressure building behind them as your chest tightened. That ache, deep, quiet, relentless, spread beneath your ribs, heavy and hollow all at once.

“Pretty ones. Clever ones. Ones who only wanted to ride the high while it lasted.” His gaze flicked over you. 

You blinked hard, a tear slipping free despite your best efforts. Your hands curled tightly in your lap as you tried to imagine where the hell he was going with any of this. 

“I’ve had lots of women in my bed before,” Tommy said again, quieter now, like he regretted saying it the first time at all. “But none of them ever made me give a fuck about anything but myself. They were good for a night. That’s it. Never once made me want to change a thing. They were just noise. Something to fill the time.”

His voice lingered in the air, quiet but weighted, hanging between you like smoke.

You didn’t look up, not yet. You couldn’t. Not with your eyes burning and your throat thick with the ache of it. But you felt him move closer. 

The scent of him, smoke and cologne and something warmer, something familiar, wrapped around you like a balm. His shoes stopped in front of yours, and slowly, carefully, he reached out to tilt your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“But you…” he said. “You’re not just noise.”

You met his gaze, finally, and there it was, laid bare in the blue of his eyes. Not just guilt or tenderness. But need. Affection. Something deeper than all of it.

“You’re not just in my life,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “You’re the only part I give a damn about.”

Your eyes met his again, full of something fragile and raw. “I’m scared that you’ll look at me and regret these choices– because you were too busy worrying about me and my mess.”

Tommy’s expression didn’t waver. His eyes met yours, steady and unreadable. “I thought you were dead, you know?”

The words stopped you cold. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t need to. It was low. Heavy. Final. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Done worse. But that…” His jaw locked, throat shifting with the effort to keep it together.

“That’s not something I can just walk away from.” He finally looked at you again, eyes shadowed and tired. “So if I’m skipping meetings, taking time… it’s not because I think you need me. It’s because I don’t want to be away from you right now. Because I need to remind myself that you didn’t die because of me.” 

You didn’t know what to say. The heat in your throat burned, your chest tight with emotion you couldn’t quite name.

Tommy held your gaze, his jaw set now, voice steady and resolute. “John and Arthur can handle the business. That’s what we’ve been building toward. And if they can’t–” he shrugged once, slow and deliberate, “then I’ll deal with it later. Business comes and goes. Deals fall through. We build new ones.”

He stroked the softness of your cheek, enough to make sure you were looking at him. “But I lost you for two whole fucking days. I nearly lost you for good– and I refuse to lose you now,” he added, jaw clenched. “Not because you wanted to prove something. Not because you wanted to work a bloody shift at the Garrison when you should’ve been in bed.”

Tommy’s eyes softened, the edge in his voice giving way to something more fragile, something far more human.

“So, will you please stop arguing and just come home with me?” he asked quietly.

You blinked up at him, breath catching.

“So that I can remind myself that you’re still here. That I didn’t lose you.”

His words settled into your ribs, aching and tender.

You hesitated, eyes flickering toward the shattered glass on the floor behind you. “But… what about the glass? I can't leave that for Harry..”

Tommy let out a rough breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head as he closed the distance between you.

His arms wrapped around your frame, firm and grounding, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other anchoring you against his chest.

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with affection. “Bloody hell.”

You sank into him, fingers clutching the front of his coat, letting yourself breathe for the first time all day.

“Come on,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Let’s go home.”

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[uunoia]

Aphrodisiacs

Part of my Technoblade x Reader WIP Word: ~1600

Phil handed the both of you hot, steaming cups of tea. “I hope you both like it, I brewed this especially for the both of you.” You quirked a brow at the old man as he folded his arms in his robe, finding his choice of words odd. Mentally shrugging it off, you blew on your cup before giving it a careful sip. It was deliciously sweet with a hint of a floral sense to It and In all honesty you had to give Phil credit where credit is due. 

“Oh wow. This tea is amazing, Phil.”

Techno took a sip as well, the dainty china looking smaller In his larger sized hand. An amusing sight from your perspective.

“Yeah, It's alright I suppose.” Techno relaxed into the chair, his ankle resting on his knee as he leaned back in his seat, Techno and you both took another sip.

“What did you put in it?” You innocently asked, taking another sip.

Phil smiled, “It's a special brew. I added some of those sweet berries and rose flower petals-”

Technos eyes widened, he stopped drinking all together and he went for a full on spit take. Spraying you completely in the warm brew. Your face, hair, and your shirt doused completely with tea.

Techno coughed violently, his eyes wide with horror as he stared at the small china cup. “Phil.” His voice was dangerously calm, but the look in his eyes screamed nothing but the utmost betrayal. As If his dear old friend had dramatically driven a knife in his back in a moment of weakness. “You've doomed me, Phil. You did not just serve us-”

“Oh, lighten up mate,” Phil waved him off casually, “You both have been way too tense lately. So, I just added a little something extra. Thought you two could use it.”

You settled your cup down and dried your eyes with the bottom of your shirt, one look at Techno and you could see his cheeks were dusted pink. He bolted upright, his chair scraping against the floor as he approached the window. He opened the window and dumped the rest of the brew from his cup like it had personally offended him, making Phil sifle a chuckle at the sight.

You, still dripping of tea, adjusted your wet shirt as it clung uncomfortably to your skin, dawning realization of what Phil had just admitted.

“…Did you just—” You blinked at him. “Did you just drug us?!”

“What? Nah. It’s just herbs.” Philza rolled his eyes as he waved off, completely unbothered. “Back in the day, we used to drink it all the time. It’s good for blood flow, stamina, y’know?”

Techno choked again, fists clenching at his sides. “PHIL! THAT MAKES IT WORSE!”

“Not that kind of stamina—”

“That’s literally what it’s used for!”

Phil shrugged. “Can also be used for energy, focus, a bit of warmth—”

Techno shook his head furiously, his entire face heating up. You had never ever seen Techno this flustered, or affected by something In all the time you had known him.

He’s been through war, escaped an execution attempt and took actual betrayal better than Phil’s aphrodisiac brew.

“No. No…We’re out. We’re gone. We leave.” He picked you up off the chair by your elbow, your chair scraping against the spruce floor, making you stand.

“Hey!-” You gasped at the suddenness. He turned on his heel, already storming toward the door, your arm in his hand.

“Phil- You’ve doomed me. You've doomed me, Phil-” Phil could all but chuckle at the sight before him like the agent of chaos he painted himself to be.

“Techno, where are we going?!” You stumbled slightly before matching his pace to the door.

“You and I are drinking milk.” He dragged you out of the house, leading you into the basement. It was with such urgency It was as though you needed to be exorcised of the tea's effects.

Phil called out, “And help her get cleaned up!” Techno only grumbled in response as you both left the front door and went to the basement.

Phil chuckled, sipping on his regular tea. “...So dramatic. The both of you.”

The basement was cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the absolute chaos that had just unfolded in the cabin above. You were still drenched in tea, your drenched shirt making you shiver in the cold. Droplets dripped from your hair, trailing down your face and neck.

Techno was already rummaging through one of the storage chests, muttering something under his breath about “old man meddling where he shouldn’t.” His cheeks were still pink, the tips of his ears twitching slightly, and you knew—you knew—he was dying inside.

Techno grabbed a bottle of milk from the chest, drinking some of the cool and sweet cure-all before turning and handing the rest to you. 

He turned back around and rummaged through the chests. You stood awkwardly near the ladder before you drank the rest of the milk bottle. 

It didn't exactly feel like you were under the influence of any status effects. You felt normal, other than the slight chills you got from getting soaked your body felt entirely the same before and after the tea. It felt completely the same after the milk too, which, you didn't know if that was a good or bad thing.

"So... Do you have a towel, or am I supposed to just stand here and marinate?"

Techno turned around, holding a white shirt (probably his, judging by the size), and tossed it at you without a word. The fabric smacked you in the face.

You peeled it off with a deadpan expression. "Thanks. That really helped."

He huffed, crossing his arms. "You're welcome."

You shook your head, sighing. “I can’t believe Phil…”

“I can.” Techno muttered, grabbing a clean rag from another chest and handing it to you. “Man’s been alive for centuries, he was bound to get bored eventually.”

You took the rag from his hand and started dabbing at your face, before Techno took the rag back, gently dabbing and drying your face himself. Thinking you probably wouldn't do as good a job without some help. You muttered a small thank you to which he gruffly hummed in response. He was actually surprisingly careful, his hand held your cheek while the other held the towel, gliding it over your face and neck. 

You mentally shook your head, remembering the tea. You grimaced as the brew stuck to your skin. "God, this stuff is so sticky. It’s like he brewed honey in it."

Techno let go of your face, hanging the rag on one of the ladder steps. "You should probably change before it stains."

You paused, looking down at your soaked shirt. “Yeah, I was hoping you’d leave so I could do that.”

He didn’t move.

“…Techno.”

He blinked. “What?”

You gestured vaguely. "Privacy?"

He stared at you for a long moment, then let out an exaggerated sigh, “Alright…” distancing himself from you and leaning against the stone wall, "I'll turn around."

"You could also leave, y'know."

"Nope," He said flatly, spinning on his heel so his back was to you. "Not taking my chances. Knowing Phil, that tea might have some kind of delayed effect or some weird potion nonsense. You pass out or start hallucinating, not my problem.” He rambled, feeling anxious and fidgety about the situation overall.

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. "So dramatic…”

He scoffed. “Says the one who almost swan dove into a lava lake if it weren't for me.”

“Okay, first of all—”

“Change.”

You rolled your eyes, but ultimately gave up. You turned your back to him and pulled the damp shirt over your head, shivering slightly as the cool air hit your skin. The only thing covering your top half being your bra. You felt around blindly for the dry shirt he had thrown at you earlier.

Of course, because today sucked, you dropped it.

A beat of silence.

“…You good?”

You clenched your jaw. “No.”

You reached down to grab the shirt, forgetting that you were currently half-dressed. You barely had time to react before Techno glanced over his shoulder.

And then immediately regretted his life choices.

“Oh God—” He whipped his head around so fast you thought he’d snap his own neck. He practically slammed his hand over his mouth, his face burning a violent red. He really didn't mean to, he wasn't stupid. He assumed you were done putting on the shirt, how long does it really take to change a shirt?

You snatched the dry shirt off the floor and yanked it on as fast as humanly possible. “WHY DID YOU LOOK?!”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!”

“WHY DID YOU LOOK?!”

“I PANICKED!”

A painfully awkward silence settled between the both of you.

Techno cleared his throat, still refusing to turn around. His face was completely red, he wanted to say anything, quip even! The embarrassment was choking him as much, maybe even more than you. “…You done?”

“…Yeah.”

He exhaled sharply, finally relaxing his shoulders. “Cool. Great. Fantastic.” He turned back around, face still a little too pink. 

You rubbed your temples. “Let’s never talk about this.”

“Agreed.”

Another beat.

Tommy’s voice could be heard from upstairs, followed by the front door opening and slamming shut. Followed by a muffled, “PHIL!!” Followed by the sound of something breaking.

You and Techno both groaned in unison.

“Alright- That's enough mortifying embarrassment for one day” Techno then turned towards the double spruce door leading outside, opening one of the doors, the chill of the snowy outside nipping at your skin.

“Where are you going?”

“The tactical retreat—” He closed the spruce door behind him.