#COLOR! PAINT! SECRET TALENTS!

[a-lexia11]

Crossing the line (part 2)

Ingrid Engen x Putellas!reader

Alexia Putellas x sister!reader

Word count:Around 4k

Warning:some angst

Part 1

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions. Ingrid and you began texting—nothing too serious, just light conversation, sharing random thoughts and funny memes.

But even through the screen, you felt something shift. Each message from her made you smile, your heart race, and gave you hope that maybe, just maybe, this could turn into something more.

Yet with each text, a sense of guilt started creeping in.You were hiding something from Alexia, and you knew deep down she wouldn’t be okay with it. The more Ingrid and you talked, the heavier that secret felt, like a weight pressing down on you.

You tried to act normal around Alexia, but it was difficult. Every time she asked about your day or what you’ve been up to, you had to hold back from mentioning Ingrid. Lying to her felt wrong, but you didn’t see any other option.

If she knew—if she even suspected—that you had a huge crush on Ingrid, especially after you exchanged numbers and started texting constantly, she would step in without hesitation.

Alexia’s protective nature would take over, and she’d end things before you even had a chance to figure out what this could be with Ingrid.

The texts between Ingrid and you weren’t anything overtly romantic, but there was an undeniable undertone. A lingering question in every exchange

A “what if” that neither of you said out loud but both of you seemed to feel. There was something simmering beneath the surface, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore.

——

One evening, after an exhausting day, you found yourself lying on your bed, phone in hand. Ingrid had just sent you a photo of her latest painting—an incredible piece bursting with vibrant colors and raw emotion.

You admired the artwork, but more than that, you found yourself admiring her—someone so strong, talented, and kind, someone who seemed to draw you in deeper with every passing day.

Just as you were about to reply to Ingrid's message, your phone buzzed again. It was a call from Alexia. Your heart skipped a beat.

“Hola, Alexia” you greeted, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Hola, cariño” she responded, her voice bright and full of warmth. “¿Qué estás haciendo?” (What are you up to?)

“Solo descansando” you replied, glancing at Ingrid’s message again “¿Y tú?” (Just relaxing,What about you?)

“Acabo de terminar de cenar con algunas de las chicas” Alexia said softly. “Pensé en llamar a mi hermanita favorita” (Just finished dinner with some of the girls. Thought I’d check in on my favorite little sister.)

A smile tugged at your lips, but the weight of the secret you were keeping made it hard to fully enjoy the moment. “¡Oh, le diré a Alba que dijiste eso!” you teased, hoping to keep things light. (Oh, I'm telling Alba you said that)

She laughed, the sound comforting and familiar. “De todos modos, estaba pensando… ha pasado un tiempo desde que tuvimos un buen rato de hermanas. ¿Qué te parece si vamos a cenar este fin de semana? Solo nosotras dos.” (Anyway, I was thinking... it’s been a while since we’ve had some proper sister time. How about we grab dinner this weekend? Just the two of us)

The idea of a quiet evening with Alexia should have made you happy, but your heart sank.

Spending time with her, knowing you were hiding something that could hurt her, felt like a betrayal. Yet, there was no way you could say no without raising suspicion.

“Sí, suena genial,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. “¿El sábado?” (Yeah, that sounds great, Saturday?)

“¡Perfecto! Haré una reserva en algún lugar bonito. Te lo mereces.” (Perfect! I’ll make a reservation somewhere nice. You deserve it.)

Her words only made the guilt gnaw at you harder. “Gracias, Ale. Estoy deseando que llegue” (Thanks, Ale. I’m looking forward to it)

“Te extraño, Y/N,” she said, her voice soft and sincere. “Las cosas han estado tan locas últimamente con el fútbol. Siento que no he pasado suficiente tiempo contigo.” (I miss you, Y/N. Things have been so crazy lately with football. I feel like I haven’t spent enough time with you.)

Her words hit you harder than you expected. Alexia had always been there for you, always protective, always your biggest supporter.

Now, you were keeping something from her that she would never expect. “Yo también te extraño,” you said quietly, your throat tight with guilt. (I miss you too)

“Bueno, solucionaremos eso este fin de semana,” she promised, her tone lightening again. “Te enviaré los detalles más tarde. Te quiero, cariño.” (Well, we’ll fix that this weekend. I’ll text you the details later. I love you)

“También te quiero, Alexia.” (I love you too, Alexia)

After hanging up, you sat still for a long moment, staring down at your phone. Your lock screen showed an old photo of the three of you—Alexia, Alba, and you as a baby.

In the picture, Alexia was holding you, kissing your cheek, while Alba smiled brightly at the camera, clutching your tiny hand.

The image filled you with warmth, but also deepened the ache in your chest.

How could you keep this from Alexia? Eventually, she would find out, and the thought of how much it would hurt her weighed heavily on you. Disappointing her, breaking her trust—it was something you couldn’t bear.

But at the same time, you couldn’t deny what you felt for Ingrid. Every conversation, every laugh you shared, made your feelings grow stronger.

The spark between you two was undeniable, and it made you feel more alive than you had in ages. You couldn’t just walk away from that, even if the risk was high.

You sighed deeply, running a hand through your hair, lost in the swirl of emotions. Your phone buzzed again, and your heart leaped, expecting it to be Alexia texting you details about dinner.

But it wasn’t.

It was Ingrid.

Ingrid: Hey, you still awake?

Your heart jumped a little when you saw her message. You hesitated briefly before quickly typing a reply.

Y/N: Yeah, I’m up. What’s going on?

Her response was almost instant.

Ingrid: You didn’t answer my last message, so I just wanted to check if you were asleep—and see how you’re doing.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, even as the guilt you’d been carrying gnawed at you. Somehow, Ingrid always had a way of making things feel lighter, even when everything was complicated.

Y/N: I’m good. Just relaxing. What about you?

Ingrid: Same. Been thinking about you, actually. Remember when we hung out at the park? I really loved that day.

Your heart fluttered at her words. Knowing she was thinking of you, too, made something in your chest stir.

Y/N: Yeah, me too. That was a really great time.

There was a short pause before her next message appeared.

Ingrid: I was wondering... how about we grab coffee again sometime? Or maybe something more? Like dinner?

Your breath caught in your throat. Dinner? Was this her way of asking you out?

A big part of you wanted to say yes right away. But the other part, the one weighed down with guilt and worry about Alexia, hesitated.

You stared at her message for what felt like an eternity, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before finally making a decision.

Y/N: I’d love to.

As soon as you hit send, a mix of excitement and dread washed over you. You were walking a fine line now, and you knew it.

But you couldn’t stop yourself. You wanted to see where things with Ingrid would go, even if it meant more secrets.

Ingrid: Great! How about Saturday evening?

Your heart sank a little. Saturday—your dinner plans with Alexia. Panic surged through you, but you quickly pulled yourself together.

Y/N: Actually, I have plans with my sister on Saturday. How about Sunday instead?

Ingrid: Sunday works! Let’s make it a date, then. 😊

A date. That word sent a rush of excitement through you, but it also tightened the knot of anxiety in your stomach.

This was it—you were crossing the line, stepping into something that might hurt Alexia if she found out.

But it was too late. You were already in too deep, and part of you didn’t want to pull back.

Y/N: I’m looking forward to it. 😊

Ingrid: Same here. See you Sunday. Sweet dreams, Y/N.

Y/N: Sweet dreams, Ingrid.

You set your phone down, leaning back against the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

Your mind was racing, spinning with everything that had happened recently. You were torn—caught between your loyalty to Alexia and the undeniable feelings you were developing for Ingrid. And you didn’t know how to make sense of either.

All you knew for certain was that Sunday couldn’t come soon enough.

——

Sunday arrived sooner than you had expected, bringing with it a whirlwind of emotions that you could hardly contain.

As you got ready, the nerves were almost overwhelming, but excitement pulsed just beneath the surface.

You spent Saturday evening with Alexia, trying your best to act normal as you laughed and reminisced over dinner.

It was like old times, just the two of you—but all the while, a gnawing guilt tugged at your chest.

You couldn’t tell her. Not yet. The weight of the secret was almost suffocating, but you pushed it down. You had agreed to the date with Ingrid, and despite the turmoil, part of you was incredibly excited.

It had been so long since you’d been on a real date, and Ingrid… well, she was someone you hadn’t expected to feel this strongly about.

You decided to meet at a small, cozy restaurant near the city center. It was intimate, perfect for a quiet evening, away from prying eyes.

You arrived a little early, trying to calm the nervous fluttering in your stomach as you checked your phone repeatedly. You were barely paying attention when you looked up and saw her.

Ingrid approached, looking effortlessly stunning. She wore a simple black dress that hugged her in all the right places, with a light jacket draped over her shoulders.

Her dark hair was tied loosely in a ponytail, and as she got closer, you noticed the soft, nervous smile on her lips.

“Hey,” she greeted softly when she reached you. “You look… incredible.” She wrapped her arms around you in a light hug, her perfume enveloping you in a scent that was both comforting and intoxicating. You could have stayed like that forever.

You felt the warmth rise to your cheeks as you pulled back. "Thanks. You look amazing too," you replied, feeling self-conscious but also grateful for her compliment.

Her blue eyes twinkled in the soft evening light, and she gestured toward the entrance. “Shall we?”

You walked inside together, and as you were shown to your table, her hand brushed against yours. The touch was brief, but it sent a shiver up your spine. You could feel the tension already building between you, subtle yet electric.

The dinner started easily enough. You talked about football, music, books—everything that usually filled your conversations. But tonight felt different. Every smile, every laugh seemed charged with something more.

As the night wore on, the topics turned deeper. You spoke about your families, your fears, and even your past relationships—or lack thereof.

You found yourself opening up to Ingrid in ways you hadn’t with anyone in a long time. There was something so comforting about her presence, like she really saw you.

After dinner, neither of you wanted the night to end, so you decided to take a walk through the city. The streets were quieter now, the evening settling in, and you found yourselves near the beach.

The sound of the waves crashing softly against the shore filled the silence between you as you made your way down to a large rock by the water.

You sat there together, so close that your arms touched, and it felt so natural, so right. Your heart was racing, and you could feel the heat from her body next to yours.

Ingrid broke the comfortable silence first, her voice softer now, more vulnerable. “I’ve never really been in a serious relationship,” she admitted, her eyes focused on the horizon. “I guess I just… never found the right person.”

Her words surprised you. Ingrid always seemed so confident, so sure of herself, but hearing this side of her—this vulnerability—made your chest tighten with emotion.

You swallowed hard, your own feelings bubbling up. “Maybe you just haven’t been looking in the right places.”

She turned to look at you then, a small, shy smile pulling at her lips. “Maybe.”

The air between you thickened with tension, the unspoken attraction growing stronger by the second. You could feel her eyes on you, the way her body leaned slightly closer, and your breath caught in your throat. Your heart was pounding so loudly, you were sure she could hear it.

And then, without another word, Ingrid leaned in. Her lips brushed against yours in the softest, most tentative kiss. It was gentle at first, testing, as though she was waiting for you to pull away—but you didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned into her, your heart racing as you kissed her back.

The kiss deepened, her hand coming up to cup your cheek as you wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

The feel of her, the warmth of her lips, sent a surge of electricity through your entire body. Time seemed to stop. Nothing else existed in that moment but you—her lips on yours, her body pressed against yours, the world fading into the background.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless. Ingrid’s cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes wide and bright as she looked at you, her lips slightly parted.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I… I couldn’t help it.”

You shook your head, a breathless laugh escaping you as you touched her hand. “Don’t be sorry.”

She smiled, a mixture of relief and something deeper flashing across her face. For a long moment, you just sat there, staring at each other, the reality of what had just happened settling between you.

Then, without warning, she leaned in again, this time more confidently. Her lips found yours again, the kiss slower, more lingering. Your heart raced as you kissed her back, your fingers threading through her hair, pulling her closer.

Her hands roamed softly down your back, sending shivers through you as the kiss deepened even further. Every touch, every movement felt like fire, and you couldn’t get enough of her.

You kissed again and again, each one more intense than the last. You could feel the desire building between you, the heat of her body against yours as you held each other, lost in the moment.

The world around you seemed to disappear, and it was just you—just Ingrid and you, your lips, your hands, your hearts beating in unison.

When you finally pulled away for air, you were both panting, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to catch your breath. You couldn’t help but smile, the thrill of it all coursing through you.

“Ingrid…” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “I don’t want to stop.”

She smiled softly, her fingers brushing against your cheek. “Me neither.”

You stayed there for a while longer, exchanging soft kisses, wrapped up in each other. It felt so perfect, so right, and yet, there was a part of you that knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

As much as you wanted to stay in this moment forever, reality was waiting, and with it, the complications of your lives—of Alexia.

Ingrid seemed to sense your hesitation because she pulled back slightly, her eyes searching yours. “Y/N, I know this is complicated. With Alexia and everything. But I want you to know that I really like you. And I don’t want to keep hiding how I feel.”

Her words were like a punch to the gut, but in the best way possible. You nodded, feeling the weight of everything you were getting into. “I like you too, Ingrid. So much. But…”

“But Alexia,” she finished for you, her smile turning bittersweet. “I know. It’s not going to be easy.”

You sighed, your heart heavy with the reality of it all. “She’s going to be furious.”

“She’ll understand… eventually. She loves you.” Ingrid’s thumb stroked the back of your hand soothingly. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Her words brought you a sense of comfort, even though you knew the road ahead wouldn’t be simple. But for now, all you wanted was to hold onto this moment with her. To let yourself feel the happiness you hadn’t felt in so long.

“Okay," I whispered. "We’ll take it slow.”

She smiled, leaning in for one last kiss, her lips soft and lingering against yours. “Slow sounds perfect.”

And with that, the world seemed to fall away once more, leaving only you—two hearts intertwined, the future uncertain, but the present full of hope.

——

In the weeks that followed, you and Ingrid continued to meet in secret, cherishing each moment like it was something fragile and precious.

Whether it was meeting for a quiet coffee in a tucked-away café, taking long walks through hidden parks, or sneaking in a few more intimate dinners, being together felt like an escape.

Each time, the world around you blurred, leaving just the two of you cocooned in your own private bubble.

It was impossible not to be swept away by her. The way her eyes lit up when she laughed, how her smile seemed to make everything else fade, or how she looked at you like no one else in the world existed—it was intoxicating.

Every kiss you shared, every hug, felt like time slowed to a standstill, as if nothing else mattered but the feel of her warmth against you.

You hadn’t defined what this was yet, hadn’t put labels on the connection between you. But it didn’t need words to be felt.

The pull between you two was undeniable, and you knew, even without saying it out loud, that what you had with Ingrid was real—and strong.

One evening after a late dinner, as the two of you strolled along the street of Barcelona, Ingrid paused, turning to face you.

Her hand reached for yours, fingers intertwining with a softness that made your heart flutter.

“Y/N,” she began, her voice low and thoughtful, “do you ever think about what we are? I mean… I know we haven’t talked about it, but this, what we have… it’s more than just casual, right?”

You felt your breath catch for a moment, the reality of the situation pushing against the feelings you had for her. You nodded slowly, unable to look away from her eyes.

“It feels like so much more,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “I think about it all the time. I think about you all the time.”

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m glad I’m not the only one,” she murmured, her breath warm against your skin.

The moments you spent with her felt like everything, yet the weight of what you were hiding from Alexia gnawed at you.

Every time you were with your sister, the guilt grew heavier, impossible to ignore. Alexia had no idea what was happening between you and Ingrid, and each time she mentioned her in passing—a casual comment about training or a game—you had to fight the urge to spill everything.

One afternoon, as you sat with Alexia after one of her games, she casually brought up Ingrid again. “Ingrid estaba imparable hoy, ¿verdad?” she said, her tone light as she scrolled through her phone. “Me encanta cómo siempre lo da todo” (Ingrid was on fire today, right?. I love how she always gives it her all.)

Your stomach twisted at her words, a pang of guilt creeping up your spine. You forced a smile, trying to keep your tone even. “Sí, estuvo genial” (Yeah, she was great.)

But inside, you were crumbling. How much longer could you keep this secret? The fear of Alexia finding out—of her being hurt, angry, or worse—was constant, always lurking in the back of your mind.

You wanted to believe she would understand, that she would see how much Ingrid meant to you, but there was no escaping the possibility that it would change everything between you.

Later that night, as you lay in bed, your phone buzzed with a message from Ingrid.

Ingrid: Are you okay? You seemed quiet today.

You hesitated before replying, your heart heavy with conflicting emotions.

Y/N: I’m okay… it’s just… Alexia. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this from her.

A few moments passed before Ingrid responded.

Ingrid: I’ve been thinking about that too. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide this, hide us. But I get it… it’s complicated.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you stared at the screen. The truth was, no matter how much you tried to act normal around Alexia, it was getting harder.

She had started to give you these curious looks, as if sensing that something was off. You were doing your best to keep things steady, but the cracks were beginning to show.

And the worst part? You didn’t know how much longer you could keep pretending.

The next time you saw Ingrid was for a movie night at your apartment, a special occasion since she would be staying over. Your heart fluttered with a mix of excitement and nervousness as you prepared for the evening.

When Ingrid arrived, you greeted her with a warm hug. “I’m so glad you’re here,” you said, your voice filled with anticipation.

“Me too,” Ingrid replied with a gentle smile. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

As the night unfolded, you both settled on the couch, choosing a film and making popcorn. Ingrid was her usual charming self, and her laughter filled the room as you joked and chatted about the movie.

At one point, as you sat close together, Ingrid’s hand brushed against yours. You felt a flutter in your chest, and she looked at you with a soft, understanding gaze.

“I hate that this situation with Alexia is causing you so much stress,” Ingrid said quietly, her voice tender. “I don’t want to be the reason for that.”

You squeezed her hand gently, feeling the weight of her words. “It’s not you, Ingrid. It’s the situation... and Alexia. I care about you so much, but it’s becoming really difficult to keep this from her.”

Ingrid’s expression softened with empathy. “Maybe it’s time we talk to her. Together.”

The thought of confronting Alexia was daunting, but there was comfort in the idea of facing it with Ingrid by your side. “I know you’re right,” you said softly. “I just don’t want to lose her... or you.”

Ingrid leaned in, her forehead gently touching yours. “You’re not going to lose me. I promise. We’ll get through this. But we can’t keep pretending this isn’t real. It’s too important.”

Her words, filled with reassurance, were followed by a slow, tender kiss. Her lips were soft and warm against yours, and the kiss seemed to hold all the promises and fears you both shared.

It felt like time had stopped, and for a brief moment, everything else faded away. It was just the two of you, cocooned in your own little world.

When you finally broke the kiss, you both agreed it was time to end the evening and headed to your bedroom.

As you both lay on the bed, you hesitated, unsure whether to cuddle, given it was your first time sleeping together.

But Ingrid looked at you with a loving, inviting smile and opened her arms. “Come here,” she said softly.

You smiled and settled into her embrace, your head resting gently on her chest. Ingrid’s arm wrapped around you, pulling you close, and her fingers began to softly caress your hair.

The tender touch was incredibly soothing, and you felt your body relax completely.

You fought against the pull of sleep, not wanting to fall asleep before Ingrid. She sensed your struggle and whispered, “It’s okay, baby. Go to sleep. I’m right here.”

Her voice was soothing, and she placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. You let yourself drift off, comforted by her warmth and presence.

Ingrid fell asleep a few minutes later, her breathing steady and calm underneath you.

The night unfolded serenely. You lay slightly turned away, with Ingrid nestled close behind you, her arm wrapped gently around your waist and her head resting in the nape of your neck. The room was calm, the only sound being the soothing rhythm of your breaths intertwining.

Suddenly, you were abruptly awakened by a loud voice that broke the peaceful silence.

“Qué coño está pasando aqui?!” (What the fuck is happening here)

———————-

For the people who wanted to be tagged:

@marvelwomen-simp @wososapologist @multifandomlesbianic

[matcha-binz]

Muse. (teaser)

The newly arrived painting captures your attention as the archivist of the local museum. But, as you investigate further, you discover a secret that no one was supposed to know. Panicking, you run from the scene in a daze, trying to hide what you have witnessed. Before you could even realize, you were stopped from your trance by a suspicious individual. To your horror, it was none other than the secret himself. the muse of the oil painting stood right before you, looking into your eyes with a gaze too human.

Genre . Suspense, fantasy, romance, fluff

pairing . Prince!beomgyu x museum worker!reader

wc . N/A

note . Erm… oops. I’ve been gone for a while now… tehe. Anyways I’m back with this wip. Idk when it will be released, probably at the start of September, hopefully !

As your hands trace the intricate, gold framing of the painting, your eyes cant help but wander back to his deep, honey hued ones. This one is different.

The brush strokes that combine together to make his eyelids, the thin lashes that look as if they were painted each individually, and the deep, oak colored hair that rest around the golden crown adorning the head. And his lips, so carefully painted the exact shade of the pink carnations that he held. His attire is something a tad too simple for a prince to wear — a plain ruffled tunic, fading to a light beige — a popular clothing choice from this time, you observe.

It’s hard to imagine someone to be this beautiful. But at the same time, this oil painting seems to be waiting for the moment to just come to life. The furrowing of your brows do not go unnoticed by Taehyun, as he observes your reaction from the doorway.

“It took some time for it to arrive here-“ a graceful smile paints his face. “… I’m glad you like it” he chuckles, his laugh echoing off the dim lighted walls at your speechless form.

It takes a good second for you to snap out of your awe struck trance, stuttering a flustered respond for your coworker, who only smiles as you do so. “L-like it…? Taehyun, I’m like- “ you sigh. “I… I can’t believe this.. “

with an airy laugh — that was more of a half gasp — you turn over your shoulder to look into his eyes. “This can’t be… is this… the original copy?”

your eyes widen as he slowly nods his head. Your teeth nip on your lower lip as you struggle to keep in your excitement, the hand that rested on the gold frame of the painting jitters and twitch as you tuck it back in your cardigan pocket, and the smile that etched onto your face, you knew that it wasn’t coming off anytime soon.

“Well, I’ll trust this relic to you then” he states, shooting you a farewell smile and shutting the wooden door behind him. As he leaves you in the room, the sun has completely set behind the horizon and leaves darkness scattered in the sky. the clock strikes 8.

With one last glance at the painting, taking in all of its beauty, you take a step back, letting out a small yelp nearly tripping over a pile of old books that was probably left by taehyun as well. Lovely. A sigh leaves your lips as you crouch to take pick them up, blowing away the dust as you walk towards your desk that sits facing the wall.

“All right, then. Let’s get you in the system…” you idly mutter to yourself as you turn on the computer, the soft sound of the whirring fills the room, reminding you of just how old this computer is. As you quickly punch in the pin, you take note of saving up for a new desktop, this old one takes too long to load, to your dismay.

You right click onto the program to record the the addition to the museum gallery. Most of the gallery consists of old relics from important time periods to relics and art from before technology existed. You have always found these works to be exceptionally beautiful, the timelessness of these objects made by the talented artists are not to be forgotten by those who truly appreciate art.

Same goes for this painting, you think as you enter the description and the room it shall be placed in. But as the cursor hovers over the ‘name’ section, you hum as you try to rack your brain for the name of this piece.

“Hm… What was your name again..?” You say, to no one in particular as you glance back at the painting that stood still in the middle of the room, the dim lighting shining off the gold frame. Your brow raises as you tilt your head. Did you move it to the center before? The memory doesn’t appear immediately, but you deduce that you probably did.

And with a shrug, you turn back to the glowing screen, letting out a theatrical sigh.

”You may address me as prince Choi, ”

-

[bokettochild]

random LU hcs before I go to church

Legend likes to draw, and while he uses it for practical purposes (he's compiling a bestiary of his own) he also likes to sketch random crap he finds while traveling

Hyrule weaves. Not fabric, since that's a bit legthly and requires materials he can't get or keep for long, but he's very good at making baskets and the like! When the rest go to his cave, it's just full of woven items, including his attempts at weaving a freaking chair. Hyrule is going to become Pier 1

Sky writes poetry but never shares it with anyone. Groose used to laugh at it when they were kids, and so he's very self-conscious about it (and not very good anyways). He does come up with some really, really good pieces though from time to time!

Warriors couldn't read before he enlisted. He had to learn, and did learn rather quickly once he had to, but he still did very much not grow up with books. He is, however, very fond of oral tradition and somehow keeps a library's worth of knowledge in his head, since he never knew how to write it down before.

Warriors loves folk tails and will use any excuse given in order to share them with the younger ones

Wind is a very proficient mapmaker. he's terrible at drawing figures or anything, but he's very good at charting things out and putting them down on paper

Wind has a great eye for photography though! He and Wild sometimes play a game where they have to find a particular item and take a pictograph of it and then they'll have one of the others judge which one is better. Wild's candids are usually better, but Wind has a talent from framing and using the light to his advantage that outshines Wild's.

Wind likes composing little tunes with the Windwaker when he's bored. he has accidentally discovered several magical songs and their effects in this manner. Sometimes Time debates if just teaching his the Song of Storms from the get go would have been better in the long run, since it would have saved them getting soaked so much

Four has a fascination with artistic metalwork. He can't do it himself, and often times can't understand how someone thought up the idea in the first place, but it gives him great delight to see various metal pieces/tools/items forged together into the oddest art pieces

Twilight claims he's no good art of any kind, usually blaming "these darn big paws o' mine", but the secret is that he's a talented embroiderer, he just doesn't consider it "art" in the same way the rest do. Most Ordon folks add stitch-work to things so he considers it standard practice, not exceptional.

Sky is also very good at stitch-work of all kinds

When Sky and Twilight discover their shared skill-set, they absolutely use it for evil (start adding little patterns and things on their brother's stuff). Is this competitive? They're Links, you tell me!

Time claims not to be very creative, but he's actually quite good at art himself! Just drawing, as his paintings have a very childish sort of color combinations and the like, but he's surprisingly very good with shading and proportions!

All the boys play music, but Twilight's a good hand on the fiddle/violin (but only for short periods) and Legend has a surprising preference for the piano/organ. They'd make an excellent duet if they actually managed to know any of the same songs

Wild cannot and should not play instruments, Hylia help your ears if he does. He's also not that great of an artist (look for JoJo's comic of him drawing a new tapestry, it's hilarious). He likes the art the others make, but in general, the best he can do it just making designs and patterns that always seem to resemble Korok puzzles.

[ohimsummer]

SATORU, your muse ｡˚✐~

— Satoru eases open the door of the house. You’re not home, so he doesn’t feel the need to make his usual grand entrance. Shoes are left at the door, jacket on the rack, and Satoru makes way to the bedroom. Once inside, something on your nightstand immediately catches his eye.

It’s your sketchbook; a now worn, leather notepad that he’d bought you months ago after the old one was filled. You rarely, if ever, let him see your artwork, so Gojo would usually resort to peeking over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of what you were working on. He always teased you for keeping your art a secret, but now that he has a chance to look at your projects uninterrupted, he hesitates. For a second.

Satoru flips open to the first page. It’s just random doodles of flowers and animals, ones he recognizes from the garden in the park you two frequent. The next page warrants the same mundane results: bugs and trees and the tops of skyscrapers and whatever random things that would grab your interest while you two enjoyed the heat of the sun.

The next page catches Gojo by surprise. It’s a bird, but not just any bird, he realizes. It’s a songbird, one he’d half-heartedly pointed out to you one day because he recalled reading about it online. You weren’t even listening to him, or so he’d thought. It’s kind of endearing actually that you’d take the time to draw it. And it’s not just the bird, either. It’s the macaroons he’d mentioned wanting to get one evening, a bouquet consisting of a flower Gojo’d randomly plucked and presented to you, a familiar pair of sunglasses resting in grass, dabbed over top with faded blue watercolor paint. Numerous doodles of such small memories.

Satoru continues flipping to look at your little illustrated photo album. Some of these drawings are of stuff he barely remembers talking about, like a cracked open piggy bank obviously referencing a story he told you in passing. Gojo doesn’t even remember why he brought it up, but you’ve immortalized it here in your sketchpad with pencils and ink.

The drawings only grow more detailed as he gets deeper into the book, and a proud smile stretches across Satoru’s face at your talent. Rapid sketches of buildings and passerby evolve into self portraits of yourself, and he thinks you look so captivating in all of them. Gojo takes note of the silly doodles of even himself in the margins of the paper. Him in his sunglasses, him wearing the flower crown you’d poorly put together, him surrounded by ice cream and candy and the plethora of sweets he so enjoys. His favorites are the inane drawings of you two together, tiny and inhabiting multiple corners of every page. Each one is a delightful surprise to spot.

Satoru turns the next page, and he’s sincerely taken aback. Drawings of eyes, and they all look alike. They’re so detailed, adorned with pretty lashes and shaded so beautifully. He doesn’t have to wonder long on whose eyes these are, the next page bursting with the color blue tells Gojo all he needs to know. He’s glad you’re not here to see his reddening face and the way his breath hitched. This page, the next few actually, are all dedicated to his eyes. They’re inked perfectly, some are at different angles, and you’ve managed to portray emotion into all of them. Satoru wonders if he could draw a picture of you and showcase the absolute adoration in your eyes the way you’ve done with his.

And it doesn’t stop there. Page after page, it’s all Satoru. Him sleeping with a mushed cheek against your chest, him drinking a soda, him looking out the window, him playing the game with Geto, when did you even draw these?

“Satoru?”

He quickly slams the book shut at your call, carefully placing it back on your nightstand and ushering himself from the room. There you are at the door, shaking the rain from your umbrella and leaving it on the mat near the entrance.

“There you are, love.,” you beam at his approaching figure, and Gojo squishes you in a warm embrace. “How was your day?”

Satoru kisses the crown of your head, and grins against your skin. He can’t wait to tell you all about today, maybe give you some more brilliant ideas to memorialize in your sketchbook.

[theonotti]

MIO | OS | t.n.

Pairing: Theodore Nott x fem!Hufflepuff!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: Voldemort won. Harry Potter is dead. But the Order of the Phoenix is still fighting, with two surprising allies who have very different reasons for aiding their cause.

Warnings: Pretty angsty. AU where Voldemort did not die at the end of DH.

Notes: This is heavily inspired by Secrets & Masks and Manacled. Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

That Final Night One Shot

Late.

They’re fucking late.

Taking a long drag of his cigarette, Theo looks down at his watch. 

Twenty minutes late, to be exact.

“How long are we expected to wait here?” Mattheo growls, pacing across the wood of the decrepit bar. The floorboards creak with every step. Theo is sitting at one of the tables, a sigh forcing its way out of his lungs as he watches his friend. In one hand is a cigarette, the other hand mindlessly tracing the vandalism that had been scratched into the top of the table. 

“Another ten minutes and then we’re fucking off.”

The bar has been long abandoned, making it their top choice for discreet meetings. They had cycled through a few different locations before they finally found the bar. The walls are a sloppy black color, which is mostly covered in 80’s posters, both movies and musical talents alike. Theo’s eyes drift from poster to poster. He’s seen them what feels like a thousand times, and yet he still finds it hard to tear his eyes away when he stares at them. 

An hour has already passed since their arrival, but that was due to the ungodly amount of wards and disillusionment charms that they needed to cast before the meeting, a ritual that has become quite routine. Once everything is set, they’ll briefly discuss what they’ll say, and then they wait. Theo finds the extra waiting time peaceful, usually. It gives him a chance to mentally prepare for the carnage that comes to his psyche afterwards. The guilt. The fear. But this time, the stakes are higher, increasing the tension in his muscles much too soon. He can feel the pain already in his lower back, and he doesn’t want to imagine the aches he’ll be feeling once he returns home. 

“Can’t we just kill them?” 

Theo considers this question as he lets his eyes jump back to Mattheo.

“That would probably defeat the purpose of why we’re here.”

“Sure, but I still hate Weasley and his stupid face. Just one Cruciatus curse at his ugly face would be okay, surely. I won’t even make it a long one. Four minutes tops.”

Theo boredly watches the smoke from his cigarette float up towards the ceiling as he ignores Mattheo. Every moment that passes increases his irritation. He finds himself wondering if it’s a power move on their part. They hold all the cards, so they can keep him waiting. 

Something in the air triggers, both men looking towards the door. Theo’s fingers tense around the cigarette as he brings it to his mouth to take another drag, his other hand dropping down from the table to clench around his wand as it rests on his lap. The dimly lit room has a smoky haze, all thanks to Mattheo and Theo disregarding the “No Smoking Allowed” sign that is appropriately starting to fall off the wall.

The door opens, Ron Weasley followed by Hermione Granger walking in. Theo has long lost count of how many times they’ve met with Granger and Weasley, yet it still feels jarring every time he sees them. Maybe it’s because their appearance catches him off guard each time.

Despite them all being in their mid twenties, they all look tired and worn. The rosey cheeks that Granger sported while they were in school are now gaunt and hollow. Dark circles are painted under her eyes, along with Weasley’s, and she keeps her bushy hair contained in two french braids going down her back. Weasley keeps his hair short now, and his body is more built than it had ever been when they were at Hogwarts. His boy-like features are long gone, with gray already peppering his ginger hair, and if Theo didn’t know any better, he would’ve guessed that Weasley was in his late thirties at the least. The life in their eyes had long drained out, replaced with a coldness that chilled anyone who happened to be stuck in their gaze.

War hadn’t been kind to Theo or Mattheo either.

Mattheo has more scars on his face than he did back in school, and he grew his hair long in a feeble attempt to hide them. There was a time that he wore them like a badge of honor, but since the start of the war and his PTSD becoming worse than ever, they no longer were something he pretended to be proud of. He’s since developed an anxiety twitch, his whole face seeming to spasm whenever there’s a loud noise not caused by him, or tense moment. Though they don’t live together anymore, now that Theo has full ownership of Nott Manor, when they had, Theo could remember all the nights of hearing his best friend scream and cry in his sleep from across the mansion. It was more often than not, and it was unbearably hard to get Mattheo to calm down from the vivacious nightmares.

The opposite could be said for Theo. Instead of nights filled with intense dreams of death and melancholy, Theo simply doesn’t sleep. He couldn’t, for the life of him, shut his brain off. And while that had always been an issue for him to some degree, it had become exacerbated since his transition from student to soldier. Theo doesn’t know what being tired feels like anymore. It’s so ingrained in his psyche that it would be more abnormal for him to not be tired. All he can do is adjust, living off coffee and the occasional upper to keep him moving.

Weasley leans on the wall beside the door. His demeanor is much more unpleasant than normal as his eyes flit between Theo and Mattheo. Theo pretends not to notice as he looks at Granger, who’s standing in the middle of the room. She always did all the talking. Theo assumes it’s because of the way she carries herself, and they certainly take her more seriously than they could any Weasley. Besides being a fighter for the Order of the Phoenix, Granger is a war negotiator. She deals with prisoner exchanges and, eventually, peace talks. Although, considering it’s been seven years since the Battle of Hogwarts, Theo is less confident of the possibility of any sort of peace treaty happening any time soon. For the entire duration of the war, it was her that Theo dealt with when it came to these sorts of things, before and after their betrayal. 

She clears her throat.

“What information do you have for us?”

The strain in her voice is lost on no one. The tension in the air is so thick, Theo is convinced he could grab it if he tried.

Mattheo stops his pacing, turning to face her full on. His anger is palpable.

“Stop with the bullshit,” He snaps. “Let’s talk about why we’re really here today.”

Weasley’s hand tightens around his wand, but he doesn’t move. Theo keeps his eyes on him to ensure it stays that way before turning back to Granger. 

“You have Malfoy.” Theo’s voice is quiet, tone neutral.

The corners of her mouth twitch upward.

“We have Malfoy.”

Mattheo lets out a frustrated sigh.

“We can’t continue to cooperate with you until you hand him back.”

Granger’s expression doesn’t change, making it clear that this reaction was expected. 

“He’s quite the bargaining tool. What are you willing to give for him?” A beat passes. “Or I guess I should say, who?”

Mattheo turns to look at Theo, who can tell just by that exchange of a glance that his friend’s patience is wearing horrifically thin.

“We can ensure the release of Luna Lovegood and Seamus Finnegan. And we’re prepared to give you the maps of the hidden prisons in Sussex.” Theo conveniently forgets to mention that they were already planning to give them the maps, regardless of the way things went at this meeting.

Granger turns to look at Weasley, who merely raises his eyebrows, before turning back to Theo.

“He’s Draco Malfoy.” 

Theo’s hand curls tighter around his wand.

Mattheo huffs loudly, throwing his hand down and smacking it on the bar top. The sound is so loud that Granger flinches, and Weasley pushes off the wall suddenly, but doesn’t move forward.

“You know bloody well that our heads will be on a fucking spike if we don’t get him back,” He hisses at them. “Then who will aid your bloody Order? You think there’s anyone else who will risk their necks like we have? Honestly?”

“Regardless of your help to the Order, do you really think we can just hand Voldemort back one of his best fighters?” Granger's voice raises just a touch. Mattheo takes a step towards her.

“You’ll be singing a different fucking tune when we’re dead and you realize the next on the list is you. You’re losing the goddamn war. Biblically. You need us. Alive.”

Theo waits for Mattheo to finish his outburst before he turns his attention back to Granger. He knows where this is going.

Fuck, he knows where this is going. 

“What else do you want, then?”

Theo’s hands tremble slightly. He clenches his right fist around his wand even more, the left bringing the cigarette back to his mouth quickly. 

Mattheo shakes his head, turning away as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it with his want.

Granger tilts her head as she looks at Theo, her expression shifting to a tired one, as if the answer is obvious. When she speaks again, her voice is just above a whisper.

“You know who we want, Nott. It’s been almost a year.”

Theo’s nostrils flare.

“Not on the table.”

~

Suffice to say, the raid couldn’t have possibly gone worse.

How the Order could’ve been so prepared for them was beyond Theo.

One minute, everything seemed to be going to plan as Theo, Mattheo, Malfoy, Blaise and a few others sauntered into the safe house. Quick in and out. Nothing too complicated. The next, it was like the floor fell out from under their feet.

How did things get so royally fucked up?

Theo woke with a start, sitting up abruptly, covered in a layer of sweat as his eyes darted around the room. It took him a minute to get reoriented, and only then did he realize that he was in his own living room, laid on the couch with a blanket draped over him. Ripping the blanket off, his hands flew towards his abdomen. When he looked down, he found he was shirtless, but his skin was unharmed, save for some minor scarring. New editions to the collection. He then reached up and touched the top of his head. Nothing. Not even a scrape.

What?

Slowly, he kicked his feet over the side of the couch and stood up. The room spun for a moment, and his joints ached, but otherwise, he was completely normal. 

The manor was silent. So silent that it made the hairs on the back of Theo’s neck stand up. Almost automatically, he walked across the floor, his bare feet cold against the hardwood. He tried to keep his footfall soft as he continued listening for any sort of sound. There, in the faint distance, he could hear… something. Grabbing a hoodie off the back of a chair, he slipped it over his bare torso and zipped it up halfway before making his way towards the sound. 

Theo stepped into the kitchen. A flash of movement came from the other slide of the sliding door that leads to the courtyard. His hand instinctively went to grab his wand from his pocket, only for him to realize it wasn’t there. At the same moment, he also realized the person outside was Mattheo, having a smoke. His tense fingers relaxed, his arm falling back to his side.

Mattheo looked over as Theo slid the door open and walked out. 

“Look who’s awake. How’re you feeling, Sleeping Beauty?”

“Who healed me?”

Mattheo placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense.

“You wound me, Nott. You don’t think I’m capable?”

Theo shook his head almost immediately.

“It’s not as… clean when you do it. And I have the scars to prove it.” He pointed to his back, which was covered in scars thanks to a nasty run in with a car, a Bombarda cast, and Mattheo’s lack of concern to learn basic field emergency spell casting.

Mattheo sighed in resignation before saying, “You’re right. It wasn’t me.”

Theo waited for Mattheo to give elaboration, and when one wasn't given, he could feel his fingers curl into fists. Though Mattheo’s face was neutral, the tension radiating off his body could be felt a kilometer away.

“What did you do?”

Mattheo took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils before turning back to Theo.

“Theo…”

“What did you do, Riddle?”

Swallowing hard, Mattheo looked away from Theo.

“We got their best healer.” 

Theo blinked. A hostage?

“You took someone?” He asked, voice low. “That… that wasn’t part of the plan.”

Not that things ever went to plan. And not that they hadn’t ever deviated so far left and forced them to take hostages before. But there was something about the way Mattheo couldn’t look at him that made Theo’s fingers run cold. 

Mattheo shook his head as he took a seat on one of the lounge chairs. He let his head fall to his chest, as if it were too heavy to hold up anymore. “That wall fell on you. You were going to die, Theo. We needed…” He inhaled sharply before looking up again. “It was beyond us. We needed the help. We needed her.” 

Theo wracked his brain. The Order’s best healer? The Order’s best healer. Why does this mean something to him?

“Who is it?”

Mattheo leaned backwards in the seat so his back laid against the chair before he pointed at Theo, as if he was preemptively defending himself.

“You’re going to thank me. You’ll be pissed. But you’re going to thank me, ultimately.”

Theo’s nose twitched.

“Mattheo… who is it?”

Mattheo nodded back towards the house before vaguely replying, “She’s upstairs, in the North wing.”

Theo’s feet didn’t move, stuck to the floor like ice. His mind was running, a plethora of questions all begging to be answered. But his mouth forgot how to work as well. For a moment, all he was able to do was stare at Mattheo, who stared back briefly before nodding towards the house again.

“Go on.” His voice was soft.

Theo’s feet kicked on again, taking him back into the house as if they were on autopilot. 

Why the hell are you so nervous? You don’t even know who it is.

His wand was laying on the end table next to the staircase, which he grabbed and shoved in his pocket. His knees buckled as he walked up the stairs. Distantly, he could hear the sound of yelling and objects being thrown around. It didn’t take him long to figure out which closed door the sounds were coming from the other side of. He stood outside the black wooden door, listening. Trying to maybe discern who it was before he went in. 

He could just make out the wards that had been placed on the door. Laying a hand on the knob, he was relieved to find that he was able to touch the brass of the handle. Mattheo had been known to incorrectly cast the spell so no one could get through, which had more than once sent Theo or Malfoy through a wall. 

A shaky sigh pushing its way from Theo’s lungs and out of his mouth, he turned the knob and let himself inside the room. 

The color drained from Theo’s face.

Standing in the middle of the room, chest heaving and anger radiating off of like a stove top, was you. 

Suddenly, Theo was back at Hogwarts, standing in the Astronomy Tower. You were no longer in your casual shirt and jeans, but instead, in your Hufflepuff robes as you looked at him and told him you were leaving to join the Order.

“This war is above us, Theo. Dumbledore is dead. Harry Potter is dead. I can’t stand idly by and watch people die. I need to do something.” 

“Yeah? And what about me?”

“You could come with me.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“And you know I can’t stay.”

The memory hit Theo like a train. His breath hitched in his throat.

You turned to face him, freezing in the headlights of his gaze. The way your fury faltered at the sight of him made it clear that you were having the same out of body experience that he was. 

You certainly had been busy. All of the furniture in the room was broken. The night stand had been thrown against the pewter colored wall, leaving a dent in the dry wall and the wooden pieces scattered across the floor. A picture frame that Theo hung and forgot about was in ruins, the brunette girl in the picture cowering in the corner of the shredded pieces of photo paper. Feathers from the pillows littered the carpet. The mattress had been thrown off the bed frame, which was also now broken. 

Though he couldn’t focus on the damage that had been done to his guest room. He was too busy staring at you with the same confounded look he’d had when he first entered the room. 

Your hair was longer than he remembered it, pulled back so it was out of your face. Your features had grown with you, your cheekbones more prominent, your eyes with more bags, your cheeks with less color. There wasn’t a corner of Theo’s world that wasn’t burdened by war, and, unfortunately, that included you. His heart raced in his chest as he looked at you. He had locked the memory of you deep into the catacombs of his brain, not allowing himself to bring them out for any occasion. There wasn’t the time or need for it. This is war. When is there a moment for reminiscing on the worst day of his life?

But now there you were, standing in front of him, with a dumbfoundedly angry look on your face, casual clothes and longer hair. The flood gates were now opened, and he was overwhelmed with memories of you, running through his mind so quickly that he felt like he was spinning. 

Your eyes still twinkled in the light that streamed in through the curtains.

“You tell Mattheo Riddle that he can give me back my wand and we’ll see then if he’s able to force me into this room again.”

Theo flinched.

The sound of your voice alone made him feel the need to have a complete mental breakdown. You could’ve been cursing him out or singing in German and he would still feel the overwhelming urge to curl into a ball on the floor. Even with your anger, it still felt like a sweet symphony to Theo’s ears. 

He never thought he’d hear the sound again. 

Hell, he never thought he’d see you again.

Realizing you had spoken and he was just staring at you like an imbecile, he cleared his throat.

“You healed me.”

Your expression shifted, an emotion crossing your face that Theo couldn’t read. Standing a little straighter, you nodded.

“I’m a healer,” You said slowly, distantly. “It’s what I do.”

He snorted. That bleeding Hufflepuff heart.

“You could’ve let me die,” He pointed out, cocking his head to the side. 

You seemed to consider this briefly before saying, “In theory, yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Silence hung in the air between the two of you, coupled with the unmitigated tension. Theo’s hands were curled at his sides, not from anger, but to stop himself from giving into the inordinate compulsion to reach out and touch you. To prove to himself that he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. That you were actually in front of him. You shifted your weight to your other foot.

“I don’t think I really could’ve, even if I wanted to.”

The words unsaid in this moment would keep Theo up at night for weeks.

Your eyes trailed down his body, studying him, taking in his bare chest underneath the hoodie. He swallowed hard, his body seeming to freeze under your gaze. Maybe he should’ve changed before coming into the room. At least maybe thrown on a proper shirt. He’d never had a hostage in his home before. There was no protocol book on the proper etiquette. 

Especially not when the hostage was his ex-girlfriend who’s now working on the opposite side of the war. 

You let out a strangled sigh.

“You have to let me go back, Theo. They need me. No one is trained on some of the things I am.” 

The shake of his head was immediate.

“You can’t even begin to comprehend what he would do if he found out Mattheo and I had you and then just let you go back,” He said in a strained yet soft voice. “I can’t. We can’t.”

Your nose twitched as you closed your eyes.

“I won’t fucking heal for him,” You declared in a low tone. “I’d rather be strung up in Godric’s Hollow to rot like all the other people he’s executed than heal for him.”

Theo tried to be rational as he considered what to do. There was a tug of war in his mind, his loyalties competing to decide the best course of action. The obvious answer was to turn you over to The Dark Lord, where you would be put on trial for the crimes he deemed you guilty of, and then punished accordingly. With the skills you hold, Theo knew that you would more than likely be put under the Imperius curse and forced to act as a healer for the Death Eaters. 

Though the answer was obvious, that didn’t make it correct. Not to him or to anyone else.

Theo knew. He knew you’d rather die than breathe the same air as the Death Eaters, let alone fix their wounds and send them back out to kill your people. His head throbbed as he tried to think of the best direction to go in. 

Because, in his head, letting you go was simply out of the question. 

~

“This is a negotiation, is it not?” Granger asks. “We have something you want, you have something we want. We exchange.”

Theo shakes his head as he smashes the end of his half smoked cigarette on the top of the table.

“She’s not for trade.”

“Well, she’s what we want.”

A bead of sweat trails down the side of his face. He ignores it.

“She’s nowhere close to being worth the same as Draco Malfoy. This isn’t a fair trade.” He means it, but not in the way that he presented it to them. Nothing they could offer would make it a fair trade in Theo’s eyes. They could offer the end of the war. They could offer his freedom from the Death Eaters. They could offer endless riches, or immortality, or anything else he could possibly dream up. None of it would equate.

“Then we’ll gladly take Luna and Seamus back as well,” Granger says through clenched teeth, expression reading that her patience is wearing thin. “To make up the difference.”

Theo opens his mouth to respond, but Mattheo cuts in before he gets the chance.

“You’ll take what we fucking give you.”

Granger shoots him a dagger filled glare. 

“We can no longer afford to play these games with you. You have our best healer. And we need her back.” She rolls her head before her eyes fall back on Theo. “We have been patient. We have accepted that we had nothing worth trading for her. Now we do. Malfoy’s importance to the Death Eaters is well known. Don’t patronize us by pretending we don’t have the upper hand here.”

A chill runs through Theo’s spine.

She’s right.

God dammit, she’s right.

Theo runs a hand through his messy hair, the most he’s moved since he sat down. His brain scrambles to come up with something, anything, that he can offer to remedy this. There has to be something of equal value. There has to be something he can give that would make them decide to let you stay. 

“Before you try to come up with some feeble offer, know that we won’t be backing down from this,” Granger says as if she’s reading Theo’s mind. “You won’t be getting Draco Malfoy back unless we get her, regardless of what else you give. She’s the only card you have that could get him back.”

Theo’s eyes snap back to Granger, the anger boiling in his chest.

“This is a negotiation, is it not?” He repeats her words back to her. She smiles at him, but the gesture does not reach her eyes.

“Maybe negotiation is the wrong word for it.” She hums thoughtfully. “It’s more like a plea deal. Take it or leave it.”

~

“You’re up late.”

Theo jumped at the sound of your voice as he quickly flicked the light on.

He didn’t expect to find you in his kitchen, sitting cross legged on the island counter with the lights off. A bowl of what he could only assume was cereal was in your hands.

He glanced at the clock on the wall.

“It’s four in the morning.”

You glanced up at the clock as well, before shrugging. 

“Fine, you’re up early.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Theo’s mouth. 

He could feel you studying him as you brought the spoon to your mouth. A flush of warmth filled his cheeks as he made his way to the fridge, making it a point to turn away from you. Still, he knew your eyes never left him. 

“You still don’t sleep much, huh?” You asked, mouth full of cereal.

He sighed as he pulled the carton of orange juice off the shelf.

“I’d say I don’t sleep at all these days.”

He popped the top of the carton before bringing it to his mouth and throwing his head back. You watched him carefully, seeming to pause your eating.

“You’re a feral one now, aren’t you?” You asked in a playful tone. “Drinking right from the carton? Who have you become, Theodore Nott?”

He laughed, the sound being so foreign to him these days, before saying, “I generally live alone, and I never host other people. No need to waste a glass, as far as I’m concerned.”

Him ignoring the last comment of yours was intentional. Despite the playfulness behind it, Theo doesn’t know how you would feel about the man he’s become, and he doesn’t want to dwell on that fact. 

You continue to laugh as you shake your head.

“Mad behaviour.”

Theo eyed you. 

“Says the girl sitting on the counter, in the dark, eating cereal.”

You smiled as you take another bite.

“Got me there.”

It had been almost two months since Mattheo had taken you hostage and made you Theo’s problem. In an attempt to keep peace, Theo gave you free reign of the entire manor and all of the land around it. After repairing the furniture in the guest room (multiple times, as you had to get your frustration out somehow), Theo allowed you to stay there. Before his death, Nott Sr. had created a dungeon-esque holding below the house, with cage like cells and torture weapons, but Theo had the area of the house completely closed off upon his arrival as head of estate, and he wasn’t planning to reopen it anytime soon. Besides, the thought of locking you in an actual cell made Theo physically ill. 

“How’s the escape plot going?” Theo asked as he leaned against the counter adjacent from you, juice carton still in hand.

“Considering I can’t apparate because you already had anti apparation wards in place, the wards Mattheo placed that are linked to my DNA so I can’t leave the estate at all, and that bed being the most comfortable thing I’ve ever slept on…” You listed, raising a finger with every reason. “ … I’d say it’s going quite terribly.”

Theo’s eyebrows hit his hairline as he let out a surprised huff.

“Mattheo has always been quite meticulous.”

“Well, he said he was afraid you’d let me go.”

Theo’s smile faded quite quickly. 

The first couple of weeks following your capture, you had made yourself scarce around the manor, mostly spending time in the North wing. Theo made it a point to stay out of your way. Not only for the sake of your anger, but because he needed to work out his own emotions about you being there. Even in this moment, looking at you in the kitchen, he still hadn’t quite worked out how the whole thing made him him.

After the first couple of weeks, you had slowly started making your way through the manor, exploring every crevice. Every nook and cranny. Theo knew it was to look for a weakness to exploit that could lead to your escape, but he didn’t comment that to you. Just let it sit in the back of his head.

With your emergence from your room also came your increased interactions with the dark haired lad. It was painful at first, just a curt nod here and there, but it slowly built up to exchanging jokes and sarcastic comments, and even as far as the two of you reading books in silence together in the library.

It was almost as if there was never a moment between the days you and him spent together at Hogwarts and now. Just cut the time apart out and sew the rest together like the war never happened.

Theo often found himself wondering if he was one of the weaknesses you were attempting to exploit. 

Your comment about Mattheo believing Theo would let you go did nothing to snuff out that thought.

He tried not to think about it too much.

You watched him carefully as he took another long sip of juice from the carton.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with me yet?” 

Theo rolled his eyes, setting the juice on the black countertop next to him. 

“Nope.”

He didn’t bother to ask how you knew it was even up for debate. You’d always had a knack for just knowing things. And he couldn’t imagine that his debates with Malfoy and Mattheo were as quiet as he would’ve liked them to be.

“What are you leaning towards?” You asked innocently, your eyes studying him. He bit the inside of his cheek as he considered how to answer.

“Let’s see,” He mumbled. “Malfoy thinks I should turn you in. He doesn’t see why you’re useful here, and says you’d be better suited as a healer for… them.” He decided not to say Death Eaters, but you flinched at the idea anyway. “Mattheo thinks I should keep you here.”

Your eyes didn’t leave him as you took another bite of your cereal. Theo mirrored you with the orange juice. 

“But what are you leaning towards?”

“Not turning you in, that’s for damn sure.”

Your gaze pinned him, as your eyes narrow only slightly.

“So I’m stuck here then.” It was more of a statement than a question, and something about it made an ache burst through Theo’s chest. He had no idea how to respond, so he opted to say nothing, instead bringing the juice carton back to his lips. Your eyes followed him. “Theo, you’re a rational person. You know that I don’t want to be here. Why can’t you just let me go back to the Order?”

His eyes fluttered shut.

“It’s complicated.”

You set the bowl down on the counter before looking back up at him.

“Then simplify it for me.” 

All he could say in a breathy whisper was your name.

He didn’t know how. He couldn’t even simplify it for himself. 

~

It all happens at once.

Theo quickly stands, pushing the chair out from under him so quickly that it glides across the floor and into the wall. 

Weasley rushes forward, his wand pointed at Theo.

Mattheo grabs Weasley by the scruff of his shirt, roughly shoving him into the wall with the tip of his wand jabbing into the ginger’s jugular. The impact of his back against the hard surface causes Weasley to drop his wand, which Mattheo swiftly kicks across the floor. 

Granger puts her wand only inches from Mattheo’s head, though he doesn’t appear to notice. 

Theo directs his wand to Granger.

“The difference between you and I, Weasley,” Mattheo hisses in his face. “Is that I don’t have any pathetic qualms about making a person suffer. So please. Point your wand at one of us again. We’ll see who comes out the bigger man.”

“That’s enough, Riddle!” Granger shouts, pressing her wand into Mattheo’s temple. Theo steps forward and jams his wand through her hair and into her occipital scalp.

“Drop it.”

A beat passes.

Mattheo’s face twitches.

Granger slowly lowers her hand, her jaw clenched so tight that Theo is convinced her teeth will crack.

“We all want the same outcome,” She says in a quiet voice, still glaring daggers at Mattheo.

“It’s how we get there that we can’t seem to see eye to eye on,” Theo growls. 

Letting his hand drop back to his side, Theo takes a step back towards the table he had previously been occupying. 

“Let him go, Mattheo.”

The curly haired man glares into Weasley’s face for a moment longer, letting his deep breath smack against the ginger’s face before he shoves him away. Theo’s eyes follow Mattheo as he walks back to his pacing area, and then they flick back to Granger. She looks incensed over what just occurred, as Weasley adjusts his shirt, embarrassment painting his cheeks pink.

Theo opts to stay standing this time. 

“She’s not a part of the equation,” He says in a low tone. “We can give you the maps, Finnegan and Lovegood for Malfoy. Or we can give nothing at all.” 

A draft fills the room as the wind can be heard whipping outside over the silence. 

“And again, we are well aware of Draco’s importance to the Death Eater army,” Granger says in a tone that matches Theo’s. “There is no option. It’s her or nothing.”

Theo fights the urge to curse her.

“Then it’s nothing.”

~

The door hit the wall so hard, Theo could almost feel the drywall dent. In the moment, however, he couldn’t give less of a shit.

You whipped around to face him. The anger on your face couldn’t be missed, but neither could his. For a while, the two of you just stared at each other, speaking through daggered glares and heaving chests, as if words weren’t necessary. 

It was a moment of deja vu, calling back to the first time the two of you met in what became your assigned bedroom of the house. Both times equally as tense, but for radically different reasons. And this time, all of the pieces of furniture were entirely intact. 

Finally, Theo broke the silence.

“What business do you have, entering the field?”

Your nostrils flared.

“What business do you have, almost getting yourself killed?”

A breeze came in through the window, chilling the room further. As if it needed the help. 

“I was handling myself fine,” He said in a low voice. “Injuries are bound to happen-“

“A pelvic fracture and an open head wound are both severe injuries,” You countered in a raised voice. “You may have felt fine in the moment but you wouldn’t have after you lost two liters of blood just from the fractured pelvis alone. You needed care.” 

Theo felt like throwing things as the anger flared heavily in his chest.

“I could’ve apparated back to the manor after-“

“You would’ve splinched yourself with that severe of injuries, Theo,” You snarled, looking exasperated. “Mattheo came and got me.”

Theo made a mental note to kick the absolute shit out of Mattheo the next time he saw him.

“You could’ve said no!” He shouted. “You’re not my bloody on-call healer who gets to risk her life whenever I almost die.” The image of you in the middle of the fight, dodging multiple green casts in your wake, was burned into his retinas. Despite being safe in the Manor now, his chest was still reeling from the panic that flooded his heart and lungs when he fought to get to you.

You took a rushed step forward.

“Don’t fucking do that,” You said in a strained voice. “You don’t get to drag my arse back into your life-“

“You think I wanted this for you?” He shouted, cutting you off. “I didn’t drag you anywhere. I didn’t bring you here. I didn’t ask for this.”

You took another step towards him, more controlled this time. Theo almost took a step backwards to keep the distance.

Almost.

“But you kept me here. Why am I still fucking here, Theo?”

The words left his mouth before his brain had a chance to even consider them.

“Because you fucking left me before I was fucking done with you!”

Theo’s chest heaved, as he stared down at you. The room became painfully silent, the only sound being Theo’s breathing. You were holding your breath. 

“What does that mean?”

Theo didn’t hesitate for a moment.

“You left me to join the Order. You left me behind and I went bloody maniacal. I didn’t know a person could be touch starved for a specific set of hands, but your fingers burned their prints into my skin and I can’t get them to goddamn heal. And then Mattheo dropped you on my fucking door step and it was like I was an imprisoned man who just felt the warmth of the sun for the first time in years.”

You were frozen, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

“Theo…” A breathy whisper.

Theo shook his head, feeling a mix of anger and desperation in his head and heart. When he spoke, his voice was more calm this time, taking a low tone. 

“If love were a language then the only one I know how to speak is the one we wrote together. I couldn’t lose you again. I can’t lose you again.”

It was unclear who moved first. Maybe Theo. Maybe you. Maybe both. But somehow, the distance between the two of you closed, and Theo’s mouth was crashing against yours.

His left hand was on the small of your back, the other on the back of your head. His fingers weaved through your hair with a firm grip, as if to keep you from pulling away. Your hands were on his cheeks, lightly cradling his head between your palms as your fingertips teased the beginnings of his hairline. 

“I love you,” He said in a silent voice, his lips still pressed against yours in the desperate kiss. “I never stopped.”

“I love you too.” Your words came without a sliver of hesitation.

His tongue parted your lips, as your fingers moved to the back of his head. A groan forced its way up his throat. Your nails against his scalp drove him insane. It always had. Theo knew you knew that well. 

And with that, he pushed you onto the bed. 

~ 

“So…”

Theo closes his eyes at the sound of Mattheo’s voice. His steps are slow as they walk up the pathway of Nott Manor. In an effort to prolong the inevitable, Theo pulls a cigarette from his pocket, setting it between his lips before lighting it with his wand. 

“We don’t have a choice, do we?”

Theo looks up at the sky as he blows a plume of smoke upwards to join the clouds. He can’t look at Mattheo.

“No,” He finally says. “We don’t.”

Mattheo pulls a smoke of his own out, lighting it before taking a deep inhale. The only sounds in the air are the wind and his exhale.

“What if we just stopped aiding them?” He suggested after a beat too long of silence. “They’re losing. They need the information we’re feeding them. A few weeks without it would have them feeding out of our palms.”

Theo considers this as he plops down on the top step leading onto the porch. The cold from the wood seeps through his trousers.

Not that his body held any warmth to begin with. Not since he walked out of that bar.

“We don’t have a few weeks.”

Another cloud fills the air.

“The Dark Lord wants Malfoy back now.”

Theo’s heart already feels hollow as he thinks about what he is getting ready to do. 

Mattheo paces the cobblestone pathway, running his fingers through his curls as he takes another long drag of his cigarette.

“There has to be a way.”

Theo studies his friend. There’s very few people Mattheo holds loyalty to. The Order wasn’t on the list, despite the way they were risking everything to help them. The other Death Eaters didn’t have it. Hell, even his own father only held enough of Mattheo’s loyalty to keep him alive. Not enough for it to matter.

But Mattheo, from the moment they met until this moment in front of Nott Manor, was always fiercely loyal to Theo. And the way he desperately tries to come up with a solution to fix this for Theo pulls at his heart.

Because his loyalty to Theo also extends to you. When Theo told Mattheo that he was planning to betray Voldemort’s army in an effort to end the war and keep you with him, Mattheo wasted no time in joining him. No questions asked.

Mattheo was willing to risk his head to keep you safe if that was what Theo needed. And in this moment, Theo knew he didn’t thank his friend enough. 

His hands shake slightly as he brings the cigarette back to his mouth.

“I don’t think there is.”

He doesn’t want to sound as defeated as he does. But as his mind runs a million kilometers a second, it still comes up short on a way of getting out of this. 

Mattheo shakes his head angrily.

“This is bullshit.”

And Theo says nothing, his gaze fixed on the ground as he finishes his cigarette, and plans what he’s going to say once he goes inside. 

~

Oh Merlin, do I really have to leave?

Theo sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at your sleeping form. Your back was facing him, the blanket low enough to show the bare skin of your upper torso. 

He swallowed hard.

Five minutes. Just another five minutes.

But he knew he wouldn’t stop at five.

He was in his Death Eater robes, dressed to leave. This meeting wasn’t one he could afford to miss, and yet, watching you sleep in his bed was enough to make him at least consider it. 

Reaching over, he traced the lines of your right scapula, moving down to the left, feeling your smooth skin and shoulder blades beneath his fingertips. Your body rose and fell with every breath you took, but you did not stir at his touch. He brushed your hair down to the side so it all fell concurrently onto the sheets. 

Every time he tried to stand, his legs would defy him. 

Bloody hell, this is impossible, he thought to himself.

The temptation to kiss you was strong, but he resisted. He didn’t want to wake you, because then you would know he was leaving, and then you’d ask questions. One’s he didn’t yet want to offer up the answers to.

You didn’t know what he was about to do.

The door creaked open, making Theo jump. Mattheo stood at the threshold, also in his robes. His eyes flitted between his friend and you, before they settled on Theo again. All he did was nod, a gesture that Theo returned, before turning and leaving once again.

A sigh forcing its way out of his lungs, Theo stood up from the bed. Before walking out the door, he threw one last fleeting glance your way.

This better fucking work.

Once the door to his bedroom was shut, Theo walked through the manor in a flash, before finding Mattheo standing in the front garden. His friend gave him a look, and it was not lost on Theo the anxiety in his expression.

“Are you sure about this?”

Mattheo’s words hung in the air, swirling around above them with the wind. Theo slowly let his head fall backwards as he stared at the sky. For once in his life, his thoughts weren’t racing. He was confident in this decision. He had never been more confident about anything. 

“I’m sure.”

No more words were said. 

Grabbing Mattheo’s forearm, the two men apparated. When they reappeared, it was in an empty warehouse in Sussex. Windows lined the walls just a meter or so below the ceiling. The walls themselves were painted an off white colour that left them looking dirty, with hand prints and muck dusting the paint. It felt too big, in Theo’s opinion. If this were to become a regular thing, they’d need something smaller. With seats, preferably.

The two got to work, placing wards and disillusionment charms everywhere they could. Before they knew it, a whole hour had passed, and they were just finishing up. 

“You know I hate this right?” Mattheo asked as they regrouped in the center of the giant room. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Not what we’re doing necessarily but this meeting?”

Theo had to fight the urge to laugh.

“You think I like this any more than you do?”

Mattheo shook his head as he looked around the warehouse, taking in the metal beams that lined the ceiling. 

Theo took the moment of quiet to get his thoughts in order. Ever since he sent that damn letter, he had dreaded this moment. And now it was here, and though he had spent countless hours stewing and preparing, right now, he felt completely naked and defenseless. 

A sensation filled the air. Theo looked over at the same time that Mattheo did. The door creaked open, the sound echoing off the walls and around the air, before Hermione Granger, followed by Ron Weasley, the Weasley twins, Dean Thomas, Ginny Weasley, another Weasley they couldn’t place, and the blonde Triwizard Tournament champion from fourth year who Theo, for the life of him, could not remember the name of.

“All Gryffindors, mostly Weasels,” Mattheo mumbled under his breath. “Too much bloody red around here.” 

Theo fought the impulse to laugh.

The crowd of Order members approached them, all looking apprehensive. Granger stepped forward, her eyes jumping between the two of them.

“Nott.” When her eyes bounced back to Mattheo, the disdain became more apparent. When she spoke again, she spat the word out. “Riddle.”

Mattheo gritted his teeth as Theo took a step forward, saving them the risk of what would happen if Mattheo were the next to speak.

“Granger.”

He debated on greeting the others, but decided against it. There simply wasn’t time for pleasantries. Besides, Theo didn’t particularly want to be polite to them. And he knew that Mattheo wanted nothing more than to raze the whole warehouse just because he saw that familiar flash of ginger hair one time, let alone several. So it was probably best to get right to the point.

“What’s this about?” The unfamiliar Weasley called out. 

It was hard for Theo not to grow annoyed. The amount of people in the building had him feeling overwhelmed, though he couldn’t exactly blame him. How else should they have responded? It could’ve been a trap, for all they knew. 

The moment Theo reached into his back pocket, a swarm of wands were pointing in his direction. In his periphery, he could see Mattheo’s fists clench. though he was grateful that his friend didn’t immediately start spitting off hexes and Unforgivables. Theo froze more out of politeness than fear, then slowed his movements down. With the same speed as a snail, he pulled out a couple of scrolls, tossing it on the floor halfway between where he stood and where she stood. The wands all moved to point at the scroll in the same way they would point at a bomb. 

“Those are plans for upcoming raids on your safe houses,” Theo explained. “Now you can be better prepared.”

The reaction was comical. At least, to Theo, it was.

Granger stared at the scrolls, her mouth agape. Ron and Ginny kept their wands pointed at it in a way that suggested they were convinced it was anything but a scroll. The twins backed away from it entirely. Dean Thomas stared not at the scroll, but at Mattheo specifically, confusion painting his expression. The unfamiliar Weasley with the scars on his face jumped away when Theo threw the scroll, and had not moved since. And the blonde looked like she wanted to approach it, but was too afraid to let her feet move. 

Granger was the first to speak.

“Why should we trust you?”

A draft filled the room.

“Trust us or don’t,” Mattheo quipped. “You’re losing. You’ve been losing. Pathetically. We’re guaranteeing you a win right now. Whether you decide to take that chance is up to you.”

The silence was deafening as the members of the Order all exchanged looks, looking absolutely flabbergasted by this turn of events. It was clear they were trying to have a conversation through their facial expressions. Every muscle in Theo’s body tensed as he waited for their reaction. 

This has to work, He thought to himself. 

This will work.

“What do you get out of this?”

Granger’s words hung in the hair, and though the question was for the both of them, her eyes were pointedly trained on Mattheo. When the two Death Eaters remained silent, she continued. 

“You’re betraying your families. Your fathers. What could you possibly have to gain, besides maybe a pardon from execution if we win?” She sneers. “And even that isn’t guaranteed.”

Visions of you lying in his bed, only covered by the duvet cover, overtook Theo’s head. He found himself wondering if you’d woken up yet. If you’d eaten. If you’d slept well. If you’d realised he’d left. The lump in his throat felt like a bolder when he swallowed it down. His fingertips burned with the feeling of your bare skin underneath them. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Theo sees Mattheo glance over at him. 

This is, after all, Theo’s doing. So it’s his question to answer. 

“Family isn’t everything,” Theo said in a low tone. “And some people are worth yielding for.”

~

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Fall.

It takes Theo a full half hour before he finally finds you in the manor. Here you are, curled up on the couch in the library with one of his robes covering you like a blanket. Your back faces him as your face is nuzzled against the fabric of the back of the couch. 

Deja vu hits him hard.

Instead of waking you, Theo sits on the ottoman beside you and counts the amount of breaths you take. At the moment, he’s up to about sixty since he started. It’s easier on his heart to sit in the silence, only filled with your quiet snores.

It’s easier for his heart to handle than what it knows he has to do. 

But he knows that he’s only prolonging the inevitable.

Letting out a deep sigh, Theo reaches over and places his hand on your shoulder, gently shaking you awake. 

“Hey,” He says in a low voice in an attempt to not startle you. “It’s me. Wake up.”

Your head springs upward, looking around at the back of the couch before you roll over to face Theo. The way your eyes light up at the sight of him makes his heart ache in a way he’ll never be able to describe. It’s like he misses you before you’ve even left. 

A soft yawn takes over your face for just a brief moment, and is quickly replaced with a tired smile.

“How’d it go?”

Theo bites down on the inside of his cheek so hard that he can taste blood.

I can’t do this.

I can’t do this.

You have to do this.

“Not great.”

The smile fades from your face. As quickly as your still waking up body allows, you sit up, rolling over to face him entirely. Theo sits up straight as you pause, watching as the wheels turn in your head to process what he had said.

“What happened?” Your voice is so small, and something about it gives Theo the impression that you already know where this conversation is about to go. He sighs heavily. The pain in his upper back makes it feel like he has the entire world on his shoulders.

“They wouldn’t return Malfoy to us,” He explains. In an effort to hide the shake in his voice, he speaks slowly. “They… they had specific conditions for his release.” 

The hush blanketing the room is only pacified by the pounding in Theo’s ears. 

If there is one thing about you that Theo knows deeply, it’s that you can’t keep your emotions off your face. So it’s to his great dismay that he watches your expression shift from confusion, to thoughtful, to realisation.

“They want me, don’t they?”

The words feel like a bullet each, piercing through Theo’s chest and implanting straight into his heart. 

I can’t bloody do this.

“Yes.”

Suddenly, the quiet that overtakes the room is less welcome as that one single word hangs over the two of you like a storm cloud threatening a downpour. The way Theo’s mind runs a million kilometers a second makes it so deafening. He can see the conflict on your face as you consider what needs to be done. The downward cast of your sleep stained eyes and the way you curl your lip in thought makes him want to burn the entire Order to the ground so he doesn’t have to even consider losing you.

He sucks in through his nose as the hand on his knee clenches tightly into a fist.

When your eyes drift back up to meet his, matching resolve in your expression, Theo has to swallow down the urge to cry. 

“When?”

His nails dig into his palm.

“Mattheo’s going to take you once you’re ready.”

A frown crosses over your face. 

“You're not going?” 

Theo can’t recall another time in his life where he’s felt as broken as he does now, looking into your sad stricken and confused eyes.

He’s losing you again.

He’s losing you again. 

“I can’t.” He swallows the lump in his throat that makes his words come out choked. “I… I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

He lets the rest of his thoughts remain left unsaid. That he would kill them before they could even leave the area with you. That he’d kill every last one of them for taking the only good thing he’d had during this god forsaken war. The entire reason he had broken his loyalties to the Dark Lord in an attempt to put it to an end. 

And now, he has to watch you leave him.

Again.

Anguish and surprise conflict your face, making him take your hand in his and hold it tightly.

“I’ll figure it out, okay?” The desperation in his voice is so palpable that you can feel it bleeding onto the skin of your fingertips. Theo’s eyes never leave yours. “I’ll finish this. For you. For us.”

You fill the spaces between his fingers with your own.

You haven’t even left yet, but Theo begins to dread the ghost of your touch that will be left behind once you are. It’s a feeling he knows too intimately.

“What if we lose?” You ask him in a soft whisper. “Or what if one of us doesn’t make it?”

The air leaves Theo’s lungs, evaporating from the heat of your words.

He wants to dig a bunker and hide you in it, keeping you far away from the sins of the war and the pain of ever leaving his side. He wants to blow up the world and watch from space with you on his arm. He wants to do anything, literally anything that would take away the hurt in your eyes. 

Images of the many ways he wishes to kill the Dark Lord and end this devastation flash through his mind.

“I need you to hear me when I say this,” Theo says in a slow tone. “I will do whatever it takes to ensure my return to you. Even if that means I have to blow through the gates of hell myself and crawl out of my grave. Make no bloody mistake. I will come back for you.”

[haykawas]

✩•̩̩͙*˚ TUESDAY – GETO SUGURU.

summary : you have five days to ask your hot tattooed boss out. better make it count.

word count : 3.6K. tags : tattoo shop owner!suguru, modern au, pining, workplace AU, fem!reader, very domestic, fluff (?), satoru being annoying.

MONDAY – TUESDAY

It was still very early in the morning. Just a few cars were driving by, and most of the curtains were still drawn. The only sounds you could hear came from the soft pitter-patter of the rain crashing against the pavement.

You wiped a droplet that had caught on your eyelash, inhaling the fresh air of October.

You loved fall.

Vivid colors were beginning to paint the trees and foliage everywhere, and people had already started decorating their houses for Halloween, setting the mood for the whole city. Another advantage was that almost every morning, you got to warm your cold hands around some hot cocoa.

You grinned as you took a sip of your drink, the warm beverage burning your throat, and you let out a pleased hum of satisfaction at the feeling. Your umbrella shielded you from the rain almost entirely, even though a few drops still managed to reach you. But you didn’t mind that, at all. In fact, it soothed you. So much, that you could feel your eyelids becoming heavy.

You shook your head to wake up from your daze. Today, you actually had some work waiting for you at the shop, and you couldn’t afford to fall behind it, or become distracted. At all. Be it by the soothing sounds of the rain, or by your stupidly handsome boss and coworker.

You pushed the door of the shop open, shaking your umbrella before putting it down to dry. You expected to find the parlor still dark and quiet, but you were surprised by the sight when your eyes caught onto Satoru.

Satoru. Here. Before you.

You had to be dreaming.

It wasn’t that Satoru was a heavy sleeper, no. In fact, he was actually often – always? – up very early, but he absolutely never arrived before you did. Despite being an early riser, he almost came to work late every morning for some reason, and you simply blamed the fact he’d always been peculiar as far as you’d known him. That or maybe he’d gotten involved into some shady operations, but again, it was none of your business.

It must’ve helped that he was the most talented tattoo artist you’d ever met – the best of his generation, you’d often heard people say. And Suguru’s best friend, too. 

As you approached him, you couldn’t suppress the smirk that crept onto your lips, “Gojo Satoru, here already? Thought I was seeing a ghost. Did you get lost on your way to your secret underground lair?”

Satoru laughed, wiggling his brows at you, “You wish I’d tell you, uh?” You couldn’t help but snort.

“Yeah, right, just wanted to know what you were up to. You think because you’re friends with the boss you get to slack off, loser?”

Satoru feigned indignation, one hand hovering over his heart, “I’ll have you know I’m a very busy man!”

“And to what do I owe the please of your company then, Mister busy man?” You said, trying to keep yourself from laughing at his face.

“Does there always have to be a reason?” He lifted a brow, hands on his hips.

“So?”

“Suguru asked me.” He grumbled as your smile grew even bigger. “But I won’t be around all day, just came in earlier to get more work done.”

“Oh?” Your eyes found his, curious, “Any reason why?”

“He needs some help with personal stuff, I think? So I’m dropping by. And since he won’t be coming in to work today, I volunteered to take in his shift. Aren’t I just perfect?”

“He didn’t give you a choice, did he?”

“Nope!”  Your friend exclaimed, and you watched him walk away to prepare the shop for opening.

However, your smile quickly faded and you found yourself lost in thought. Was there a particular reason why Suguru wouldn’t show up at work today? You observed your friend for a moment, a faint smile on your lips as you saw him struggling to set up all the work equipment for the day, wondering if you would even dare ask him about his best friend’s whereabouts.

Of course, such a question wouldn’t have been abnormal at all if you’d asked literally anyone else. But this was Satoru. The same Satoru that had always teased you relentlessly about your love life since you’d met in college. The very same Satoru who’d caught you, not so long ago, daydreaming while intently looking at his best friend. You remembered it like it was yesterday, the knowing smile he’d made when your eyes had met after you had averted your gaze from Suguru.

And since then, it’d been hell. He just wouldn’t let it go. While he hadn’t addressed the matter directly with you, he’d been dropping constant hints, which you’d vehemently denied.

But this had been your mistake, denying it. Because even if carefree, Satoru was far from stupid, and he must have realized that you’d never gone to such lengths to deny a supposed crush before.

And yet, he’d teased you more than once, and not only with your former college aquaintances, but also with Choso, your coworker – the same Choso you’d always considered like your own brother, the mere thought of the two of you together making you uneasy.

He must have felt your persistent glare on him, because Satoru stopped what he’d been doing and turned to you, hands on his hips.

“Spit it out, I know you’ve been dying to ask.” He said, breaking the silence.

Your eyes widened, and you felt your cheeks burn. Why did he have to be so observant? You sighed, breaking eye contact, unable to withstand his piercing blue gaze. He knew you far too well now, so much that it had become dangerous.

“You know, secrets have a way of gnawing at you and you’ve never been good at hiding things from me! So,” He dragged out, slowly approaching you, “what’s up?”

You rolled your eyes, “You’re making a big deal out of nothing, again. Just thinking about Suguru, he usually, like, never misses a day.” You immediately cursed at yourself for saying it that way, and admitting you were literally thinking about your boss, his best friend.

“Ohhh, so that’s what it was about?” He replied, his eyes twinkling with mischief, but he made absolutely no comment. Well, that was new. And concerning.

He shrugged, “He didn’t tell me much.”

“But if you’re that curious, I’m heading to his place right after my shift. Sooo,” He dragged out, feigning nonchalance, but side-eyeing you at the same time. “You could tag along.”

You blinked at the proposal. You? At Suguru’s house, uninvited? When you could be home relaxing instead of freaking out for intruding on his private space? Yeah, sure, like you would agree. However, before you could voice your refusal, Satoru beat you to it.

“He could use your help.”

Oh. Oh, that fucker knew how to play his cards just right.

“Fine, I’ll go.” And before Satoru could jump on you to choke you with one of his infamous bear hugs – they were more like headlocks, really –, you lifted a finger to add one condition, “But only if I don’t fall behind on my appointments!”

Satoru rolled his eyes, waving you off, “Sure, yeah, whatever you say!”

You now stood in front of Suguru’s apartment, cursing the day you’d decided to befriend the white-haired menace that was your friend.

You considered going back, but the door opened before you had the chance to say a single word, revealing a very disheveled Suguru. Your mouth fell open in surprise, eyes briefly meeting Suguru’s dark orbs before he redirected them towards his friend, who was already whining, making comments about him being some kind of sorcerer, because how could he possibly have known they’d be here?

“You stomp like crazy, man. I’d have to be deaf not to know.” He grumbled. Satoru stuck his tongue out at him, showing no signs of remorse, and Suguru flipped him off.

“Hey, manners! I brought a guest!” He exclaimed, his arms still around your shoulders as he squeezed you against him to make your presence known. 

Suguru immediately redirected his attention toward you, his scowl transforming into a small knowing smile.

“I can see that.” His eyes lingered on you, before he redirected his attention to Satoru, “And to what do I owe the honor?”

His friend groaned in annoyance, “Quit the formalities and just let us in!” He said, immediately pushing Suguru aside to barge into his flat. “Don’t you know letting guests wait outside is rude?”

“You’re not a guest. Who called you in, already?”

“You did! Shoko told me you also wanted me to bring you stuff. And because I’m such an amazing friend, I’m here! There,” Satoru tossed him the folders he’d brought from work, Suguru catching them effortlessly.

He sighed, figuring out the issue. “I specifically asked Shoko to do it because I knew for a fact you were gonna come here and give me a headache.”

The white-haired man lifted his hands in surrender, “Promise I’ll be on my best behavior!” Before disappearing into his friend’s house.

You silently cursed at your friend for leaving you there alone with his best friend, especially so when you turned your head towards him only to find him already eyeing you up with a slightly amused smirk, enjoying your slight – and very noticeable – discomfort.

“You wanna come in?” He asked as he made space for you. You nodded and stepped into the apartment, brushing against Suguru who still lingered in the doorway.

You observed his place, eyes going over his wooden furniture, and found yourself pleasantly surprised by the warmth it seemed to exude. It was certainly very different from the modern and somewhat cold feel of Satoru’s apartment, which you’d visited several times before.

“You like it?”

“I do, it’s very…warm. And personal.”

He laughed deeply, “I do spend most of my time here, and Satoru’s there very often. It had to be.”

You hummed, smiling at him in understanding.

“So what made you skip work today, boss?” You lift a brow with a teasing smile, finally asking the million-dollar question.

“Ah, please don’t remind me. I keep thinking about the things I’m gonna have to take care of when I get back.” He sighed. “But I’ve been feeling sick since last night, figured I’d stay home like a recluse instead of contaminating you all.”

“Well, until you two showed up.”

“Hey! I had to, Satoru practically dragged me here!” You exclaimed, and he snorted at your apparent distress, not thinking for a second that you’d just lied to his face. Satoru had asked you once, and you’d said yes. He didn’t even have to convince you. 

“I know how he can be, I’m not blaming you!” He chuckled fondly, envisioning perfectly how Satoru must have dragged you here against your will like he’d always done with him.

“But just so you know,” He continued, “you don’t have to go all this way for me because I’m your boss, hm? They’re gonna think I’m taking advantage of you outside your hours.” He teased with a grin, and you had to advert your eyes from the blinding sight that he was.

“It’s not like that, really. You’re a friend of Satoru’s, so you’re not just my boss.” You said without thinking, and Suguru hummed in approval. “Besides, I figured you’d need some help with stuff. And I’m not sure Satoru’s the one for the task. Where the hell did he go?” 

“Help?” He cocked his head, as he thought about it, ignoring your question. He knew where his best friend was, either sleeping or rummaging through his games and making a mess in his bedroom, as usual. It must have looked innocent to some, but the dark-haired man knew his friend had been up to something, for the past few days. And he had to find out what it was.

“Well, now that you’re asking, I was just about to start on dinner before you two barged in. Care to help out?”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow across Suguru’s cozy kitchen, you found yourself standing beside him, listening to his voice as he gave you advice on how he liked to prep his ingredients. 

“So, what’s on the menu tonight, Chef?” You joked, trying to break the tension that seemed to hang in the air. You two weren’t used to be alone without Satoru as an intermediary, and it couldn’t be more obvious.

Suguru cleared his throat, his voice deeper than usual, slightly hoarse from the sickness. “Hm, was thinking of making my famous stir-fry,” he replied, “can you gather the ingredients?”

“Yes, Chef!” You grinned, and he chuckled at your enthusiasm. He leaned against the counter, a soft smile on his lips as he watched you bustling about, gathering all the utensils you’d need to make dinner. You quickly turned to ask him where he kept the rice, and caught him following your every move, his eyes half-lidded. You heart skipped a beat, and you immediately turned back around, forgetting what you were about to ask him.

He was sick. You had to get it back together.

Shaking your head, you opened the cupboard to grab the salt, but sighed when your eyes found it, perched on the cabinet’s top shelf. You tiptoed, convinced you could retrieve it on your own, but the cabinet was strangely positioned in a rather elevated spot.

“Here.” Suguru’s sweet and deep voice suddenly reached your ears, his warm breath tickling the back of your neck. You could feel his solid body against yours as he stretched to grab what you’d been trying to, and you swore you could feel his abs pressing against your back even through his loose-fitting shirt. His fingers brushed against yours as he took hold of the item.

As soon as he put it down on the counter, you smoothly pushed him away and put distance between the two of you, accusatively pointing at the cupboard.

“What the hell is it so high for anyway? Do you live with giants?” 

He laughed, “Well, in a way. Me and Satoru could be considered giants.”

“Right.” You shook your head, pushing yourself to get back to the task at hand to avoid thinking about what had just happened. Your hands began chopping the vegetables, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filling the room. 

The scent of garlic and ginger filled the kitchen, and you smiled as you inhaled the pleasant scent. You couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Suguru, and you wish you hadn’t. He seemed lost in thought, his dark hair was slightly tousled, and his cheeks were slightly flushed, a combination of his illness and the warmth of the kitchen. 

The man sighed as his hair got in the way yet again. He hadn’t found the time to trim it recently, and it had gotten quite long.

He paused for a moment, rinsing his hands before his fingers deftly started to gather his long dark hair. With a practiced grace that was so common with him, he pulled his hair back, securing it in a loose and messy ponytail. He sighed in annoyance as some strands were too short to be kept in place, blowing air to get them out of his eyes. His eyes found yours as he seemed to notice your sudden silence, strands of silky hair framing his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw and elegant curve of his neck.

He gave you a shy smile, surprised you’d caught him in what had strangely felt like such an intimate moment to witness, and averted his eyes to the rice that’d been fizzling in the frying pan. After hard work came comfort, and you both sat down to savor the delicious meal you’d prepared – well, Suguru had done most of it, you’d mainly chopped the vegetables and fetched the ingredients, really –.

Suguru watched you intently as he waited for you to taste his famous dish. His eyes crinkled in amusement and he couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh as you let out an involuntary moan of pleasure at the taste.

“This is fucking incredible, Suguru!” You managed to say between bites, cheeks full, “I can’t believe how good this tastes! Why the hell didn’t I know how good of a cook you were?” You exclaimed.

His lips curled into a proud smile at your praise, “Glad you like it. I wasn’t always that good, you know? I used to burn pasta.”

“Pasta?” You deadpaned, eyes wide. “How come you’re so good, then?”

He grinned, “Had to fend for myself since I was very young. Practice makes perfect, right?”

Oh. Your heart ached as you considered the implications of his words. At the end of the day, you didn’t know that much about him, and the fact he might have had a difficult childhood would have never crossed your mind if he hadn’t made allusions to it. You nodded, not really knowing what to respond, but not really keen on delving deeper into the issue.

You weren’t close, there was no need for him to tell you about his past struggles when you were only sharing a meal.

You proceeded to talk about your respective days, you telling him about the peculiar clients that had come in today, and him intently listening to you for the most part. He’d also told you about the documents Satoru had brought him, which you’d been curious about, and happened to be sketches he’d started and wanted to touch up before tomorrow morning.

You smiled as you watched him talk, nodding slightly whenever he would speak about something that demanded an immediate reaction. You couldn't believe how comfortable you'd gotten with him. Sure, there were still moments where you felt embarrassed, after all, he was a new acquaintance you still hadn't gotten used to. However, he had this talent that was so unbelievably his, the skill to put anyone at ease with just a few words.

He might have looked intimidating to a lot of people, with his fully tattooed arms, many piercings and dark eyes, but this image of him completely crumbled the moment he opened his mouth. He was a smooth talker, luring people in and charming them effortlessly.

And you couldn’t deny it. The fact Suguru wasn’t only a skilled chef, but also a vision of breathtaking allure. And you wondered how someone like this could ever reciprocate the feelings you harbored deep inside.

After the meal, you moved to the living room, settling onto the sofa. The warmth from the kitchen and the contented feeling brought by the dinner you two had just had enveloped you as you continued your conversation. 

As he talked, you couldn’t help but notice a few strands of Suguru’s long hair escaping from his ponytail, falling gracefully across his forehead.

You spoke up, feeling brave, “You know,” he immediately gave you his undivided attention, and you felt slightly shy under his gaze, “If you’re finding your hair bothersome, I could help you with it. Maybe trim it a bit?”

“Oh.” He said, voice tinged with surprise at your question, and at the fact you’d noticed his annoyance. “You’d do that?” 

“Yeah, it’s no big deal.” You approached him on your knees so you could get a good look at him, skimming your fingers through the strands of dark hair framing his face, as you thought about how you could arrange it, “I’m used to your type of hair, shouldn’t be too difficult.”

The man cleared his throat, turning his head to the side to avoid your gaze, “Alright, well, I’ll consider it and let you know then. Thanks.”

You nodded, but then your brows furrowed and you bolted from your seat, “Be right back!”

He saw you leave for the bathroom, lips parted in confusion. When you reappeared with a wet towel and a sheepish smile, he couldn’t stop but let out a snort as he understood what you’d been up to.

“Hey, don’t laugh! I know I’m a guest but you’re still sick.” You rolled your eyes in feigned annoyance, but the amused smile on your lips was betraying you. “Your cheeks are so red, I can’t believe I just noticed.” Then, you proceeded to delicately cover his forehead with the cold towel, making sure you weren’t covering his eyes. You observed his features up close, and you noticed that he was struggling to stay awake, his long lashes fluttering with exhaustion.

 “You should lie down a bit.” 

Suguru was about to protest, but a yawn escaped him, resigning him to accept his fate and lie down for a while. “Just a minute, alright? Then I’ll walk you back home.” You nodded, knowing you had to go home very soon, the fact you'd stayed more than a few minutes at your boss's house already shocking to you.

bonus –

Your eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, you were disoriented. The soft glow of the morning sun was beginning to filter through the curtains, but you weren’t on your bed. And as your senses slowly returned, you realized you were not alone.

Panic welled up inside of you as everything came rushing back to you when you took in the sight of Suguru sleeping beside you, his messy hair out of the ponytail he’d put them in a few hours ago, the string lost somewhere on the ground, while his limbs were sprawled out on the couch. His soft snore was making his chest rise and fall, his shirt rising up to his middle.

You didn’t have time for that. 

You bit your lip, searching for your phone in a hurry, making sure you weren’t making any noise in fear the man would somehow wake up, silently freaking out as the situation dawned on you. 

you where the fuck r u ???

satoru i’m home?? where r u

you .

satoru oh fuck DONT TELL ME oh my god

you  …

you why didnt you wake me up when you went home . wth satoru

satoru oh man that’s rich im telling shoko right now

you do it and i’ll kill you

satoru too late

satoru by the way i actually didn’t wake you up cuz sugu’s an insomniac never does whole nights so thx!<3

AN : I SAID LET THEM COOKKKKK ok back to the topic. god. this was twice as long as the first piece of this series (and i actually kinda struggled with this one? i'll have you know i'm a master at writing angst but fluff isn't really my forte - if you can call this fluff). kinda sweet suguru here cuz he's sick and all (and i couldnt already rush things), but expect him back on his feet and SMUG as hell in the next pieces ;) sooo yeah, hope yall liked it! also, not proofread yet, i'll come around to fix mistakes but it's 1:40 am here and i have class tomorrow so goodnight

[kazbrekkerscrutches]

Xavier Thorpe - Believe Me

Warnings: Threatening Thing (JUSTICE FOR THING), mention of reader being hurt (no gore, no b!ood), overall just love and tension (ENJOY!)

Words: 1.4 k

SHE/HER PRONOUNS

Context/Trope: Reader sneaks into Xavier’s room to find out about Rowan, he catches her. Basically, reader is an Addams (not like Wednesday) and with modified storyline with cheesiness.  

I saw Xavier coming back from his run, hair wet, skin dewy, earbuds in his ears, his sweaty shirt clinging to his chest.

Dear, what a sight for my sore eyes.

He walked back into his room, slamming the door behind him; Thing slipped into his room before the door was closed. I heard another door slam; probably his bathroom door, which means; perfect timing for me to go find out all of his secrets.

I opened the door silently, shutting it quietly behind me.

His room looked like a normal boy’s room. Poster/paintings/drawings on his wall. An artist has to show their talent somehow. Thing looked for anything that could lead me to find out if there was anything about his dear ex-roommate, Rowan.

The one who tried to kill me two times.

[Flashback]

I got out of the infirmary, after that humiliating fencing experience, only to find out that it was raining.

Wonderful. I mean truly, this is quite uplifting.

I opened my umbrella, walked toward my room when I heard a vibration coming over me. I looked up only to find the statue of a gargoyle being tipped to fall on top of me.

This a peaceful death, I thought.

“Y/N!” I heard the familiar sound of a boy taking me by my waist and pushing me to the ground.

Everything was black after that.

[Xavier’s POV]

“Y/N!” I saw Rowan using his telekinesis to try and kill her. I took her by her waist just in time before the gargoyle hit the ground.

I had placed one of my hand under her head, hoping she didn’t break anything. I was almost on top of her, my heart beating out of my chest, tears prickling my eyes.

Please don’t let her be dead, I thought.

“Y/N?” Can you hear me?” I took her face in my hand, placing her gently in my lap.

No reaction.

I gently pressed my ear to her chest, hoping to hear something.

A heartbeat, another one. Thank God, thank whoever is out there.

I picked her up delicately and led her once again to the infirmary. The nurses told me she was okay, that she would’ve been killed if it wouldn’t have been for me.

“Please be okay, Y/N” I whispered. “I can’t lose you. You’re all I have.” I sighted, reassuring myself that she was okay. She will be okay.

She woke up minutes after my words.

“Y/N. Take it easy.” She sat up slowly from the bed, looking straight at me.

“That thing was about to fall on me, correct?” I nodded; she touched her head slightly with her hand.

God she is so beautiful. Her long Y/H/C hair that covered her face slightly, her pale yet sometimes rosy complexion. Her dark clothing, yet fits her so right. God, I am totally in love with her.

“Thank you, Xavier. For not letting me die.” She smiled at me.

No way. I’d never thought I’d see the day when Y/N Addams would smile at me.

“Anytime.” I offered a warm smile back, and we kept talking for a little while, still with my heart beating out of my chest, but in a good way this time.

[Present time, Y/N’s POV]

I looked around the place, finding an empty bed.

Rowan’s, I thought.

I looked under the mattress, not finding anything. His desk, empty. Everything was gone. Not even a single hair was on the mattress or the pillow that was left behind.

I switched my sight over to Xavier’s side.

Maybe there’s something that Rowan hid in there, I thought.

I looked on his desk where colored pencils and pens were spread out on the table.

His sketch book was the also, his initials carved on the leather cover.

X.T.

Such pretty details. I opened it, finding drawings of raven, spiders, sharply detailed drawings.

A cello appeared too. My face was the next page. All my features were correct, as if he drew this with me two inches from his face.

Another drawing of me, sleeping in the infirmary had me shocked.

Was he obsessed with me? Is he like Rowan? My thoughts were rattling through my head.

I was so in my space that when I turned around, I was face to face to the boy in question.

“Hi, what are you doing here?” He was very close to me; hair dripping wet, a hoodie on top of him and pyjama pants hanging on his hips.

I tried to get a logic and sane explanation out, but the stupidest thing came out instead.

“I came here because I thought Rowan might’ve hidden something that could’ve led to him to try to kill me.” I nervously fidgeted with my fingers behind my back, which is something I never, ever do.

“I don’t think there’s anything in my sketch book that might help you, Y/N.” I could practically smell what soap he used to clean his body, wash his hair.

“Right. I should go.” I tried to go but he trapped me by his desk with both of his arms on the desk.

“Tell me the truth, Y/N.” He tilted his head so that he was leveling with mine.

“I did tell you the truth.” I could feel my heart beating out of my chest.

“No, I think you’re here because you have something to tell me. Something that isn’t about Rowan, or the Nightshade or of what Thing found out.” Thing crawled out to be in Xavier’s sight.

He bent down to my ear, whispering slowly in it.

“Are you here to tell me that you like me?” He pulled back, still trapping me by his arms.

I could fell my cheeks heat up, my legs felt shaky and everything about me wanted to scream yes to him. To make him kiss me, touch me with his hands, to embrace me into his scent and make me his.

“That is in your dreams, Xavier. Or shall I say in your drawings too.” His face broke out into a smirk.

“What if I said that I liked you too, Y/N.” My eyes widened up, every part of me that was filled with anxiety left my body.

“I wouldn’t believe you.” I lied.

He bent down to tilt my head up to look up at him. He came closer to me, his lashes practically brushing my cheek.

“You don’t believe me? I’ll guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

His lips met mine, a fire exploded in my heart, my brain, my everything. His lips were soft yet so passionate and kind. His damp hair tickled my cheek as I wrapped one of my hands by his neck, the other one in his hair. His other hand traveled down the valley of my back, caressing my upper back down to my waist. He pulled me closer to him, feeling the softness of his shirt yet the hardness of his body underneath.

We both pulled away to breathe and look at each other.

“Do you believe me now, princess?” I nodded repeatedly.

He smiled and leaned his forehead against mine, I lifted my head up to kiss him again and he gladly accepted. I pulled back and looked at him.

“I’m sorry I barged in your room. I should’ve just asked you.” He rubbed his hands down my back.

“Do it again. I don’t mind.” I laughed a little, he did too.

I checked the time only to notice that I had to go meet Enid in our room.

“I have to go. Enid emergency.” I still looked in his eyes. Beautiful green eyes.

“Manis for her and Thing, got it.” He kissed me once again on the lips before we both pulled away from each other.

“So, you like me right, like this isn’t to get information out of me?” He asked, half joking.

“Yes, I like you, Xavier. Though I could still get information out of you anytime I want.” I winked, leaving his room as he was smiling and I walked back to my room.

Thing followed me from behind, all excited about his manicure.

“If you tell anyone what happened, I will rip out your nails.” I snarked, he shook slightly in fear before swearing he wouldn’t say anything.

I guess I did not fall in love with a psychopath.

[luvtak]

seasons of love, hhj

✦ pairing hyunjin x reader

✦ genre/tw FLUFF! FLUFF! ONE MORE TIME SAY IT WITH ME! FLUFF!!! hyunjin and mc are very much in love! hyunjin is said to be taller than mc and have bigger hands. lots of kisses and i love yous. suggestive in a couple places. in and out of present and past tense lol. overall very sweet and lovely--hyunjin and mc falling in love through the seasons

✦ w/c 2412

✦ a/n okay so! this is a rewrite of something i posted springtime last year and i hated it lol. this time around i am very proud of hyune and mc and they’re love story and i hope you all love it too!! I've spent months adding scenes and taking them away until I got here <3 please like and reblog, and please please reach out if you have any ideas or questions or just wanna talk!! love you guys forever, mwah!!

He came to you in the Summer, bringing with him music and dancing, and so much laughter you forget how serious falling in love can be.

There is just something about warm weather. It could be the sun shining over your beloved, lighting them up like a god or a king, maybe it’s just that the temperature resembles the touch of your lover’s caress, or that the awakened world is made for romance. It was early July, and everything was blue and sunny; days were filled with jokes and getting to know each other over hot days and cold drinks. Confessions given on front porches and whispered under blue skies—a million firsts bundled up as the heat went away.

He tells you he likes you so quietly, whispering in his sweet little voice, “would you like to go out sometime?” 

The way his tall frame looked against the paint palette sunset would live in your head forever; pretty hair and long legs, the sweetest smile curving up to his crescent moon eyes. Looking back, you wished you had a camera or shared his talent with a paintbrush–just to have that moment set in stone. The smile that made you say yes. 

In the beginning, he was too shy to hold your hand or stand too close. Inching closer and closer until he stood against you–brushing his fingers against yours until his big hands were enveloping your smaller ones. 

 The first time he kissed you, his hands were shaking.

 He was so nervous you could feel the goosebumps rising on his arms, but he asked so sweetly,

“Can I kiss you.” And there was no way you’d ever say no. Not when he stood there in his summer clothes and pink cheeks, not when it was Hyunjin asking. 

He held you straight against him, both hands on your face—the first press of his lips like drinking water, so slow as not to choke then gulping it down. His skin was soft everywhere you touched, and his kiss was happy: full of teeth and giggles and coming up for air.

Getting to know him was like walking into your childhood home, everything about him as familiar as the lines on your palm. Some parts of you are certain you’ve known him before—maybe you were lovers then too, or maybe two trees whose roots were intertwined. In any reality, you can’t see how Hyunjin is supposed to be with you. There is just no other reason why he could know you so well already, no other explanation as to why his body fits around you like it was made to.

Late one night you tell him your theories, and the smile he gave you was so bright and shiny you thought the sun came up. You tell him calmly and earnestly,

 “Hyun, I’m almost certain we’ve already met thousands of times before.” 

August is hot and covered in orange sunsets and long kisses; pink skies the same color as his cheeks when he asks you out again and again. He tells you about his life while you flip through his journals, page after page dedicated to moments he loved and dreams he’s had, and moments yet to come.

The days are long and it’s so easy to care for him, 15 hours of sunlight allowing you to learn all of him and still need more. Sharing secrets under leaves and laughs under covers–it’s too quick to fall in love, too fast for this insatiable longing to rise up in you. But you think you are, you must be, what else could that aching pull in your tummy be? 

The first I love you falls from your lips like the leaves around you. A day spent shopping in the Halloween aisles and holding hands to keep warm. He looks so pretty, dark hair standing out against the grays and oranges of the season, and you love him so much you can’t help but tell him. The words float easy, accompanied by wind bitten skin and a warm gaze.

At first, he hesitates, making sure he’s heard you right, until finally the sun breaks on his face and he speaks.

“I love you too, silly.” He says it like it’s obvious, and it is. He’s been telling you with his eyes and his hands for months, it’s the truest he’s ever felt.

Autumn is spent studying each other, learning how and when to touch—how to make him gasp and sigh. His eyes flutter when you kiss his hip and roll when you bite down; He scratches and pulls, he makes your teeth rattle with his skin. Late nights and early mornings mapping each other, he tells you he loves you and swallows the response, touches the words away.

“I love you; I love you; I love you.” You say over and over again, hoping it sinks into his soul like a second skin.

In mere months, he knows your heart like it’s his own, slotting himself into your life like he’s always been a part of it. Your body has become his home; he’s tied his heart to yours in a double knot. You’re made for him, he’s sure of it—molded from the same clay, split-a parts who’ve found each other.

He tells you things he’s never told anyone before, pressing the secrets against your lips and pulling all of your secrets out of you at the same time. 

He adores you, cherishes you as a person, a friend, a lover. He feels happier than he ever has, and he wants to show you to everyone he knows. When he introduces you to his friends, the smile never leaves his face and his hand stays wound with yours. They welcome you like an old friend, and he feels like both pieces of his heart are melting together. He watches you joke with Felix and be teased by Minho, and he thinks you’re the piece that’s been missing this whole time.

Months have been spent just the two of you, and it’s been perfect–intimate and so warm, but seeing you among his friends changes things. Almost like it wasn’t yet real, and now it is. 

When you go to bed that night, he tells you,

“They love you and I love you.”  and the look you give him is so beautiful, he thinks he should bottle it and save it for later.  

Winter brings an unwelcome guest, a yearning for him that won’t go away—it’s harder to love him when he’s busy, and you wish you could be stronger and less jealous, but you’re only one person. It gets considerably difficult to wash the harsh feelings away when he isn’t there to help you, too many nights spent feeling too far away from him induce an anger you can’t get rid of.

When he arrives late and smelling of alcohol, you can’t seem to swallow the bitterness—why would he be drinking when he could be here with you? 

Hyunjin, never a novice in reading you, picks it up right away. 

One quick comment and then yelling. 

“Are you just tired of me?” It escapes from your tongue like a lash, pricking invisible scars onto every vein. He wishes you would know he misses you too, but how could you when he’s never around, not physically nor emotionally, so you keep screaming. Yelling so loud about things that don’t matter. You hope he knows you’re fighting to stay, not to leave, but the words leaving your mouths are so harsh, you can’t be certain if he remembers he loves you.

If you were in your right mind, you’d know he doesn’t want it this way. Everyday he longs for the heat of summer and the comfort of autumn. If he wasn’t drunk, he could tell you, but instead he says, “I just can’t do this anymore.” Maybe it’s better to let go and find each other next time, next life.

 Recently it’s been too hard, and maybe he’s not strong enough to learn about this part of you, but you are.

You’ve never been afraid to learn his bad parts, sure he’s a dream shaped like a boy, but he’s also whiny and clingy, and sometimes he gives up too fast. Even though it’s hard, and the tears are streaming into the seam of your lips—you gulp down the acidity and tell him you love him.

“It’s never going to get easier, Hyun, you’ll always be busy, and I’ll probably always miss you, but I love you and you said we’re meant to be, and you’re not a liar.” You tell him you’re sorry for yelling, and he says he’s sorry too, and in the morning, he’ll use his hands to apologize and then his mouth and he’ll promise to keep you warm when he can.

Winter is spent learning to love the pieces of each other that are unlikable, to see the invisible boundaries of before and honor them. You remember your theory about the trees with woven roots, and you remind yourself sometimes you’ll have to sacrifice your share of the water to survive, and you hope it’ll be easier when the world reawakens.

Night comes so fast, and it's so cold, but he loves you. It’s been half a year now, and you almost can’t remember where you were this time last year. Were you freezing without him? Or did you only feel the cold now that he’s here? 

All you know is his warmth–pressing into you wherever he can. 

A silent promise for the spring yet to come. 

His birthday arrives with the first of the blooms, the world not yet alive. You wish him happy birthday under warm sheets, whimpering the words in place of presents. He spends the day with the people he loves most and the happiness he feels eases into spring. He tells you it used to be his favorite; and you promise for his day you will bring some of the magic back.

 You help him pick flowers to paint, and read him your favorite stories, you kiss him under cherry blossoms and show him your favorite sunsets. It helps some, but not all—even so, spring with you is prettier than without. He’s sure his skin is brighter because you kiss it, and his paintings are better because they’re of you. He doesn’t know if you believe him, but he means it. His world has become technicolor since you walked into it.

He says it’s just better with you, “I mean it, honey, life is unbelievable when you’re around.”

It’s almost been a year, months spent learning and growing just like the flowers scattered around you. He loves you, so it takes no hesitation when you ask him to move in. He feels like it was already in the midst of happening anyway—his one drawer became a dresser, and his favorite snacks found their way to your cabinets.

Months ago, your heart became his home, and now he gets to live in it every day. Sure, you bicker some: many sighs of “That’s not where that goes, Hyun.” Combined with sweet mutters of “Well, it should go there, sweetheart.” But it’s exhilarating to open his boxes and link his life with yours—mitch-matched mugs in the sink and dirty clothes mixed together.

Your home is filled with dancing and music, laughter and love. His paintings cover the walls, pictures of your days held with magnets on the fridge. His life is now yours and your days belong to each other, and every night he reminds you it’s almost been a year, but how could you forget.

Sometimes, when he puts a dish away wrong, or leaves his clothes on the floor, you question why you invited him in. Even so, you wouldn’t take it back. He’s added so much color into your life, spring personified. A lovely romantic boy who sets your soul on fire. 

The flowers that line the street remind you of him, and the bees who accompany you on your walk sing a quiet song that resembles his sweet nothings.

 Your sweet spring boy, Hyunjin.

 Radiant in every season. 

Somehow, he looks the prettiest in the July heat. Of course, every season you’ve spent with him he’s been beautiful, but there is something about his smile surrounded by clear skies. His cheeks are the same color as the flowers and his kisses as warm as the sun. Something about the season where you first met, encasing him in a beauty befit of a prince. You can’t believe it’s been a year with him, a year getting to know how to love him and feeling his love back.

Looking at him now, he could probably make you do anything which is why when he woke you up at the crack of dawn dragging you out to see the sunrise you couldn’t say no. It was frustrating at first, when all you wanted was a few more hours in bed next to him, but Hyunjin could make you do anything if he smiled down at you.

He’s doing it now, looking so darling in his light sweater and clips in his bed-messed hair, looking past you at the sunrise. You love him like this, and it takes all of you not to tell him, to keep the peace of dawn. 

You’ve loved things before—people, places, things, but never a boy like this.

Hwang Hyunjin is so precious, so dear to you that it hurts sometimes. No one has ever loved you the way he does, his love surrounds you—covers you under a warm blanket of his affection until it radiates into you.

He’s telling you how pretty you are, how you look like the fresh blooms and you’re laughing—which is all he wanted. He only ever wants to make you happy, even if that means being a cheeseball sometimes. Especially if that means waking you up early enough to see the sun come up, and he wants to see that smile again, so he asks,

 “Honey, do you wanna know a secret?”

“Oooo, yes tell me.”

“I love you.” It comes so easy, flows so quickly past his lips like a nightly prayer, like it’s something so objectively true he can’t lie about it, which it is. And your smiles is so wide, laughing at how sweet your boy is, and you say,

“Oh, I already Knew that. I love you too.” And he smiles, grinning at the summer sky.

© LUVTAK

[bump1nthen1ght]

An Artists Touch (M!Reader x M!Monster Drawing)

Pairing: Male!Monster!Reader x Male!Painting Monster

Genre: Crushes, One-sided Pining, Masturbation, Slight Edging

Word Count: 1852 words

Warnings: Explicit Content Under the Cut (18+ ONLY), Non-Consensual Voyeurism (Nothing Spicy, but rather everyday life)

Summary: You’ve got a secret admirer, one who has admired your work as an artist for a while now. They know your talents best, after all, they are one of your pieces.

Request : could it be cool if you did like a

Male Monster Drawing x Male Monster Artist

Where the drawing would maybe crawl out of the paper or painting behind the artist’s back

The sun is low in the sky, streaming light peppered across your work room. The setting dusk has brought a slight chill, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and the other closing your bay window, snuggling deep into your seat. Your workstation is a bit messy, almost haphazard, but it's yours, and stirs that artistic vision in you once again.

Tonight you're thinking watercolor, the sunset providing an ample muse for some chill painting. Something lighthearted and unconscious to forget the looming work-in-progress behind you. Your tail flicks back and forth, eyes catching a glance at said piece in the corner of your eye.

The most frustrating thing was that it was almost done, almost perfect. You liked everything you had done so far, the lighting, the choices of color. It just needed that final touch and that’s where you hesitate. The final touch is the end, permanent, and it has to be special. Something unique, something tailored to the piece like a bespoke suit.

So you put it off. You wrap your tail around your waist and tap your claws against the desk, fighting the anxiety of the unfinished project. Tonight is chill, not perfect, and you need to relax. It’d take too much brainpower to finish, to make that leap into the unknown.

Something for another day.

—

Malachrom has never been more jealous of a sketchbook.

This sketchbook gets to feel you, the gentle sensations of your paint brush, the smooth motions of your hand across the page. It's such a steady movement, well-practiced and firm.

Oh, such wonderful hands.

Malachrom has broken so many rules these past few weeks. He had never lingered in one place like this before, usually hopping from ink to ink, from medium to medium as all paint demons ought to do. He had certainly never lingered in one piece like this for so long either. But those hands, those beautiful hands….

His favorite part of your hands were the calluses, certainly. The way your rough fingertips brushed against his canvas, paint smeared across them. The way you’d messily gave him shape and figure, molded and touched him like no one had before. It was invigorating, the kind of sensation his kind dreams about.

So he had stayed, content to be worked and treasured like the masterpiece he is. Reveled in your unique touch, in the sound of your voice humming as you worked. Of the flicker of your tail, of the way your fangs gnawed at your lip when you got stuck.

It wasn’t enough. Not anymore, not when you had left him alone for so long. That luxurious attention devoted elsewhere, somewhere lesser.

Another day, another rule broken.

His viscous form looks as if it should drip, leaving stains on the carpet as he crawls out of the canvas. That delightful shape you gave wobbles as he forces into the material plane, giving it tangibility and weight. All to be closer, to smell and-

Maybe touch?

No, no, that would be a bridge too far. Even as he shamelessly admires your hunched back, the way you rub the tension out your neck and roll it across your shoulders. The way your horns peek out from beneath your messy hair style and the contours of your own figure from beneath your bundles of clothing. You clearly hadn’t realized that you’d caught the attention of a paint demon, spending most days in your workshop acting as if you're completely alone. Singing to the radio, dancing in your pajamas, adjusting yourself in wholly socially-inappropriate ways.

Malachrom is embarrassed to say how much he enjoys it, that pit of shame in his stomach. He knows this is odd, he knows he should say something. But what if you never touched the work again? What if he never felt those calluses on his paint, those palms pressed against the canvas?

So he lingers, looms over your shoulder as music blasts through your headphones, knowing you're none the wiser.

He gives themselves five minutes of being a voyeur, a treat, before slinking back. Sooner or later you’d feel the extra presence, turn around and chase that shiver down your spine.

Just not today.

As he melts back into the fabric, his eye catches on something. An unwashed paintbrush, left forgotten by an easel. Bad practice, it will harden and become harder to clean, too bristly for some work.

So surely you wouldn’t miss it, right?

He doesn't even wait long enough to ponder that thought, the brush easily sucked into his inky grip, silent as the night. There's no noise as he slips back into the painterly world he’s more comfortable in, he’s more free in.

The handle smells like you, like black coffee and plain bar soap. Malachrom presses it to his lips, fake tongue slathering around it like a popsicle.

So divine, so delicious.

A hand slithers down his crotch, his inky cock slowly unsheathing itself. You hadn’t been generous enough to bestow this painting with a cock, covered up by clothing and what not, but this was far from Malachrom’s first rodeo. He can improvise.

He’s already far too sensitive, just grabbing the base of his cock enough to have him shuddering. Beads of opaque pre-cum run down his head as he sucks on the paint brush handle, a deep growl rumbling up his chest.

Paint and Ink squelch as Malachrom squeezes his shaft, thumb brushing across his weeping head. His hips thrust up into his palm, pretending it’s your rough hands he’s feeling. 

The paintbrush now sits on his tongue, teasing the back of his throat as humps desperately. He can almost imagine it’s your dick in his mouth, that you're laying in bed like lovers and sixty-nineing. Malachrom had seen it beautifully painted before, maybe it could be a reality one day. Some day.

“Ungh.” Malachrom’s voice twinges as he picks up his pace, hands gripping tightly as he moves it up along his shaft. His other moves up to the paintbrush and begins to jostle it, thrust it like you would. You would be much bigger of course, but Malachrom's absent gag reflex could accommodate basically any size. He could imagine the faint whiffs of scent he gets now only intensified if he was buried in your crotch, balls slapping against this face.

“F-fuck, you feel so good~” You’d moan as you fondle him, just teasing his tip with your tongue. He’s never felt a human tongue before, you hadn’t blessed him with that sensation. Would it be wet like his paint? Or something different, yet similar? “Ah-ah!” Malachrom forces his eyes open, watches you from within his painting. You’re hard at work, but not on him. A keening whine leaks out from his chest, jerking himself off even faster.

What could he do to get your attention? Malachrom knows artists can be fickle with their projects, some leaving half-finished projects for years before starting up again. 

Malachrom feels his balls tightening, getting so close to the finish line, but it won’t be enough. No, he needs you. He needs your hands on them, and on him now.

His movements are hasty, ill-prepared as he almost leaps out of the painting, forcing himself to only hold out one arm. Reluctance comes only when he must part with the paintbrush, part with your scent. He had the patience to stop masturbating, to avoid reaching his peak, yet parting with his memento feels like an even harder challenge.

Please, let this work.

A sinewy arm throws the paintbrush across the room, right past your head and your current canvas. Malachrom is back in his painting just as you flinch, whipping your head around. 

Your tail flicks nervously back and forth, reaching for the brush like it’s a bomb. You’re silent as you turn around, keen eyes looking for a hidden apparition or an intruder.

Malachrom can feel his nonexistent breath picking up pace as you move closer and closer to his work. Yes, Yes! 

Your eyes dart around again, looking over your shoulder, double checking the closed door to your studio.

“What the fuck?” You mutter, setting the brush back on the easel, fingers just barely brushing the canvas.

Please please please-

You take another look around, eyeing the window.

“Maybe…it was an earthquake.” You mutter, trying to convince yourself. You don’t smell an intruder, don’t sense any ghosts, just the normal smells of your studio. “Gods.” you wipe your eyes. “I should go to sleep.”

Malachrom nearly claws at his face. No, don’t leave!

You hesitate, eyeing up the unfinished piece. Malachrom doesn’t move an inch, even as his cock aches for something, anything.

You lift up a hand, brushing the back of your knuckles against the center figure, against him.

Oh, yes~

Malachrom shivers, hopefully imperceptibly. He’s not aware enough to care, this is the first touch in weeks.

A calloused index finger dances along the edges of him, and Malachrom feels a knot forming in his stomach. It’s intoxicating to feel you once again. Even like this, even without a brush.

You focus on a curve of Malachrom’s hip, tapping it as you furrow your brow.

You hum, grabbing the thrown paintbrush, and Malachrom almost screams.

You grab  a palette, dabbing just a little bit of black acrylic paint onto your brush before scraping it over Malachrom’s side. It’s a little detail, an extra shadow, but it’s enough for a content smile to settle on your face. You dab the spot once more, seamlessly blending it on the body.

Malachrom bites his lips so hard it oozes ink, thankful you're too focused to notice. He’s so close, but he can’t come yet. Gods, this is blissful torture.

Almost, almost. Please, a little bit more.

“Done.” You whisper to yourself, nodding as you look over the work. Those few seconds feel like hours. Malachrom thinks he might burst at the seams.

You yawn, stretching out your back and revealing the slightest bit of your stomach. A happy trail leads down into your sweats. Malachrome salivates.

“Alright.” You settle the brush into a water cup, scratching the back of your neck as you turn. It’s the moment Malachrom needs.

Fuck! Fuck!

His cock burns in his hand as he finally chases the high, the memory of your hands quickly sending him over the edge. Spurts of black cum gush over his fingertips. If he was more cognizant, he’d mourn staining the form you’d just perfected, even if he could easily clean it off.

Malachrom collapses just as you close to the studio, flicking off the lights and bathing him in darkness. 

He lets unconsciousness take him, even though he doesn’t need it. 

Finally, a taste of heaven.

—

You snuggle into bed that night, surprisingly giddy despite that weird occurrence with the paintbrush.

Finally, that was the fix you were looking for! The whole piece wasn’t done, you still needed to tidy up the background, but it feels like a huge hurdle has been pushed over.

You flick off your lamp and tuck yourself in. Maybe you’ll finish that piece tomorrow after all.

[answer2jeff]

not a lot, just forever.

carmen's opening up, but he wishes you'd do the same.

warnings: fluff + angst. fem!reader who is also a big reader (mostly poetry) and occasionally journals. unestablished relationship (friends to lovers, mutual pinning.) very touchy-feely. writing is overly detailed and so painfully poetic you might vomit.

word count : 2.4k

hey. i think i left my book at ur place. 11:15pm.

sorry, just got home. i can bring it over now 11:36pm.

oh yeah that'd be great! thank you. (sorry for the inconvenience) 11:38pm.

no worries 11:41pm.

lmk when ur here. xx 11:45pm.

Carmen had some idea of what that meant: xx. He knew what it meant when girls signed notes with xoxo in replacement of red kiss marks and strokes of long acrylic nails through their secret lovers hair—not that he ever received one, no. But your occasional visits practically felt just as intoxicating. If the order was x-o-x-o, and the worded statement being hugs-and-kisses, then xx must've been hugs, right? Two hugs. Like the one you shared the first time you met at Natalie's baby shower. He smelled like authentic Italian cologne with a hint of cigarette smoke diluted by dish soap and warm water. His grasp was hesitant, but ever-all-consuming once his shoulders relaxed. It was like metamorphosis. The way he wrapped his arms underneath while you tossed yours up around his neck, his gold chain feeling cold and hard against your skin, unlike the rest of him.

He was an under-hugger. He kept the ones he cared for unsuspectingly close to him. Such physical touch felt familiar. Maybe you'd just remembered stories and inside jokes about him through Natalie so well his tenderness and anxious nature was fitting to the idea of him you had in your head.

That was almost 6 months ago. And surprisingly, you'd become pretty good friends. Not that either of you really did friends at your age...but somehow it worked. You'd come to realize that he was so much kinder than anyone painted him out to be. And yet, you never really talked about yourselves.

Not in a way that really mattered, anyway.

The articles you'd written, the interviews you conducted with snobby assholes, the dozens of freelancing jobs with horrific schedules you had before, what you loved about writing and what you hated about the world around you—those were topics of discussion. Carmen's favorite restaurants he ever expanded his career with, the odd relationship he had with his sister that flipped like a rusty switch after highschool, candle scents he loved and bought over and over again despite their poor quality wicks, the first time he got drunk and how he swore he'd never let another drop of alcohol touch his tongue—those were normal methods of late night conversations.

But what about your dream to publish a novel? Or the memoir you read that completely changed your views on love as a whole. What about Carmen's uncle being his only friend his entire life? Oh, how he would've become a starving, broken artist if he ever believed he had enough talent for it. Hell, what about the girl you met in middle school who mysteriously moved away and shared all her secrets on the true meaning of life, death, and everything in between? Why didn't you ever talk about those things? Maybe it was too close, too personal. If he knew you too well, maybe he'd see you as you saw yourself.

Carmen had been thinking about those colored pencils you bought him for his birthday and can't get himself to tell you he uses them every day. Not just to illustrate his dishes...but you, sometimes. Your hair, your smile. He used that photo you begged him to snap of you staring out your window melodramatically with a bowl of pasta carbonara and a glass of bubbling champagne in front of you as reference. How could he ever show you the endless amount of pages containing the essence of your existence in that goddamn sketch book?

Questions. Questions. Questions.

Thoughts of potential ate away at your patience with every pacing step you took around your bedroom.

Answers. Answers. Answers.

—

"Do people even have deep conversations over pasta and wine anymore?" You trace the pad of your middle finger against the rim of your glass, your elbow propped up on the counter so your chin can rest in your hand.

Carmen draws his eyebrows together, the little crinkle in his forehead showing. You glance up at it and struggle to stifle a growing smile. He cocks his head before barring his bottom lip behind his teeth, picking at the skin with the tips of his fingers. That signature pose; where his left arm is crossed against his chest and his hand holds the elbow of his right arm. It's a habit you almost immediately picked up on. It told you time and time again that he was nervous.

Thinking. Contemplating.

"Is that, like—" he breaths a chuckle, but it comes out more as an accidental huff than anything. Smug bastard, he is. Especially when he drags his gold chain across his neck as it loops around the finger that once picked at the dry skin of his mouth.

"Your way of..asking me for a deep conversation over wine and pasta?"

Ah. He's called you out. The one thing he couldn't shake was his annoyance when you were so completely and utterly vague about your wants, your needs, your desires. Hell, Carmen Berzatto would wrap a lasso around the moon, or any planet you put your claim on, and drag it down so it could be yours and only yours. Only if it meant you'd stop feeling so complacent. You knew this. At least to some extent. His little favors buttered you up until you a mushy mess of adoration. What really scratched at your urges and your patience was how blissfully unaware he was of his show of affection toward you. Part of you feared that if you ever told him how much it caressed that bruised, fruit fly infested, rotted spot of your heart so gently it felt like a kiss, despite the sting, he'd stop.

"Y'know what? Yeah. I'm asking."

You shrug your shoulders and stare down at your nearly finished bowl of penne with vodka sauce. Stabbing a stack of pasta onto your fork and the clinking sound of the metal banging against the ceramic bowl seemed to fill the silence before Carmen finally spoke again, though with much hesitation.

"Okay," he barely whispers, nodding his head and fumbling to take a seat in the barstool underneath the counter. Sitting across from you gives him the constant justification to just look at you.

Starting off this session with a question was quite a kicker.

"Y'know Sade Zabala? Author of that book you brought back for me."

Carmen blinks slowly. He pretends to dig deep in his memory to identify the name, wondering if you'd ever mentioned her. But he fails, pulling his lips taught, so as to say 'I've got nothin.' The sound of your dramatic sigh and the 'tsk' sound of your lips separating makes his palms sweat.

"She's a wonderful writer. A poet. I mean, really, her book Coffee and Cigarettes was one of the most gut-wrenchingly beautiful and altruistic collections of.. of love, pain, rejuvenation—all of it."

If he was completely honest, he doesn't have a clear image of what those words meant. But it doesn't seem to matter what comes out of your mouth or how you phrase it. Your use of specific language fascinates him. There is nothing else he can do in this moment but nod and allow the corners of his lips to curl into a smile strong enough to make the apples of his cheeks go pink.

"I'll tell you one line of one of the greatest poems she had ever written in that book. In the humble opinion of yours truly, of course."

"Sure," he assures you. "Of course, of course."

"Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway."

Saliva pools in your mouth as you speak the quote, the taste of every vowel washing down your throat as if you dedicate them to Carmen himself. Which, in bare and naked truth, you do. The only thing you could ever ask of Carmen was to let himself tear himself open with the hope and belief that you would crawl into his fears and convert them into profound discoveries. And the trust that you would not stitch him up with your own hands, but rather clasp your fists around the circumference of his wrists as he carefully closes the wound his trajectory of life has created.

"Wow." Carmen's eyes go another centimeter wider, the language still processing in his mind. He interprets it over and over again.

"I know. And—" you set your fork down so you can have complete focus as you recite your following question, "I was just wondering what you'd say if someone told you that, y'know? What would you tell them?"

Vulnerability, he thinks. Fuck.

"I mean...fuck that's—that's a good question. Um.." he chews on the flesh of his bottom lip once again, looking above at the warm glow of the light that hangs over your island counter as if he'll find the answer up there.

"I don't even like the good stuff about me, so. I'm not sure how to, like, articulate that? Is that the word?"

Now the quickening pace has started.

"And what do you think the good stuff about you is?"

Probing questions like this are somewhat too-close-for-comfort inquiries for friends. But Carmen would be stupid to mind it. He relishes in it, actually. With much guilt. But it's tainted with the secret pleasure of being cared for by someone he so deeply valued the opinions and thoughts of.

Since the first day you met, Carmen knew he would never go to anyone else for some piece of mind. For some sanity. Or even just for someone to explain the method to his madness. You understood it—what he believed.

"I care a lot, I think. But that's not always practical. It hardly ever is now that I think about it."

"You do. You care so much." You soften your tone, hesitantly reaching for Carmen's tattooed hand that rests on the cold marble counter.

"Sometimes it freaks me out."

"Like, this whole thing, the—the restaurant, where my life is right now, it makes me crazy. But it also keeps me..."

"Human," you finish.

"Yeah, human."

Though it takes him a couple seconds for his digits to not second guess themselves, he gently takes your hand in his. The slow pace in which he intertwines his fingers with yours is enough to kill you.

"Can I tell you something?" Carmen asks.

"Anything."

"You take good care of me. Of everyone, really." . His thumb gently rubs your warm skin, the rough and calloused mounds over his fingerprints soothing you. A deep breath moves in and out from his lungs as he meets your eyes again. This time, he won't look away.

"It's like you were made to just be good."

You smile, but you're not convinced you're certain on what he means. "Thank you, Carm. But—good?"

"I don't know. You're warm. I'm—I'm not like that. I'm not warm."

This, this is where truths as bare as untraveled paws of loyal dogs that roamed the streets in search of security uncover themselves.

"What? Of course you are." You lean forward, feeling your heart pound so hard it could leap out of your body.

"I don't think I am."

To think—no, to know that Carmen Berzatto cannot share at least one feature of his layered soul he genuinely likes. God, that pains you. You could write a million sonnets listing every little thing you adored about your friend.

"Carmen, you—" you sigh, your head dropping for a fraction of a second. "You have such a big heart. You're not cold or...or out of reach, or anything like that, okay?"

Even with Carmen's tendency for rage and his tattoos that displayed yet another callback to his culinary career—his way of speaking: so gentle and unsupported, you're certain that he is something so much greater than just a chef. He took care of people too. His staff, his clientele, his family—of you. Whether it was home cooked meals when you were sick, or when you needed to complain about Natalie. Carmen listened. Not as her brother, but as your friend. You don't really remember when you started to regularly see each other during his leisure. Either at the restaurant, or a coffee shop next door to your complex, and eventually his living room.

"This is so fucking selfish, but—"

No, Carmen. You could never be selfish.

But you let him be hungry. You want him to be hungry. Starving for reassurance. Because you'll feed him until the empty space in his existence is filled.

"I just wish you'd look after yourself the way you take care of me. Like, fuck, hearing you look at yourself and point out all this shit that nobody notices—which I wish they fucking would—because I notice them and I still love those things about you is..."

Oh, what a beautiful mind you've always had. He'll always store all the love you can't have for yourself in his own heart. Your wit, your intelligence, your smile, even down to the way you have to readjust the grip of your fountain pen as you inscribe your thoughts into your journal

"Wrong." He completed his thought with just one word. "I don't like it. It makes me sad," he says again.

That breaks you. So much that a tear sure to be followed by many more wells up in your waterline. The glisten of the salty liquid in your eyes startles the wonderful man across you. You can see the immediate guilt in his face, his blue eyes filled with concern and regret. But you shake your head, holding onto his forearm as he raises his hand to your cheek to catch the falling tear. Fuck being friends. Fuck small talk. Fuck jokes and laughs and cigarettes and poor communication that just ended in silence.

This was here and now. There was no going back.

With that, you cupped Carmen's own cheek, leaning closer and closer to his lips before he desperately kissed you. His free hand anchored itself on your shoulder blade while yours crawled to the back of his head to burry itself in his golden curls. Your taste was everything. Salty with pasta with a sweet aftertaste that echoed from your fruity lip balm, followed by a final twinge of bitterness from your glass of red wine. He tasted of comfort, of acceptance, something you'd never felt against your tastebuds from the previous years of the dating pool. With every separation of your lips to swallow gasps of air, the further the two of you hovered over the counter in a needy attempt to get closer.

You didn't need answers. Not a lot from him either. Just him. Forever.

tags: @lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber @sexyyounglatinoboy @febris-amatoria @diorrfairy

[megachaoticstupid]

Birthday hunt

Summary: it is your birthday and Copia, with the help of the ghouls, prepared a quest for you

Word count: 3028

A/N: Since it is my birthday today, i decided to make something wholesome for Mel and I and it got out of hand 🤣 @her-satanic-wiles happy birthday to you! ❤

Warnings: none Masterlist

You woke up rather early for you on your day off. It was just around ten and you had a whole day ahead of you. Not just peeking through the closed curtains, the sun was high in the sky and you could tell it held its grudges specifically against you, blinding you painfully. You lazily left your warm bed, showered and slipped a shirt with one of Copia’s favorite bands on the front. Copa wasn’t there but there was breakfast waiting for you. It was still warm and had a note on top of it with slightly curved handwriting.

“Buongiorno, amore. I made breakfast for you but I am sure that you decided to read it first. Unfortunately, I will not see you until evening but I found a way to occupy you for the time being and remind you how important you are to me. Eat well and go on adventure! Happy birthday!” 

You chuckled, feeling your cheeks heat up a bit and flipped the note on the other side.

“Bah! You found a secret letter so soon?! Well, hopefully you ate and you are ready to go on this glorious hunt! The first riddle will be the easiest so far and I am sure you will crack it up easily. “This was your favorite for a while. It’s name also belongs to one of my favorite bands. That night I realized something important for me” Good luck, amore and don’t forget that I was made for loving you”

You chuckled. While you ate waffles with strawberries, you though over the riddle. He was laying it on thick in this one and you still couldn’t help but feel excitement for what’s to come next. Of course, you knew what he was writing about. When it happened you already were close, teetering on the edge of something closer than just friendship. It was a New Year’s Eve ball. You danced a lot and laughed a lot and generally had the greatest time. He held you a bit too close during dances. Your heart was betraying you the whole evening, making you yearn for something you never thought would be yours. Together you were swaying to the music, smiling at each other and his arms around you felt so natural that you were on the verge of blurting out your confession. Instead, you saw Klimt’s painting in the farthest corner of the banquet hall. Relived and at the same time torn by your own feelings, you took this opportunity for reprieve and dragged him to the painting just to blabber about it for thirty minutes straight. And he listened to you with the softest smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes, still keeping his hand on the small of your back. 

You smiled at the memory dressing up and then hurried out of the room, skipping the steps on the stairs whenever you could. You needed “The kiss”. Once you got to the needed hall, you almost flew to the painting. It was still in the same corner as three years ago. The reproduction, made by some of the most talented members of the church, was still as beautiful as you remembered it. It was bright and beautiful drawing you gaze to its colors, bedazzling you making you blink so you could return to the present. Luckily, it wasn’t hard to find what you needed. You just searched the frame of painting carefully until you felt an envelope tucked behind the frame.

“Aha! I knew you’d find this, amore. But just like I said, it was the easiest so far. That night gave me a push I needed to finally confess to you. I was (and still!) deeply in love with you but my own self-doubt was preventing me from taking this step. But that night changed it all. You were shining as if you were the sun that’d decided to join us in celebrations. You stole my breath and made my heart beat faster. I couldn’t tear my eyes from you the whole evening and was jealous whenever you danced with other partners. And when you dragged me through the hall to this painting just to pour your heart out talking about Klimt, I knew I wanted this. I wanted to listen to your thoughts and stories; I wanted to embrace and love you and kiss you every day of my life. I still want that and still feel grateful to you for blessing my life”

You feel your eyes prickle a bit from tears. You wanted to never part with him and you loved him so-so much. Sometimes you felt as if your heart was ready to burst from the amount of love you always held for him. Sniffling, you flipped the note once again and saw his other riddle.

“Hope you are still interested to find your surprise, but for now you should guess this riddle. “They are small and unimposing but if you make a horde of them, they will destroy cities. Find three of them and you will find the answer.”

You went over this riddle several times and only on the last reading you managed to guess what he meant. His rats. You smiled and hurried out of the hall and up the stairs to your shared rooms but there were none of them. You frowned and searched everything, even the small balcony in case Copia decided to give them sunbaths. Once again there was nothing. You turned on your heels towards the exit, hoping to search for them in his office, and saw a poster on the door with cut out letters from papers

“We got the piccoli ratti if you want to see them alive and well, bring a cake from the kitchens to Cardinal’s office as soon as possible”

Chuckling, you shook your head, folded the paper and hurried out of the door down to the kitchens. Today was a leg day. 

The kitchens were empty and the only cake you found was in the fridge, covered only in white cream. You shrugged your shoulders and walked out of the door going to the east wing where the clergy’s offices were. After countless staircases you finally reached Copia’s door and opened it. The picture you were met with was so funny that you almost dropped the cake laughing hard. Aether was holding the cage with rats solemnly while Swiss turned around in the chair, making a caricature of don Corleone.

“You barge in here without respect…” he said slowly spinning away from you.

“Yeah, here is the cake, give me the rats and I will go”

Swiss tsked, made another round on the chair and shook his head dropping the act.

“No can do. You will have to wait for…” he glanced at the clock. “five minutes”

“Why is that?” you asked propping your hands on your hips and frowning at the ghouls but they remained indifferent. Aether gently put the cage on the table and glanced at Swiss giving you several papers. 

“Nothing’s bad,” he said nonchalantly. “We just need to hold you here for a bit and then off to the hunt you go»

You sighed impatiently and turned your attention to the small notes and the envelope in your hands.

“Mia cara, I am glad you remembered the mighty beasts – Rigatoni, Ditalini and Rotini. I still remember when you saved my Rigatoni the day he escaped his cage. If it wasn't for you, I would have lost him and if it wasn't for him, we wouldn't have met, si? This encounter showed me how kind and sweet you were, worrying about the small creature most people would have ignored. I can’t expres how grateful I am for that with words, but I hope my actions will tell you everything. As for the birthday hunt… Rigatoni gives guidance, Ditalini gives place and Rotini says number. Good luck, I am sure you will deal easily with this small task ♥️» 

The next three scribbles you were given just a few words. Rigatoni’s said “our first encounter and one of your favorites here”, Ditalini’s named the “5 row” and the cutest rat Rotini gave you a number – “ten”. You sighed, waved at the ghouls and swiftly walked out of the door, ignoring Swiss’s protests. After all, you had riddles to solve. 

You quickly climbed the stairs, going up, up, up to the fifth floor, to the place where you met each other for the first time – the library. Once there, you swiftly walked inside and ignoring siblings of sin you started pouring through sections. You loved a lot of genres and authors and the church’s library provided you with myriads of books to enjoy and fell in love with. It was hard to imagine what he meant by “one of your favorites here”. You went through every section, climbing from genre to genre until you noticed a pair of siblings of sin, giggling over a book and looking so charmed with each other, that you remembered a scene from the past; the puzzle finally clicked in your head. You swiftly went to the romance section, and here in the fifth row you immediately grabbed “Pride and prejudice” from the tenth shelf. Inside there was a letter.

“Congratulations, bella ragazza! You are almost finished with running around the abbey, I promise! I still remember how much I was charmed by you on a first encounter. So much so I ended up reading this book just for a chance to talk to you (you held it in your hand that day). Back then I hoped to find a friend in you. Your kindness and wit drew me that day and never let me go. The book was wonderful, but you were even better. Now please return to our room, there will be a dress for you and a final direction for my surprise”

You smiled, holding the letter close to the chest and then you swiftly returned to your quarters feeling a thrill run in your veins. But there was no dress waiting for you. Slightly disappointed, you sat down in the chair, going through the letters from him and once again feeling his love warming you like a good warm sweater. 

Time passed, you checked the phone and sighed. He might have forgotten about this step, overwhelmed with his duties or other preparations. As soon as this thought crossed your mind the door suddenly opened and you saw Aurora carrying the dress for you. The one you have wanted to buy for so long but never got around to actually buying it. It was of a deep red color gradually turning black down to the hem and had a low cut. You just loved it since it was simple and a touch sexy.

Upon seeing you, ghoulette freezed, holding the dress closer to her chest and blinking several times as if not believing that you were real and standing right in front of her.

“I…You shouldn’t be there” she said, frowning. “Did those two let you out so soon?”

Now was your turn to frown and cross your arms on your chest

“That’s my room and I can be there for however long I want to and whenever I want to”

“No-no,” she shook her head sighing and placing the dress on the bed. “You just solved these riddles far too quickly and now the others should hurry up since we are falling a bit behind the schedule…” she noticed the look in your eyes and mischievous smile spread on her lips. “I am not telling you anything else! Cardinal’s orders”. 

 “And when should I dress up and go to Copia?” You asked curiously, trying to guess what else Copia had decided to do for you

“In an hour and a half” she clicked her tongue and flopped on the bed. “We can watch a movie and if you are up to it, I could do your nails and hair”.

You looked at her, then at the notes from Copia in your hands, and nodded. After all, you could get even more pampered on your birthday.

Two hours later, you followed the instructions stated in the final note from your cardinal. You went into gardens, right toward the gazebo covered in roses. You had been there for your first date years ago and now you were curious about what he had prepared this time. Unfortunately. last time almost ended up to be a failure: the food got burnt and you got bitten by mosquitos and had to use ointment while he tried to wave them away. You chuckled at the memory and quickened your steps, wanting to get there faster.

In his note he promised a good date for the two of you which will succeed all of your expectations and the scene that unfolded in front of your eyes was definitely like no other. Copia, your Copia, was holding a beautiful bouquet of roses, your favorite. He was dressed in his red stage costume that fitted him like a glove. But, despite his looks he was in a state of clear distress, yelling at someone and flailing his arms desperately. Someone, and you could see that this someone was Dew, argued back at him, gesturing even more expressively. They argued for a bit more and then the ghoul stormed out, his tail flailing irritably.

“Love?” you called out for Copia, coming closer to him. “What’s going on?”

If you hadn’t known him for long you could swear you saw fear in his eyes. He immediately closed the distance, taking your hand in his and bringing it to his lips, while blocking something with his shoulders from your view. His mustache tickled your skin a little and at the same time  this touch was spreading warmth through your body. You missed him dearly today.

“You look stunning amore mio” he says trying to pull you closer and then remembering about the bouquet. With an awkward “eh” he gave it to you and continued after clearing his throat: “Happy birthday bellezza, may Satan always bless your life and I will try to fill it with happiness.”

You smiled at him and kissed his cheek tenderly

“These are my favorite, Copia. Thank you. But what was the matter with…” 

But he didn’t let you finish your question. Making an awkward sound, he wrapped his arm around your waist and tugged you slightly closer to him.

“Ah, just some…ehh… disagreements on the menu. Nothing serious really. But we might wait a bit for food.”

He smiled sweetly at you but you could see that something was wrong. You let him usher you into gazebo and sat you down at the table with unlit candles.

“Ah, mi dispiace, I..um… let me just…” he took out a lighter and started lighting them. “I just, I was excepting you a bit later so…you know, it would have been a candlelight dinner with a setting sun, but…ehe… you shine brighter than any candles”

You took his hand in yours and smiled softly 

“I love you. Thank you for this evening and riddles. They were fun to guess and your notes were so sweet. I wish you were there; I would have kissed you every time I got something right”  

He smiled wider at you; his cheeks were getting slightly redder under his freckles and squeezed your hand in his bringing it once again to his lips.

“Well, it’s not nearly an evening, amore. We can eat and then I will give my birthday girl the best treatment and all of the kisses and more.” he finally relaxed; self-assured smile shone on his features. You smiled back only to tease him further

“So, tell me, love. Did you open the gates of hell just to add a bit of spice to my birthday or did you and the ghouls burn something in that small kitchen?”

His smile fell and then returned back, more amused than before. Then he finally chuckled completely relaxing

“Ah, demonietta, should you betray me like that?” he sighed running his hand through his slightly greying locks. “I don’t know why, but whenever I plan something grandiose for you everything goes to literal hell. Your dress didn’t come on time from the cleaning services and I had to drive to pick it up myself with Cirrus. My library note was taken by another sibling of sin and Cumulus had to track them down and forcefully take it from them. They are fine” he added when he saw you worried glance. “Then, I asked Dewdrop to watch over the food I have been preparing for you since morning and this… stronzo, decided to make the fire stronger to cook it faster. So, when we returned, everything had been burnt to crisp.” He sighed heavily and then smiled thinly at you. “And Swiss and Aether who should have watched over him fell asleep in my office. The only good thing is - the birthday cake. It is untouched and the roses were fine.”

He looked at you guiltily, ready to apologize for everything but you didn’t let him. Instead, you swiftly stood up, came closer to him sat down on his lap hugging him by the neck.

“I got the dress I wanted and really enjoyed the hunt you made for me” you sad reassuringly.

“Yeah, you were clever with them and dealt with the notes much faster than I anticipated. I made you wait.” He started again and you shushed him.

“Aurora made my nails and hair prettily and I got to watch my favorite movie” you see him open his mouth and swiftly pecked his lips. “I also got lots of love notes from a certain cardinal who cooked for me and promised me lots of kisses and even more, a whole birthday cake”

Copia chuckled burying his face in the crook of your neck, hugging you tightly.

“And a take out, I am not a complete savage to leave you hungry” he nuzzled his face deeper in the crook of your neck and sighed. “I need to tell the ghouls to not attack the courier. One more attack and nobody would be delivering us food”

You chuckled, running you hand through his locks

“And we have to control Dew’s future cooking” 

Copia raised his head, rolling his eyes and kissed you sweetly, giving you the best present – his love. 

[linddzz]

In Which Hob, a Shitty Wizard, Meets a Supposed Demon

Last week or so I made too many posts about what if Hob, still immortal, trying out occultism but kinda crap at it (which is some bullshit considering that Death is his drinking buddy), first meets Dream as the devil in the basement of The Magus Burgess. I called it "the shit-wizard Hob AU"

I still don't know if I'll finish it. But I couldn't stop it from starting.

No editing no betas we post on Tumblr like idiots.

EDIT: very mild editing still no betas we still stupid

********

In August of 1923, Hob Gadling - currently Rob Gedlen- is introduced to a demon.

It is, he has to admit, rather impressive. Or at least, the bonds keeping it tamed are. The prison space is everything a magus cellar should be. All arched, ancient stone and dim lighting that only barely illuminates the painted ceiling. Shadows so deep that even the electric bulbs only give the dark textures of colour. Green algae, the saturated grays and browns of rock, the faded blue and gold of the artificial night sky.

The oily glint of black iron chains. The sweeping ooze of the light over the curved iron scaffolding the chains held up, and the dizzying reflection off of the glass orb held within the iron like a gem clasped in dragon claws suspended over a small, mirror flat moat and an intricate golden circle.

Very impressive. Forboding even. The sort of thing a magus should have in his cellar.

The man inside of it looks for all the world like an ordinary naked man. Right number of limbs, hair and skin natural colors, everything in place where it should be. That's if one ignored the fact that he was sitting calm and clean in a fully airtight sphere of glass. Ordinary, if you were a dimwit and took human shape as a sign of humanity.

“This,” Burgess says with a wicked, bitter sort of pride, “is the Order’s secret of success.”

Hob whistles, because he thinks he should show some sort of appreciation. He's been working for Burgess for a few years now after all, and knows when to look suitably impressed. It is impressive, so he doesn't need to play it up too much when he follows Burgess past the wrought iron gate.

The man in the glass looks less like a mystical secret and more like he needs a coat. He's even sitting with his knees tucked to his chest, delicate ankles crossed in front of him, arms loosely draped forward and black haired head bowed down as if in deep thought.

With his nakedness, the curled position would look painfully vulnerable, were it not for the overwhelming sense that he's waiting.

“He's a demon of dreams. Or close enough to a demon.” Burgess explains. His cane tapping on the stone is the only other sound in that strange space. “I was attempting to summon Death itself, and failed at my task. But I did not come away empty handed.”

Yeah, that's probably for the best. If Hob had sauntered down here and seen Her displayed in a glass cage like a bauble, he would have done something stupid and violent. Best case scenario; She would just laugh at him for overreacting. Worst case; She'd do it with that sad little twist to Her mouth.

The entity Burgess did nab seems miniscule compared to the apparatus around him, to the manor towering over their heads. Yet even Hob and his absolute shit senses for magic can feel how everything is circling the center point of the man. They're all little marbles, orbiting the sphere and the mass within it.

“An incubus?” Hob asks, walking around the perimeter of the moat. His tone is mild, curious, intrigued. It's a talent of his to not exactly lie, but to use some of his feelings to mask others.

It’s a horrible thing, to take the freedom of another for your own benefit.

Her voice echoes in his head. That moment is never far from his head. The sad sweetness of her voice turned sour. The hard disappointment in her dark eyes. He will never forget the horrid, sickening twist of guilt of that meeting, and he feels it when he looks at the demon in the magus’ cellar.

The lights reflect oddly in the sphere, making it seem as if the man himself were the source of illumination. His skin is the sort of gleaming white that poets would froth over. Hob isn't a poet, but even he can tell that “white” hardly does it justice. The alabaster statues a floor above are going to appear dull and crude now when compared to the snow-under-moonlight of the man down here. The shadows of him are blue, violet, deepest velvet black.

Maybe not snow under moonlight, Hob thinks, reminded of the multi-hued winter twilight.

Now that he's closer, Hob can make out the sharply sculpted features of him. His curled body is a lean, hungry twist of muscle that reminds one less of actual flesh than of a tangled metal chord. His cheekbones are sharp and high, his eyes cast down with a sweep of raven wing lashes. The only hints of life are the faint flushes of seashell pink at his ears, his fingers, the still and plush lips.

“If you like.” Burgess says, which means the man isn't an incubus and Burgess thinks he's fucking clever again. The magus is watching Hob now, who is examining the circle, the iron chains, anything that will keep him from thinking too much about the thin form trapped within it.

“I attempted first to gain favors from it.” Burgess continues when Hob says nothing. “But it is stubbornly silent. No matter.”

Burgess has stepped past the moat, past the circle, to stand with his nose nearly touching the round glass wall. Hob stays outside of the barriers, but he is close enough that he can see the hate that always sits beneath his boss’ manners.

“No matter.” Burgess repeats, sneering at his captive. “Found a use for you anyway, didn't I? Just its presence brings power to this place. It amplifies the magic here, makes the spells wrought near it more solid.”

“Not much hope for me then, if I'm already by some magic booster.” Hob grins, and his boss chuckles almost fondly. It had been a whim that had Hob joining the Order. He’d never tried being a magician before, though he had gone to a few seances when they were at their peak. Occultism wasn't too fashionable anymore, so Hob thought it was best to try it out now before it got truly passe.

He's glad he's only been at it for a few years, because he's crap at it. All the costumes and chanting and intricate rituals seem silly, even when he's seen the true results of it. It was just a bunch of nonsense cobbled together from bad translations and old frauds that everyone knew were frauds back in the day! But if you followed the stupid made up rubbish perfectly, sometimes it would result in some actual magic.

That's one of the stupid things about magic. If all you can think about while doing a spell is that you must look like an utter berk, it won't work.

“We all have our talents, Mr. Gedlen.” Burgess says mildly, indulgently. “It's why I have brought you here, actually. You may not have the Gift,” he always referred to magic like that, you could hear the self important capitalized letters in it, “but you’re measured. Resilient. Notably unshakable.

Hob supposed that was true enough. Being in a house with a bunch of wizardy twats who were too busy going mad while practicing the perfect runes took a level head. Someone needed to have enough of a practical mindset to smother out all the fires that tended to happen, even if those fires had colors that gave you a headache.

“I've tried other magicians, promising acolytes, ruffian's from the street.” Burgess continues, sighing with remembered disappointment and gazing hard at the unmoving demon. “They would lose their nerve, complain of nightmares, or they would be too dimwitted to know the sorts of things to report on.”

Hob moves again, still keeping to the edges of the moat, until he is looking at Burgess’ back and into the lowered face of the demon. “You want me to be a guard?” He asks, voice mild because he isn't sure how he feels about that.

“An observer.” Burgess corrects. “You're sharp, though I've noticed that you try not to show it. You don't have a talent for magic, but you're quick to catch onto the supernatural.”

Hob should hope so, all things considered.

“I want you to take one of the guard shifts, yes. But I want to see what you observe compared to the thicker minds my son has hired. I want you to tell me when it moves, how it moved, if the light seemed different, if you felt tired despite the forced march pills you will be required to take. Any sign that it might be trying to wear away at the binds that hold it.

Do not be fooled by it's stillness or fair looks.” Burgess taps his cane on the sphere, making it ring like a perfect crystal. “This is a demon. If it ever breaks free, it will destroy all of us without a thought.”

The demon lifts its head then, and Hob wonders if his heart finally stops. The movement is slow, strange and dragged, a statue that can only mimic how a living thing would move. The raven wing lashes fly up. The demons eyes are shadowed. Far more deeply shadowed than they should be for the amount of light shining off his skin.

Within those shadows, the place where his eyes must be draw all the light in, refine it, refract it back in the distant twinkling of two dim, hateful, cold stars.

“Yeah. I don't doubt that.” Hob says quietly, and the demons eyes blaze in its beautiful, dead face.

[neverchecking]

NSFW Alphabet- Wild Edition

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

At the start, he's...not the best. But-BUT, hear me out, he learns. He's such a good learner and he's quick at learning things too. You could mention something offhandedly during... fucking lunch or something and he's remembering it for the next time you have sex. So while it takes time, he does eventually become a king at aftercare. Massaging muscles, lotion-ing bodies, helping Reader to the bathroom, etc...

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His partner? Everything. All of it. Anything Reader is willing to bless him with he's all over. But if he had to chose? Their tummy honestly. It's a sign of their health to him. If it has a little chub? His favorite. It means he's doing his job and their eating well. Their remaining safe and healthy and happy. And he loves just holding it and anchoring his hands there.

On him? ...His hands. I know I said this with Twilight (Lmao I wrote Twilight's before Wilds), but Wild likes his hands too. They're talented. They have to be. With his knife skills, and his rock climbing and whatever else, he has strong fingers. And he knows how to use them. If it makes his partner happy, he's happy.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Oh, he loves painting his partner's chest and stomach in his cum. Watching the ropes paint their skin a pretty white while bliss makes their gaze loopy and blank drives him absolutely nuts, probably making him hard all over again as he's pouncing once more to do it all over again.

He'll never say no to giving you his own personal pie though. I'm so sorry for that I hate myself lmao /s

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He would love if you pegged him while he was wearing the Vai outfit. Lay him down and take it slow? Lace kisses up and down his scarred body? Take your sweet time with him and ensure his own pleasure no matter what while taking him apart? All of it. He wants all of it. He wants to feel you, hold you, let you take charge so he can let his guard down for once.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Nope. Clueless. If he had sex before dying, he forgot. He considered himself a virgin when you two met and says he lost it to you when asked. Maybe he had sex before he died, but fuck if he knows. He only knows you.

And he loves learning with you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

This is a toughie because he is so erratic as a character. Somedays he probably loves you ass down face up, others he just needs missionary. Depends on his mood and how the day is going/went.

But his ultimate favorite is probably the pretzel dip. Having you on your side with one of his legs hooked over your bottom leg is perfect in every way. He gets that intimacy that comes with eye contact, and he gets all the benefits of doggy style. It has that special place in his heart.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He definitely lets out a few jokes and quips. It relaxes him, it relaxes his partner. He sees it as a win-win. He loves making things as effortless as possible for both parties, and if that does it, so be it. Plus he loves his lover's laugh.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Oddly enough, yeah, I think he's pretty well groomed. It's a bush, but it's a controlled bush, yk? No. it's cleaned and groomed and trimmed. probably a little lighter than his normal hair color.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He can be super romantic! Flowers, candles, soft words of praise. He can do the whole package. But he can also do everything else. He's a wild card, heh, in the sense that he can be whatever you need from him.

He does love those intimate nights of reestablishing your love for one another. Sure, you can have the bells and whistles that come with kinks and toys and whatever else, but those nights where its just you and him and the love between you two manifesting itself into this act are always going to be some of his favorites.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He used to do it every once in a while. Not often, but when the nights got a little too lonely he would take the twenty minutes to rub one out. It de-stressed him and got his muscles relaxed enough for him to take a breather for an hour. After meeting you? It's so incredibly rare. He loves just having you there because not only does the release relax him, but so does your presence alone.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He definitely likes cuffing his lover's hands together with metal bracelets and using magnesis to hold them up. Or using just a bit of Cryonis to cultivate small ice cubes that leave shiny tails along your body. Or maybe he's uses stasis to freeze you place while he does whatever he wants with you? Hard to choose really.

For sure has a exhibitionist kink though. He loves the thrill of almost getting caught. Makes him feel alive.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere he can get his hands on you. If it has reasonable privacy and you guys have twenty minutes, he's taking you then and there. His favorite place is probably his own home. Or in an alley in Gerudo? Maybe behind a rock formation in Eldin? Perhaps a cabin up in Hebra?

Maybe he can't pick a favorite afterall~

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He's kind of like Twilight in the sense of everything, but when there's something that gets the adrenaline pumping, he's especially ripping, ready to go. Especially if it's right after a near death experience. Those have him spitting out an excuse before pulling you out of ear shot and pinning you to the nearest tree while his body still thrums with the rush left over.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that comes even remotely close to non-consensual play. Like consensual non-consent? He fucking hates it. He hates the idea that he could ever be capable of hurting you in such a way. It eats at him and he fucking refuses to do anything that bares any resemblance to that. He needs clear, verbal consent to any and everything.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Also a giver! He loves hooking your legs over his shoulders as you lean against a tree, fingers threading in his hair. Or slipping between you and the counter you lean onto for support pulling your hips in time with his tongue. Or simply letting you use his mouth as your own personal toy <3

When it comes to receiving, he is the biggest whiner. He doesn't have the patience for teasing, so he's constantly bucking his hips, and he doesn't keep quiet doing so either. He's begging and pleading for more, all while whimpering out your name. If he gets especially desperate, he may forgo your pace and fuck your mouth instead.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Can do both. He likes the soft and sensual side, being reminded that he's worth something, but he also likes just ruining you and having you beneath him. Putting him in charge and trusting he knows how to deal with you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Loves them. All the time. He's a busy man with a lot on his plate and if he can destress and restart with just a twenty minute break? He's doing it. Any chance he gets he's taking it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

So down for any risks. He loves the idea of it all. Sucking his dick in an inn bathroom while a group of men walk past? He's biting his lips at the thought of them walking in to see you on your knees. He's going down on you behind some pasture while people bargain for horse equipment? Nearly cumming in his pants at the though. Anything his partner is up to, he's ready to follow.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

So many rounds. You cannot stop him by trying to exhaust him. It doesn't work like that. His lover either taps out or their going until the sun is shining down on them, lettings its rays cascade over their worn and tired bodies.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He does. He's into all sorts of things and is always open to try something new. I don't know what the kink scene is like in Hryule, but Wild probably comes up with new things all on his own ;) Pretty silken ropes, or plugs made from shined and polished metal, maybe even a bar meant to keep his beloveds ankles spread just for him.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves teasing. Winding up his partner tighter and tighter, waiting for them to snap, and watching with glee as their own frustrations build up. He's letting his touches linger and his words dip into a husky whisper against their ears, only to walk away right after, whistling a hearty tune.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He makes the prettiest noises. Loud and pretty and even when he tries to muffle them, he just can't. It's like it goes against his very soul to hide how good you make him feel from the world.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Okay, so I know some people tag him a brat/ power bottom, and you're right, but I also like the idea of him just being this no nonsense dom. He's had a taste of being in total control of himself, and what he does, and loves it. From the bits he remembers, pre-Calamity, he wasn't happy. Not with his every move monitored and carefully dictated. So when his partner not only gives him control over himself, but also them?

He's drooling at the thought of it.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Not overly girthy, pretty average in fact, but the length. 6.5 inches with a few veins running up the sides. The head is a darker red than the rest of his skin and he's surprisingly circumcised. (His dad was in the military as well, so it's probably a result of his dad following those strict guidelines.)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty high. He's under a lot of stress okay? He needs something to let it out on. Plus, that alone with his energy reservoirs leads to him needing something pretty near constantly. He's normally able to push it back, but if you offered him whenever the urge hit you, he'd be up for it.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not for a while. Even after something like sex drains his energy, Wild has the innate need to ensure that his sweetheart is okay. He's watching them for a while, just making sure their chest is rising and falling the way it's supposed to. When fatigue does eventually tug at his bones, he's burrowing into their side and letting them hold him as he drifts to sleep, content their okay for the night.

[jbbartram-illu]

How do y'all paint with glaze since it totally looks different before and after firing . Do you really just memorize a whole color palette??

So! There are two different substances with which you can 'paint' a piece of pottery: glaze and underglaze.*

An underglaze contains pigments that can stand up to the heat of a glaze firing (approx 2200ºF for a typical cone 6 firing!! HOT!!), but are less thick & do not melt in the same way as true glazes, so if you don't put a clear glaze on top of them, they fire mostly matte, like the outside of this finished mug --

-- and underglazes also stay basically the same colour between when they're applied to the clay and when they're fired (most darken a bit, especially if you put clear glaze overtop, and some get duller, especially darker greens). You can also mix underglazes like they're paint while you're applying them - I literally use a paint palette to mix my colours.

Here's a photo of some of the underglazes I used to paint the above sphinx -- you can see how similar they are to the final result:

Then you have glazes which are applied much more thickly and in layers, and when you fire them form a hard, generally shiny (tho there are satin & matte finish glazes), glass-like surface. I'm pretty sure that the pigments they use are different from those in underglazes, but I'm only just starting to get into glaze chemistry (I buy my glazes in pre-mixed pints from companies like Amaco & Mayco).

Unlike underglazes, glazes look COMPLETELY different between when you apply them & when you get them out of the kiln. Here are a couple of examples, unfired on the left & fired on the right:

I love to experiment with both underglazes & glazes in my decoration, as both produce such different results. Underglaze decoration is a more controlled method, where you have a general idea of what the piece will look like from painting to final, great for the outsides of my mugs & some of my creatures (eg my bird ladies).

On the other hand, the insides of the mugs & some other, simpler creatures I make play really well with the uncertainty & alchemy of glazes (& glaze layering!! I've got a Q about this later on, so will be talking more about that soon):

In conclusion to this, uhhh, novella, underglaze & glaze are like cousins who get along really well but also have their own special talents! One is steady & straightforward (underglaze), while the other is maybe a secret wizard & can be a temperamental butthead (dang glazes)?!

*to note: there are other methods as well, like slip, which can be dyed with mason stains, and underglaze pencils & probably other things I don't even know about, but for now let's just discuss the two 'painty' ones

[giorno-plays-piano]

Metamorph

Part III

Pairing: art teacher!Aemond Targaryen x reader (Horror AU)

Warnings: dark!Aemond, obsessive behavior, murder, horror, yandere, kidnapping, misanthropy, general creepy stuff.

Words: 1.1k

Summary: Drawn to the artworks of one of the most esteemed artists in the city, you wish to learn from him and find out what inspires him to create his masterpieces. You have no idea how much his secrets will cost you.

Part I | Part II

____________

You clenched your fancy Kohinoor pencil between your fingers like it's a gun, staring at Aemond already posing in front of all of you. No procrastination, you reminded yourself firmly as you drew a long vertical line across the paper to balance the future drawing. Your teacher hadn't berated you for your mistakes even once. It'd be fine if you got this one wrong, too. Anything was better than an empty sheet.

God, but Aemond was so pretty. His high cheekbones, his strong nose and jaw, and those thin but expressive lips, the long scar across the left side of his face...

You quickly hid behind your easel.

Breathe. Just get out of your head, you repeated to yourself Aemond's very words. You needed to get started, and whatever happened next didn't matter as long as you allowed yourself to draw whatever came to your mind. Explanations and logic be damned. You were an artist! At these rare moments, you were supposed to feel, not think.

Slowly inhaling and exhaling to keep your anxiety at bay, you uncleched the pencil in your fingers and slowly started shaping the figure on a sheet. It's fine. Aemond wouldn't get mad anyway as long as you did what he said.

The more you put your pencil to the sheet, the easier it was getting, something unfurling in your chest, putting a stop to your anxious thoughts and fears of failure as you continued to build Aemond's body, starting to get into details once you finished with the primary form. Regardless of his talent and uniqueness as an artist, he was still only a fellow human being like you. There was no need to magnify his power.

By the time Aemond walked over to you, you were almost finished with the painting, landing the last strokes to color the palms of the man on the sheet. It was that very red paint you had been mooning over for many months, complimenting its unusual vibrant color and a pleasant consistency. It was hard to believe you were now using it for your own artwork, but time was running out, and you didn't have a spare moment to be drooling over the paint.

"What do we have here?" The artist hummed, making you jump in your seat. How on Earth did he manage to walk so quietly in a room full of tables, chairs, and people?

Trying to focus on his question, you suddenly realized you had no clue how to present your idea to the teacher. Did you even draw what he had asked you to? What was that, not changing the silhouette and using mainly paint to express yourself or something?

You felt the beads of sweat promptly forming on your forehead as you clenched your jaw.

"You've been improving," Aemond told you, eye on the drawing as he tilted his head to the side. "Body proportions seem right, and I like the way you shaped the arms and legs. You had difficulties with them before."

Oh, really? You surely had problems drawing arms, but you didn't notice you were becoming better. A pleasant surprise. Not that one wouldn't expect to improve after taking lessons from the most esteemed artist in the city.

"Why did you paint the head and hands in red?"

Oh, crap. Why did you? You frantically searched for an answer other than "no idea, Sir, I think my subconsciousness just took over my body." Shifting in your seat uncomfortably, you looked up to Aemond bent over, intently studying your artwork.

Cautiously, you muttered, "I-I think every change starts from the head, Sir."

Would that qualify for an answer? But Aemond quickly directed his gaze at you and demanded, "And hands?"

Biting your poor lip that no amont of lip balm was going to save after today's lesson, you mumbled, "Hands are the tool that make the change happen, Sir."

"Very logical, yes. Now, forget about trying to give me a logical answer and tell me what you felt when you were drawing this. Tell me about the paint."

He bent over even closer to you, practically breathing into your face, and you almost lost the ability to produce any adequate sounds. Your teacher clearly saw through your bullshit, and the thought that he was upset or even mad at you made you feel miserable.

"It's a metamorph, Sir," you whispered, one step closer to having a panic attack and hoping no student in the room was listening to your rambling, "and red is a color of life. Of change."

Aemond cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at you. "Why do you think red is the color of change? Is it because the change scares you?"

"It's not the change itself that scares me. It's what the metamorph is becoming, Sir," you uttered in a small voice and then added even quieter, praying only Aemond could hear you, "I think- I think he's turning into something violent, Sir. Something terrifying."

It took you a second to recognize what you've just said and what reaction it has provoked.

All of a sudden, you were staring in the face of Aemond Targaryen with his thin lips stretched so wide in a smile that it was even a little creepy. Was he... content? Did he want to laugh at your silly attempt to explain your feelings when you'd been drawing? You wouldn't even be offended, to be fair. It sounded like nonsense to you, too.

But no, he didn't seem to find it funny. Instead, you felt his palm squeezing your shoulder firmly, his smile unwavering as he spoke to you in a hushed voice the way you'd been answering to him, "Very good. My favorite artwork today so far."

As he got up, moving to the next student on your left, you were ready to jump and run away from the studio because, clearly, you were going to burst from the excess of feelings and anxiety in the next five seconds. Your teacher said it was his favorite painting today. This banal, lacking in originality in its every aspect thing was his favorite. When blood rushed to your head, making you sweat and feel disoriented, you clutched the brush between your fingers, squeezing your eyes shut.

Aemond Targaryen liked your painting. Despite being the very inspiration for the beautiful but horrifying metamorph, he actually had some sort of fondness for it because later, before you left, he actually asked you to allow him to keep the artwork for his own collection. Why did he like it so much? You had no idea.

_________

Tags: @heavenly1927 @yazzzmints @devils-blackrose @lost-and-founds @kennafild @toodlesxcuddles @shygardengalaxy

[corrupte3d-mindz]

Cost of Fame

(37)Cillian Murphy x F! (23)Famous Reader

Summary: Cillian loves supporting his girlfriend during her live performances

Wordcount: 3.7k

Warnings: Part 1

super supportive! Cillian, slightly perverted! Cillian, Cillian being a great boyfriend, lovey dovey things, kissing, m! overstimulating; but he’s autisticly coded-headphones, younger reader; by like 14 years-so she’s 23

The hum of anticipation vibrated through the walls of the backstage area. Cillian stood just out of sight, leaning against a metal railing, the coolness of the steel pressing against his back a sharp contrast to the electric energy pulsating around him.

The stage lights cast long shadows, and the distant roar of the crowd filled the space, a muffled thunder that echoed in his chest. He adjusted the headphones over his ears, a necessary buffer against the overwhelming decibels that would soon erupt from the speakers. The anticipation was palpable, a living entity that coursed through his veins, making his heart pound with a rhythm that matched the distant beat of the bass drum. His fingers tapped against his thigh, an unconscious mimicry of the music that played only in his mind for now. He wore a simple outfit—black jeans, a fitted t-shirt, and a leather jacket that hung loosely from his shoulders. His hair, a tousled mess of dark curls, framed his face in a way that made him look both boyish and intensely focused. His eyes, the color of stormy seas, flicked towards the stage every few seconds, as if he could will her into view just by staring hard enough.

Cillian's thoughts drifted, despite his efforts to stay grounded in the present moment. He loved her so much that it hurt sometimes, a deep ache in his chest that he couldn't quite shake. She was out there, in the spotlight, her voice ready to pour out her soul in melodies and lyrics that were as much a part of her as her heartbeat. He felt a swell of pride, an almost paternal protectiveness mingled with the fierce passion of a lover. His heart swelled with every note, every syllable she would sing tonight. He was utterly and completely devoted, and utterly helpless in the face of her talent.

He watched the crew bustling around, their movements a choreographed dance of cables and equipment. The stage manager called out instructions, her voice authoritative and clear above the din. Cillian caught snippets of conversation, fragments of technical jargon that made little sense to him but painted a picture of the precision and care that went into making a performance seamless. Cillian’s fingers brushed against the leather of his jacket, a small, grounding gesture. He thought about the first time he had heard her sing, the way her voice had cut through the noise of the world and settled deep within him. It was as if she had reached inside his chest and plucked at the strings of his heart, making it vibrate with a resonance that was entirely new and entirely hers. He had been captivated, drawn in by the power of her music and the softness of her presence.

The lights dimmed suddenly, signaling the imminent start of the show. Cillian felt a rush of adrenaline, a heady mix of excitement and nerves. He wished he could be out there with her, not in the spotlight but close enough to feel her energy, to be a part of the magic she created. He knew, though, that this was her moment, her space to command and he was content to support her from the shadows, the place where he felt most at home. He glanced at the setlist taped to the wall beside him, his eyes scanning the titles of the songs she would perform tonight. Each one held a story, a piece of her soul laid bare for the world to see. He knew them all by heart, had heard them in their rawest forms, in moments of quiet intimacy when she had shared her creative process with him. The thought of those private moments brought a soft smile to his lips, a small, secret joy that he cherished deeply.

The roar of the crowd grew louder, a wave of sound that washed over him even through the protection of his headphones. He could imagine her out there, the way she held the microphone with a confidence that belied her gentle nature, the way her eyes sparkled under the stage lights. She was a force of nature, a hurricane wrapped in a songbird’s body, and he loved her all the more for it. Cillian's mind wandered to the nights they had spent together, talking late into the night about everything and nothing. They would sit on the couch, her head on his shoulder, her fingers entwined with his, and the world outside would cease to exist. Those were the moments he lived for, the quiet, unassuming pockets of time where they could just be. He found himself longing for that simplicity now, even as he stood on the brink of one of her biggest performances yet.

He took a deep breath, the air backstage thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation. He knew she was ready, had seen the fire in her eyes as she had prepared, the way she had thrown herself into rehearsals with a single-minded determination. She was unstoppable, a powerhouse of talent and drive, and he was in awe of her. The first notes of the intro music began to play, a low hum that built slowly, teasing the audience with the promise of what was to come. Cillian felt his pulse quicken, his body attuned to the rhythm as if he were a part of the band himself. He could almost see her now, standing just behind the curtain, her heart pounding in time with his. He imagined the way she would step out onto the stage, her presence filling the space with a warmth and light that was uniquely hers. The crowd would go wild, their cheers a tidal wave of love and admiration that would crash over her, and she would soak it in, let it fuel her performance. He knew she thrived on that energy, drew strength from the connection she felt with her audience.

As the music swelled, Cillian found himself mouthing the words to the first song, a reflex born of countless hours spent listening to her practice. He could feel the emotion in every line, the way her voice would rise and fall, carrying the weight of her stories. He was transported, lost in the music even before the first note had been sung. The curtain rose, and there she was, bathed in the glow of the stage lights, her silhouette a perfect contrast against the darkness behind her. She was ethereal, a vision of grace and power, and Cillian felt his breath catch in his throat. He watched as she took her place, her movements fluid and confident, and he knew without a doubt that she was exactly where she was meant to be. Her voice rang out, clear and pure, cutting through the noise and reaching straight into his soul. Cillian closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him, feeling the emotion in every note. He could picture her perfectly, the way her face would light up with passion, the way her body moved in time with the music.

He opened his eyes and saw her smile, a small, knowing curve of her lips that was meant just for him. It was their secret communication, a way of saying "I see you, I feel you" even in the midst of the chaos. Cillian felt a surge of love, a deep, unshakable connection that bound them together no matter where they were. As the performance continued, Cillian found himself caught in a whirlwind of emotions. He was proud, so incredibly proud of her, and he knew that this was only the beginning. She had a gift, a rare and precious talent that the world needed to hear, and he would be there every step of the way, supporting her, loving her, being her anchor in the storm.

He watched as she poured her heart into every song, her voice soaring and dipping, weaving a tapestry of sound that left the audience spellbound. He could see the impact she had on them, the way their faces lit up, the way they were drawn into her world. It was a powerful thing, to be able to touch people so deeply, and Cillian was humbled by it. When the final notes of the last song faded away, there was a moment of silence, a brief pause before the crowd erupted into applause. Cillian felt a rush of relief and joy, a sense of completion that was almost overwhelming. He watched as she took her bow, her face radiant with happiness, and he knew that this was only the beginning of her journey.

As she made her way offstage, their eyes met, and Cillian saw the love and gratitude shining in her gaze. He stepped forward, ready to envelop her in his arms, to hold her close and let her know how proud he was. She reached for him, and in that moment, the rest of the world faded away, leaving just the two of them, together in their shared triumph.

"Y'were amazin' out there," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Absolutely amazin'." He said while taking off his headphones.

The stage lights had done little to hide the effort she had put into her performance. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, tracing paths down her temples and cheeks, glistening under the dim backstage lighting. Her hair, slightly damp, clung to her neck and forehead in tendrils that framed her face in a way that was both wild and mesmerizing. Cillian moved towards her with purpose, his steps measured but eager. His eyes, those a stormy blue, locked onto hers, and in that moment, everything else fell away. The noise, the bustle, the distant roar of the crowd—it all faded into a distant hum. All he could see was her, the woman he adored, looking at him with an exhaustion mingled with exhilaration.

Without a word, he reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheeks with a gentleness that belied the intensity of his emotions. Her skin was warm and damp under his touch, the sweat a testament to the energy and passion she had poured into her performance. He cupped her face, his hands steady and tender, his thumbs brushing away the stray droplets of sweat. Her eyes, bright and sparkling, searched his, and he could see the question there, the silent inquiry if she had done well. She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't give her the chance. Instead, he closed the distance between them, capturing her lips in a kiss that was as fierce as it was intimate. The world around them ceased to exist, reduced to the shared space between their bodies, the mingling of their breaths. His kiss was hungry yet gentle, a paradox of passion and tenderness. He tasted the salt of her sweat, mingled with the sweetness of her lips, and it only fueled the fire within him.

His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing them open, seeking entrance. She responded eagerly, her mouth parting to welcome him. Their tongues met, a slow, deliberate dance that spoke of familiarity and longing. He savored the feel of her, the way she tasted, the way she moved against him. Every stroke, every caress, was a reaffirmation of their connection, a silent promise that he was here, with her, for her. He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her waist, holding her against him. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, echoing his own, a syncopated rhythm that spoke of shared adrenaline and unspoken words. She melted into him, her body pliant and trusting, and he deepened the kiss, pouring everything he couldn't say into the movement of his lips and tongue. When they finally broke apart, both breathless and slightly dazed, he kept his forehead pressed against hers. Their breaths mingled, the air between them charged with the remnants of their kiss. He looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or uncertainty, but all he saw was the same overwhelming love and gratitude that mirrored his own.

"Y'know," he said softly, his voice a husky whisper, "I don't care if you're sweaty or tired or anything else. To me, you're perfect, just like this."

She smiled, a soft, radiant smile that lit up her entire face. "Thank you, Cillian," she whispered, her voice just as thick with emotion as his. "I couldn't have done it without you."

He shook his head, his hands still cradling her face. "No, love, this was all you. You're amazin', and I'm so damn proud of you."

He kissed her again, a gentle, lingering kiss that was more about comfort and connection than passion. It was a promise, a reassurance that he was here, that he would always be here, no matter what. When they pulled apart, he finally let his hands fall, but he kept one arm around her waist, unwilling to break the physical connection completely.

“Cill, there’s a fan signing I’ve got to do,” she said, her voice a soft melody that he never tired of hearing. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his arm in a familiar, comforting gesture. “If you want to come you can, or you can stay in my trailer until I’m back.”

He nodded, considering her words. He understood the offer was made with his comfort in mind. The idea of facing the inevitable swarm of fans, the flash of cameras, the barrage of questions – it wasn’t appealing. Not tonight, when he simply wanted to be with her, to bask in the afterglow of her performance. But he also knew why she made the offer. She knew he hated not knowing where she was, not being by her side.

“Ah, I’ll come with ya,” he said, his Irish lilt soft but resolute. “Can’t have ya facin’ all that on your own, can I? Besides, I like watchin’ you with your fans. It’s good to see how much they love you.”

The crew greeted them with nods and smiles, used to seeing them together, a power couple in every sense. As they approached the fan signing area, the noise level rose, a cacophony of excitement that made his ears ring. He tightened his hand on her back, a subtle squeeze of reassurance, and she glanced up at him, her eyes full of gratitude. They stepped into the room together, and the fans erupted into cheers and applause. Cameras flashed, capturing their every move, but he focused solely on her, on the way she lit up under the adoration of her fans.

One fan, a young girl with wide eyes and trembling hands, approached the table. She looked at Cillian with a mix of awe and shyness, her voice barely a whisper as she asked for his autograph as well. He smiled, a warm, encouraging smile, and took the photo she offered, signing it with a flourish. “Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. “You’re both amazing.”

He nodded, a soft, “Thank you,” escaping his lips. He watched as the girl moved away, clutching her signed photo like a treasure. He glanced at her, seeing the pride in her eyes as she watched him. They were in this together, sharing the highs and the lows, supporting each other through it all. The signing went on for what felt like hours, but he didn’t mind. He watched her with a sense of awe, her energy seemingly endless as she engaged with each fan. He admired the way she handled the crowd, her patience and kindness shining through. He saw the way the fans responded to her, their faces lighting up with joy and excitement. It was clear how much she meant to them, and he felt a swell of pride knowing she was his.

Finally, the last fan left, and the room quieted. She turned to him, exhaustion and satisfaction mingling in her eyes. “Ready to head back?” she asked, her voice soft.

He nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they made their way back to her trailer. The walk was quiet, the night air cool and refreshing after the heat of the signing room. They didn’t need to speak, the silence comfortable and familiar. He could feel her leaning into him, her body relaxing against his. He admired the way she moved, the grace and confidence that seemed to come so naturally to her. She caught his gaze and smiled, a soft, intimate smile that made his heart ache with love.

“Thanks for comin’ with me, Cill,” she said, her voice gentle. “It means a lot.”

“Always,” he replied, his voice a low murmur. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

The trailer was a haven of calm, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy that had filled the concert hall only hours before. The dim lighting created a warm, intimate atmosphere, casting gentle shadows that danced across the walls. Outside, the night was quiet, the distant hum of city life a soothing backdrop to their solitude. Cillian and she were entwined on the small couch, their bodies fitting together with the ease of long familiarity. The air was thick with the lingering scent of her performance – a heady mix of perfume, sweat, and adrenaline. Cillian nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. He inhaled deeply, savoring the unique blend of her fading perfume and the remnants of her exertion. It was a scent he had come to associate with her, a comforting reminder of her presence. He pressed a gentle kiss to her neck, feeling the soft pulse of her heartbeat under his lips. "You still smell nice, love," he murmured, his voice a low, affectionate rumble.

She chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her body and into his. "You always say that," she replied, her voice tinged with amusement and affection. She shifted slightly, turning her head to look at him. Her eyes were soft, the fatigue from her performance mingling with the contentment of the moment. He smiled, a slow, lazy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "That's because it's always true," he said, his Irish accent wrapping around the words like a familiar melody. He traced a finger down her arm, marveling at the softness of her skin. She was still in her stage clothes, even after doing the fan signing. the fabric crinkled and slightly damp from her exertions, but to him, she looked perfect.

Cillian gently trailed his lips down her neck, planting soft, lingering kisses along her warm skin. He could feel the gentle thrum of her pulse beneath his lips, a steady, comforting rhythm that matched the beat of his own heart. Her skin was smooth and slightly damp, a testament to the energy and effort she had poured into her performance just hours before. He savored the taste of her, the saltiness mingling with the faint floral notes of her fading perfume. As his kisses reached her collarbone, she sighed softly, a sound that sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He paused, his lips hovering just above her skin, and smiled against her collarbone. "I like that voice of yours, darling," he murmured, his Irish accent wrapping around the words like a warm embrace. The endearment rolled off his tongue with ease, a term of affection that had become second nature between them.

She responded with a soft, breathy laugh, the sound vibrating through her body and into his. "You always know how to make me feel special, Cill," she said, her voice a gentle caress. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his with a look of pure adoration. In the dim light, her eyes sparkled, a mix of fatigue and contentment that made his heart swell with love.

He continued his exploration, his lips trailing a path down to her shoulder. Each kiss was a tender declaration, a silent promise of his unwavering devotion. He loved these quiet moments, the intimacy of their closeness, the way they could communicate without words. His hands roamed over her body, tracing the contours of her curves through the fabric of her stage clothes. To him, she was a work of art, every inch of her a testament to her strength and beauty. She shifted slightly, arching her back to give him better access. He took the opportunity to kiss a particularly sensitive spot just above her shoulder blade, eliciting another soft moan from her lips. The sound was music to his ears, a symphony of pleasure that resonated deep within him. He could feel her body responding to his touch, the subtle shift of her hips, the way her fingers tightened their grip on his arm.

"You know," she whispered, her voice husky with desire, "you're pretty good at this."

He chuckled softly, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Well, I've had a bit of practice," he teased, his lips curving into a playful smile. "But it's easy when I've got such a beautiful muse."

She laughed again, a soft, melodic sound that filled the small space with warmth. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Murphy," she said, her tone light and teasing.

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, I know," he replied, his voice a low purr. He shifted slightly, his body pressing more firmly against hers. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It was moments like this that he cherished, the quiet intimacy that came from truly knowing and loving someone. As he continued to pepper her skin with kisses, his mind wandered back to her performance. He had watched her from backstage, his heart swelling with pride as she commanded the stage. She had been a vision of confidence and grace, her voice soaring through the hall with a power that left the audience spellbound. He admired her dedication, her passion, and he felt a deep sense of gratitude that she had chosen to share her life with him.

Author’s Notes:

It’s like a better version of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce, who the fuck am I kidding? This is so much better!!