#Tools To Teach Biting

[random-cockroach]

*puts this in the frame* One canon Blurr died because of (let's say) high temperature, one specific au Blurr almost died to fire, this Blurr thankfully got saved and I will go die because of that.

Well. We are just one magical ingredient away from the liquid death potion

Also I saw you all got hyped up for dragon Elita but uh. You see there were two dragons I had planned 😐 Elita is more on the Mimics au territory:)

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[swordgrace]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!healer!reader.

SYNOPSIS: serving as a healer on the frontlines of a war that is tearing the realm apart, you come to tend the wounds of the warden of the north. inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 8.2K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), fic is inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship, description of wounds/injuries, mentions of violence & war, canon-typical misogyny (cregan goes to the northern school of feminism), heavy mutual pining, both cregan and reader have experience, p in v sex, unprotected sex, all stark men have a breeding kink, size kink (cregan is much taller/bigger than reader), fingering (fem!rec), biting, breast play, hair-pulling, rain-soaked cregan, bed/cot breaking, lotus position, riding/cowgirl, gentle-ish sex, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Back with another Cregan fic! I absolutely love writing for him & this request was so perfect. This is taking place during the wars (HOTD S3). Thank you guys so much for your continued support and kindness, it means a ton to me! I hope you all enjoy! ❤️

𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 — 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.

Yet, as he lay in his tent, feeling the bitter sting of what pain could bring, face-to-face with carnage, he felt some semblance of fear. It was the only time that a man could ever be brave, in the face of such strife. The Riverlands were occupied by Ser Criston Cole for some time, and in the name of the true Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Cregan Stark aimed to reclaim it.

The road to the Riverlands had been a lengthy one, hard on his force of Winter Wolves, greybeards that itched for combat. They were met with resistance at every turn after crossing the Twins, yet they endured, still a force of nearly two-thousand men.

More were on their way from the North, bannermen of all ilk and family called to-arms at Winterfell, to ride North and join his forces in the Riverlands. Despite his youthful age of one-and-twenty, Cregan was a fierce and proficient fighter, better than a great deal of the men under his command.

Struck by a stray arrow and slashed with a blade, he bared his injuries incredibly well — better than most. Cregan’s stalwart, hardened exterior served him well, never giving way to the pain he felt beneath. The arrow had gone clean through, thankfully. Much of his recovery was simply bandages and time.

He chafed at the notion of being bound to his tent for days on-end — he wanted to be with his men, helming any attacks, leading them to victory. He was useless here, abdomen wrapped in soiled bandages, laid-up and no good to anyone.

The healers who passed through all possessed older, wrinkled faces — men who had seen countless wars, perhaps thrice his age, acclaimed in talent and skill with the art of mending wounds and sewing bone together.

Imagine Cregan’s bewilderment when a young woman entered his tent one dismal morning.

You couldn’t have been much younger than him, clad in a tattered, coarse dress with a hem steeped in mud, white apron sullied with countless stains. Much of the cruor on your garments wasn’t your own, the blood of Stark men, men from White Harbor.

“Good morrow, Lord Stark.” The songbird’s lull of your voice had made him unusually calm, as if able to quell the growing tide of irritation he’d felt with his inaction. You brought with you a basket of supplies, tools of the trade that you had to scrounge around to get.

Men never looked upon a woman-healer with interest or a desire to teach — much of what you knew was from your own mother, or things you’d observed and taught yourself from piles of books at your disposal. Though, you found yourself excelling within your area of expertise.

Perplexed, Cregan watched you hawkishly, sluggishly sitting up from his bed of furs, a low grunt escaping him in the process. “My Lady,” He greeted with a nod of his head, muscles aching and sore from the clashes and skirmishes, coupled with time spent on the road. “You are a new face.”

Part of you wondered if he would take offense, given that you were a lady, but you decided not to address it. “I certainly hope that it isn’t a disappointment,” You mused, placing your supplies down at his bedside. “Other hands were needed elsewhere.”

He wasn’t disappointed in the slightest.

Cregan found you to be breathtakingly beautiful — it took one stolen glance for him to discern that. Your very presence seemed to flourish with warmth and amiability. It was a welcome change from the old men who poked and prodded at him, and he wouldn’t complain about being in the presence of someone his own age.

With a huff, he shook his head, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his visage. “Not at all,” He murmured, studying you with a thinly-veiled intrigue. “A welcome change.” Cregan replied, catching your amiable smile, as warm and as bright as the first inkling of springtime.

You had seen Cregan only in-passing, brief moments where you spotted the young Lord atop his dark steed, or stomping through muddied encampments alongside his soldiers. Now, up-close, you realized how young he really looked, with a youthful, babyish visage that did not match his stony expression or wisened, gray eyes.

“You say that now, but you’ll have to get used to me first, my Lord.” You mused, reaching for the first wrap of his soiled bandages. It was easier to make small-talk in the midst of situations like these — it often eased your nerves, gave you something else to think about.

Cregan moved his arms just enough, allowing you to unravel the crimson-crusted bandages. There was some momentary relief, without the scratching and irritation of coarse linen, wounds exposed to the lick of fresh air.

A steady exhale escaped him, and he watched as you discarded the bandages, fetching more from your basket, coupled with some strange poultice in a jar. He did not recall his former caretakers ever giving him something like that, and he refused Milk of the Poppy.

“How long have you had an interest in this?” Cregan inquired, genuinely interested in what led you down such a path. It wasn’t commonplace for a woman of your station, not in the slightest. He would never discourage it, but he was itching to know.

As you wrung out a cloth of hot water, you brought it to his left shoulder, thick and burly with muscle, gingerly swiping over the wound to clean it. “Many years,” You hummed, brows furrowing together in concentration. “My father didn’t like it, but I learned what I could from others.”

Cregan was the stoic sort, an indomitable mountain of a man who appeared so rugged and indifferent, yet he possessed a gentle hand and heart when away from wandering eyes. He listened attentively, soothed by the tenderness in your touch.

Becoming a Maester was something you’d desired in your youth, yet the Citadel never allowed for women to study and attain the position. You were left to your own devices, a life of healing and service to those who needed it most, and you were content with that. You would forge your own Maester’s Chain.

You then pressed the cloth against the still-swollen gash from the sword across his abdomen, the flesh around it somewhat angry and reddened. “You took quite a beating. I have no desire to see who was on the other end of your blade.”

A soft huff escaped him as he rolled his shoulders, dwarfing you completely in size and stature. Even for a man of his youth, he seemed imposing, larger than plenty of young men his age. “Best not to dwell on it,” He grunted, stormy hues following you wherever you went. “You are not a Northerner.”

The lack of a Northern accent gave it away, but you also spoke properly and eloquently, as if you had been raised somewhere with plenty of civility. “The Stormlands — I am from Bronzegate.” You replied, which happened to earn you a very threadbare smile from Lord Stark.

“A Southerner, then,” A twinge of amusement seemed interwoven with his gruff, husky timbre, a voice that you were rather charmed by. He was mesmerizing to listen to, Northern dialect and deeper voice marked by a stalwart calm. “What are you doing here?”

As you cleaned away the sluggish ooze of cruor, you ensured that his wounds were free of dirt or dried blood, inspecting them for infection. “Finding my way in the world,” You confessed, reaching for the jar of herbal poultice, a salve that you had made yourself. “As we all are.”

Cregan could respect your honesty and earnestness in knowing that you didn’t know what you were doing with your life — sometimes, he didn’t know, either. It was easy to forget oneself when tasked with the charge of leadership, easy to allow it to become a burden instead of a challenge.

Dipping your fingertips into the salve, you gently spread it across the wound on his shoulder, the strange concoction icy against his hot flesh. “What is that?” He questioned, the unusual smell of it stinging his nostrils. Whatever it was, it felt incredible.

“A salve that I made,” You chimed, clicking your tongue as you concentrated on spreading it thin, layering it across his skin. “It’s not something conventional. I exchanged certain herbs for others, and added something of my own. It takes the sting away, numbs the flesh around the wound.”

It did take the sting away, as you said, and soothed his wound at the same time. Cregan admired your ingenuity, charmed and ensnared by you. He hadn’t expected to enjoy your company as much as he was, which was always enough to draw some concern.

A union formed out of wedlock was a dangerous one, but these were perilous times, in the midst of war. He was bound to no one — he had no one. Gray hues silently appraised you, and whenever you got close enough, he could feel your sweet breath upon his flesh, smell the faint aroma of wildflowers and a dab of honey.

“If you are willing, I’d like to have your ingredients. It would be worthwhile for the rest of the healers to craft it, too. Do not waste it all on me.” Cregan rumbled, a soft sigh of relief escaping him as you spread the poultice all along the gash across his abdomen.

The instantaneous relief he felt made him relax, the tension unfurling within his shoulders. Once the salve began to dry just slightly, you took to bandaging him again, nearly chest-to-chest with him when you wrapped the linen around his torso.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, muscles tightening whenever you pressed closer, even if the action was a necessity. You felt the onslaught of warmth creep into your features, goosebumps cascading down your spine with the intensity of his gaze.

You happened to meet his smoldering stare for just a moment, butterflies swelling within the pit of your stomach, followed by a rush of heat that seeped into your very bones. “I will provide you with the list tomorrow.” You murmured, finishing wrapping up his wound.

The arrow puncture on his shoulder was something that you covered in a few layers of sturdier medicinal cloth, before wrapping it once to keep it stable. You had backed away slightly, the close proximity having made your nerves spark to life.

It was a warmth and intimacy that you hadn’t touched before, unfamiliar yet wild with curiosity. Perhaps you had a tryst with a young man back in Bronzegate, but never to this degree of intensity. Cregan gazed at you as if you were the only one to exist.

“I am finished here,” That was enough to shatter Cregan’s incendiary look, the heat dissipating from his gray hues. His visage resumed that stone-faced look, and he suddenly remembered himself and the bonds of propriety. “I will visit tomorrow with your list, if that’s all you need from me.”

He noticed how you straightened, posture somewhat rigid, fingertips stained in dried blood and cruor. You retrieved what supplies you had, placing them all back into your basket before you curtsied, as a Lady would before a Lord.

“You do not have to bow, my Lady,” Cregan assured, standing to his feet with a strenuous grunt. He was massive even when sitting before you, but seeing him upright and so close — Gods take you for the things you began to ponder and imagine. “I am grateful for your aid in these dour times.”

Cregan was as stubborn as an old mule, despite being so young. Rarely did he accept help from other people, preferring to do it all himself and be the guiding example, but this was something he was not practiced at.

“It is my duty, my Lord. It is a responsibility that I share for yourself, and for your soldiers. I pray that the Gods will usher you into a swift recovery, and victory.” That smile — Gods, you had a beautiful smile. It could melt even the hardiest of ice, bring exuberance and joy to those who had none. “I should take my leave.”

“Of course,” Cregan bowed his head, timbre gentle and akin to the roll of thunder before an encroaching thunderstorm. He retrieved his tunic from the foot of his bed, and before you could disappear from the tent, he cleared his throat. “What is your name, my Lady?”

You smiled, gaze dancing with a twinge of mischief and amusement as you chewed at the inside of your cheek. Lingering within the entryway of his tent, you took one, deliberate step backwards.

“I suppose you’ll have to learn that tomorrow.”

Sitting idly by while a war raged nearby had soured Cregan’s mood exponentially.

He had stared at the canvas canopy of his tent for so long that he began to lose count of the hours. It was only when his second-in-command harkened him to the war table, that he obeyed.

Green forces had stationed a battalion at The Trident, and the rest were attempting to seize Harrenhal from Daemon Targaryen and his Rivermen. Cregan intended on cutting off the battalion, ripping them out root and stem, effectively carving away a portion of Cole’s forces.

War was an ugly thing — killing a man never pleased him as it did some, but it was an unfortunate necessity. Ensuring that Rhaenyra Targaryen took her place upon the Iron Throne was paramount, an oath he forged with her son, Jacaerys Velaryon.

Cregan covered his wounds with his tunic and a fur cloak, knowing that the weight of armor would only hinder his recovery, and he needed to be prepared for what was to come. He spoke strategy with Lord Roderick Dustin of Barrowton, before taking his leave.

You happened to occupy his thoughts — a girl from Bronzegate, with a rosy, heartening smile and a demure nature, tending to his wounded men. Not a moment passed from last eve to now, an afternoon marked by grim, gray storm clouds, that he hadn’t thought of you.

It was improper, perhaps, to think so fondly of a young maiden out of wedlock, one he barely knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to you — and he had a feeling that you felt the same, a mutual sentiment.

The massive tent erected for those wounded in battle was marked by an ivory canvas and the hurried pace of healers floating in and out. Cregan knew where to find you, and he had learned of your name from several of his bannermen.

He spotted you outside, washing your hands free of crimson, the ends of your sleeves just as tattered and wrought with blood that didn’t belong to you. Your tresses were pulled into a braid to avoid interference with your work, brow creased in concentration.

“My Lady.” He greeted you with that familiar timbre, husky and gallant. There was a warmth that radiated from him, both in his tone and physically, that enveloped you whenever you were in his presence. He was a man of few words, but you made up for it.

Surprise settled into your features as you regarded him with mild bewilderment. You weren’t expecting him to seek you out. “My Lord,” You exhaled, bowing your head in reverence as you wiped the blood from your hands with a rag. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Cregan enjoyed your concern, staving off a threadbare smile before he shrugged, wisps of chestnut tresses fluttering with the breeze. The air smelled of rain, an approaching deluge. “You never said that I had to stay.” He stated, looking towards your hands.

A huff of laughter escaped you, hands mostly free of any blood, your knuckles bruised and bearing some scrapes. “Are you feeling well enough?” You asked, head canting to one side. There was a quell in the battle for now, allowing you time to recuperate.

“I have been for some time,” Cregan sighed, brows furrowing together. “Old men wished for me to stay abed, and I heeded them, until now.” Two wounds wouldn’t stop him — there was something powerful about him, a determination to continue even in the face of agony or strife.

You couldn’t help but smile in spite of his stubbornness — you wondered how his men dealt with him. Many soldiers and bannermen that you had conversed with praised Cregan, with nothing but honorable things to say about him. He was regarded as stoical and resigned, patient and pragmatic.

“Let me have a look. It’s the least that I can do, considering you made the trek here.” You motioned for him to follow you, sweeping the canvas aside as you beckoned him into the wounded tent. There were scores of men in worse states than he — some of them brushing close to death.

Cregan stepped behind you like a massive wall of stone, a mountain of a man, his shadow casting itself over you. Some of the healers seemed surprised with his coming here, a handful being familiar faces that had tended to him when he was first wounded.

The space in which you operated was a great deal smaller, yet tidy and orderly. He sat down with a grunt atop the cot you gestured to, shrugging off his fur cloak. Part of him felt strange for being here, considering the grievous state of some of the men.

A roll of parchment lay atop your footlocker, a lengthy list of ingredients used in your medicinal salve, the one that Cregan had requested yesterday. He watched you scurry about, fetching fresh bandages and your mysterious poultice that seemed to do him a world of good.

Some of the healers looked upon you with thinly-veiled disdain and scrutiny, eyes of wizened men who believed themselves to be better than you. A woman doing such gruesome work wasn’t exactly proper.

“Your tunic,” You murmured, averting your gaze away from Cregan’s body as he removed the smoky-blue garment, revealing his herculean musculature. The more you studied Lord Stark, the more enamored you became — he was handsome and well-spoken. Stubborn, perhaps, but most Northerners were. “Thank you.”

Cregan thoroughly enjoyed watching you work — it was a captivating thing to behold, the way you navigated a wound with such care and precision. Your hands were disarmingly gentle as you shifted the linen wrappings away, exposing his shoulder to the brisk afternoon air.

The pain had certainly diminished, moreso in his shoulder than his abdomen. In usual silence, Cregan studied you closely, storm-colored hues appraising you, committing every detail to memory. There was something breathtaking about you, a magnetizing pull that drew him in, kept him enthralled.

He reveled in the sensation of your fingertips tracing around his wound, feather-light and delicate, leaving behind a trail of fire in your wake. “It’s healed wonderfully,” You murmured, brows furrowing together as you applied a dab of honey, a natural antiseptic. You placed the bandage back over it. “How does it feel?”

“Acceptable.” He grunted, though his tone seemed somewhat warped with amusement. Your lips twitched into a brief frown, as if he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I am well enough. You needn’t worry, my Lady.” Cregan assured, resting his thick forearms atop his thighs.

A soft sigh left you as you circled around him, coming to stand before him with a tender expression. Your countenance still seemed furrowed with concern, but he neglected to comment on it.

Peeling away the linen bandages that clung to his abdomen, the angry-red swelling had nearly dissipated, and the gash remained, still healing. “The salve seems to have helped,” You fought hard to ignore the closeness between yourself and Cregan, mere breaths apart. “The swelling has gone down.”

The scent of your warm breath fanned across his visage, basking him in your saccharine smell. Even if your garments were well-worn and speckled in gore, he could still detect the aroma of wildflowers on you.

“You have my gratitude, my Lady.” Cregan uttered, a valiant attempt to relieve some of the lingering tension. It was something he rarely, if ever, experienced with a woman — especially one such as yourself.

“You know my name already, Lord Stark. You do not have to continue to refer to me as a Lady,” A twinkle of amusement lingered within your eyes, knowing that his bannermen had shared your name with him. “I am not of noble birth, I’m afraid.”

Cregan huffed, and he realized that you were clever. The wit and fiery spirit leapt out from you on occasion, and this happened to be one of them. “Honor and good pleasantries demand that I continue to refer to you as a Lady.” He replied, tender and deep, like the shaking of a mountain.

With an amiable smile, you changed the bandages around Cregan’s torso, applying your salve before discarding the old ones. “Don’t,” You chimed, tone softening to the lull of a songbird. “Call me by my name.” You stood, wiping your hands against a swath of clean cloth.

A low, rumbling ‘hm’ escaped the man, whose chestnut brows furrowed together as he ogled you — shamelessly, this time. There was a fond playfulness laced within your banter, something that Cregan wasn’t entirely accustomed to. “Cregan.” He insisted, establishing a firm foundation for your blossoming relationship.

“Cregan.” You repeated, his name sounding sickeningly sweet from your Southern tongue. The young Lord moved to tug his tunic back on over his hulking frame, musculature working in such wondrous ways. It was difficult to tame your wandering eye, heat crawling along your spine.

Ripping yourself from your trance, you busied yourself with something else. “The salve ingredients that you requested, I made a list.” You stepped towards the footlocker, retrieving the scroll of parchment as you offered it to him. “I hope that it will do some good.”

After having placed his thick cloak over his shoulders, Cregan grunted, the vibration spreading throughout his chest as he accepted the list. “This is noble of you,” He murmured, turning it over within his roughened hand. “The men here owe you their gratitude — as do I.”

Dismissive of his praise, you remained humble, politely curtsying before Lord Stark. “It is my duty, that is all. I will continue on for as long as I am able.” You didn’t like being thanked for healing — it was a passion that you chased after, a job that brought you joy.

“If there is anything that I can do for you as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, name it — it will be done.” Cregan nodded, countenance bristling with a burning affection, one that wasn’t concealed in the slightest. Despite his stalwart demeanor, he made his fondness of you known.

A delicate hum escaped you, but nothing of importance came to mind. You didn’t want to make any demands of him, especially given the circumstances — he had little time to cater to a healer when war loomed overhead.

“If you insist, I would ask for a suitable stationary set,” Simplistic and curious, something uncommonly asked for. Writing was something you had no part in, but illustrations — that was a different story. “Do not toil over it, my Lo — Cregan. Your generosity is kind enough.”

Cregan nodded, taking it into consideration. “I will not toil over it,” He replied, peering over his shoulder toward a pack of healers. There were plenty of wounded men that required your attention more than he. “Consider it done. I will leave you to your work.”

You bowed again out of common courtesy, hands folded together as you offered Cregan another warm smile. “Of course. Should your recovery change course, please do not hesitate to return. I wish you good fortune in the battles to come.”

“Until next we meet.”

Bellflower flourished in moss-laden groves around the forks of the Trident, petals ranging from ivory to shades of cerulean and a light lilac. It grew in clutches, its blooms spherical and pleasing to the eye. Despite the deluge plaguing the Winter Wolves at every step, it seemed to slow Cole’s army down exponentially, too.

As dusk fell in a dark, cloudy gloom across the encampment, Cregan carried a bound bundle of bellflower in his hands, to be given to one person in particular.

It had only been two days since your last meeting in the healer’s tent, his wounds on the mend, no longer weighed down with bandages. The stationary you requested had been brought to your tent sometime the next day, after you had addressed it with Cregan.

It was intended to be a gesture of gratitude, something that he knew you would find favor in, but it was easily passable as a rite of courtship. The constant prodding of a marriage proposal was always at the fringes of Cregan’s mind — it was his duty to marry, and he had prolonged the process as much as he could.

With war tearing the realm apart, there was little time to consider a marriage — but a relationship, perhaps a budding bond, that was something he could make time for. Even in his duties as the Warden of the North, a champion for Queen Rhaenyra, there would be a lull, a calm in the storm.

Your tent wasn’t a far trek from the healer’s tent, smaller and humble compared to his own. It didn’t seem fair, given your importance and what you had contributed to their cause, but he didn’t dwell on it — not now, anyway.

To see the ferocious, stoic Cregan Stark carrying a bundle of flowers that seemed minuscule within his grasp was a most peculiar sight. His fur trappings and leather-and-chainmail bore the motif of the Direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, making him seem larger than he already was. His ancestral longsword, Ice, remained slung across his broad shoulders.

The glitter of candlelight cut through the dismal haze of rainfall around him, its orange glow pooling from your tent, closed-off for privacy. Through the sliver of canvas, Cregan could see you, hunched over your chair, moving a quill across parchment. You wore your hair down this time, visage framed by wisps of your tresses, brow creased in concentration.

Cregan stepped forward, announcing his presence with a noisy clearing of his throat. “My Lady,” He rumbled, standing just outside of your tent, chestnut tresses sticking to his skull from the deluge. “If I might have a moment of your time.”

Your surprise was palpable as you flung open your tent, with Cregan Stark standing before you, soaked to the bone and entirely unphased. Your gaze fell to the bouquet of bellflowers in his hand, features becoming hot almost immediately.

“Cregan,” You stepped aside to usher him in, getting him out of the storm. “I apologize if you attempted to summon me, I’ve been preoccupied.” Preoccupied with the wrong things, perhaps, but you felt horrible that he had walked all this way in a torrential downpour.

“An apology isn’t necessary,” Cregan assured, so tall and mountainous that he seemed to consume much of the space in your tent, scalp scraping the canvas above. “I merely wanted to extend my gratitude, for your diligence and steadfastness in my recovery.” He murmured.

Your lodgings were quite humble, your bed nothing more than a cot lined in fur blankets, pillows stuffed with linens to make it bearable. The rickety wooden chairs were ones you’d borrowed — it served as a place to draw, a series of candles sitting along your footlocker. The ground below was covered in layers of canvas and fur — perhaps more comfortable than the cot itself.

You offered him a polite smile, though the air seemed charged with more than just friendliness. “You’ve already extended your gratitude, my Lord. You needn’t do it again,” You replied, heart thrumming within your chest. “You are soaked to the bone. Why don’t you warm yourself?”

Cregan was plenty warm, his own metaphorical sun, blood running exceptionally hot — especially this evening. “There is no need,” He rumbled, jaw somewhat tense as he extended the bouquet of bellflowers to you, bound together with a thick cord. “Blooming along the Trident. I thought of you.”

Thought of you — did he do that often?

Gods, did you think of him — you thought of him at each waking moment, torturing yourself over him, the Lord of Winterfell. There were nights where you fantasized about him in such sinful ways that it left you gasping for air. It made your belly stir with butterflies, heat simmering across your flesh.

“These are beautiful,” Touched by such a simple gesture, you accepted the bouquet from him, moving to place it inside of a tall flask that once held one of your salves. Its mauve petals added a flair of color. “Thank you, Cregan.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

Every man in this dreadful encampment paled in comparison to Cregan Stark, who gazed down at you with such intensity that you feared you would melt away. Your breath hitched within your throat when he stepped closer — involuntary or not, you sorely yearned for the closeness.

Droplets of water rolled from his temples, chestnut tresses sticking to his forehead, garb damp from the rain. He smelled of the woodlands — pine and petrichor, intermingled with that of a natural musk. Those gray hues of his raked over you, drinking you in with a thinly-veiled rapture.

“There are other ways to express your gratitude.”

Your mouth moved before your mind could tell you to cease — speaking to your Lord in such an uncouth manner was grounds for trouble. You hadn’t fully realized the salacious implications of your statement until it sank in, and you became nervous. Before you could apologize, Cregan stopped you.

“Why do you think I came all this way, my Lady?” He rumbled, lifting his hand to cup your face, palm nearly engulfing half of your visage. Gods, you were beautiful — nothing short of perfection in his eyes. The bulk of his arm hesitantly reached out to circle around you, drawing you closer into his embrace.

That wasn’t the only reason — Cregan’s fondness of you had manifested into something uncontrollable, and you shared the same sentiment. Your feelings were now just as raging as his own, like a wildfire spreading across a forest, unchecked and unchallenged.

“Aren’t you cold?” You whispered, brought into the warm expanse of his chest, broad and taut with muscle. Even through his armor, you knew that he was indomitable. Though, for all of his physical intimidation and mesomorphic might, he was disarmingly gentle, this mountain of a man.

“No,” The husky timbre of his voice made goosebumps dance along your spine, causing you to shiver. “Not anymore.” He murmured, gaze silently asking to kiss you. He did not move, didn’t intend on acting until you decided to let sentiments flow freely.

It was you that kissed him first, seeking his lips with a desperation that rattled even you. Cregan didn’t hide his mutual desire, brows furrowing together as he reciprocated your kiss, using the leverage of his arm to lift you closer.

His lips were rough, icy from being in the damp outdoors, visage slick from the rainfall. It was a stark contrast to the softness of your mouth, pliant and plush against him, your body curvaceous and perfect within his grasp. He felt your palms press against his chest, drifting towards the nape of his neck.

Rain-soaked tresses glided through your fingers, curling inward to grip and pull, kissing him with such dizzying passion. In the slim space of your lodgings, with rain pounding above, it provided a gentle ambiance that only provided to the charged atmosphere.

Your hands shifted toward the clasps of his thick cloak, hesitating as you pulled away, looking to him for approval. If it weren’t for the many layers he needed to remove, you would’ve shed your dress already.

“Is this what you want?” Cregan needed your consent and assurance before continuing on, thumb drawing circles into your hip as he held you close. His voice had dropped to a near-growl, husky and thick with desire. It only served to stoke the growing fire between the both of you, cracking with a mutual need.

You nodded, nearly rendered breathless. “Yes,” Barely above a whisper, you felt his hands settle over yours, unclasping the metallic direwolves that loosened his cloak. It was all damp and soggy from the rain, and it felt good to be rid of it. “I need you.” You murmured, voice pitched with lust.

Cregan didn’t hesitate, hands unfastening his armor, buckle by buckle, piece by piece. Your hands sometimes joined in on occasion, loosening a strap or helping to take it off altogether. You didn’t move away, allowing each item to join the growing pile until he was left in his smallclothes.

He gently reached for the nape of your neck, massive palm caressing into the base of your skull, tracing along your silky flesh as he brought you in for a kiss. Even without his armor, Cregan was impossibly large, with a bulk and stature that dwarfed your own.

His mouth moved in-tandem with yours, each kiss blistering with passion, an eagerness that never exceeded into something rough. There was a domineering undertone to his actions, but never anything that would hurt you or scare you off.

Northern perfection, an immaculate wall of strength and muscle, yet so gentle — it rattled you to your core in the best possible way, filling your belly with molten heat. You kissed him fervently, until he stopped to kiss along your jaw, roughened lips finding the silky column of your neck.

The coarse, cloth ties that gathered at the small of your back became unraveled by you, loosening the periwinkle-colored garment until it sagged upon your body. You let it drop, your plain dress pooling to the ground in a heap of wrinkled fabric. You nudged it aside, letting it join Cregan’s armor.

Gray hues flickered across your naked flesh, beautiful beyond compare, a woman’s body that possessed the loveliest of curves. Cregan was swift to lower his hands, smoothing them across your sides, and then to your hips, shamelessly grabbing greedy handfuls of your derrière.

“I’ve never seen a beauty like yours before.” Cregan rumbled, mouth pressing soft kisses all along your neck, and then to the hollow of your throat. His calloused palms caressed everywhere they could, savoring the sensation of your velveteen skin.

You shivered at his reverent touch, lips parting as a soft gasp escaped you. Your hands held his biceps, thick and taut beneath your fingertips as a warm slick continued to mount between your legs. He hitched one of your legs around him, keeping you steady.

As he continued to savor your throat, mouth dragging from your neck to collarbone, his available hand stroked along your belly, tracing a path toward the heat between your thighs. Cregan searched for signs of hesitation or protest, but found none, thick fingers sluggishly slipping against your core.

“Cregan,” You gasped, a sharp inhale escaping you as you desperately held onto him, clinging on like a drowning woman as he toyed with your cunt. He deftly pushed past your folds, digits tracing along your slit in rhythmic motions, exploring your body. “Gods, don’t stop.” You pleaded, face pressing near his shoulder.

Teeth scraped along your throat, gently biting at your sensitive flesh as his digits found a steady rhythm. With two fingers stroking along your cunt, his thumb moved to nudge against your clit, circling around the sensitive clutch of nerves. He was silent, save for the rumbling sounds of his grunts.

Gently coaxing you towards your cot, Cregan didn’t stop to think about how feeble it was for two people. Nevertheless, he sat beside you, wood groaning and splintering in protest to the sudden amount of weight it bore. Sitting atop the furs, he collected you into his lap, slotting you against his thigh.

Tangling your hands into the hem of his tunic, you managed to maneuver it off with his assistance, all wisps of air stolen from your lungs at the sight of him. Seeing him in this light, full of desire with candlelight dancing across his skin, he was wonderfully handsome.

One palm cupped your hips, holding you close as his fingers resumed their previous ministrations, thumb seeking your clit. He touched you with such fervent passion, mouth clamoring for yours, lips unable to tear themselves away.

Each kiss left you gasping and heaving, wanting more of him, all that he could give. Your hands sought to drape themselves over his broad shoulders, threading into his damp tresses as you rocked yourself into his hand. The friction it created was delicious, a raging heat that crawled all over your body.

Thunder split the skies outside, rain coming down in a noisy deluge that pounded against the durable canvas of your tent. Cregan shifted backwards, the cot continuing to groan and creak beneath his bulk, threatening to snap into two if your ministrations continued.

You felt along the corded muscle of his shoulders, his skin unusually soft beneath your palms. With the relentless appetite of a wolf, Cregan kissed you again, pulling away just enough to kiss your collarbone instead. Thick digits continued to nudge against your cunt, threatening to push their way inside of you.

At a slow pace, he eased two fingers inside of you, stretching you just enough for it to be quite pleasurable. A whine of delight tore from your mouth, head rolling back enough for him to have unobstructed access. Teeth nipped at your collarbone, providing a sharp sting that flourished across your body.

He was gentle yet vigorous, digits sluggishly pumping themselves in and out of your tight cunt, thumb providing a burst of stimulation against your clit. Your warm, sweet breath fanned over him, mouth agape as a series of excitable pants escaped you.

Planting hot kisses just above your breasts, Cregan’s rough palm caressed from the swell of your hip to your chest, full and perfect, kneading into your breast. The entirety of your body felt so soft — like a plane of velvet, unblemished and left in some state of perfection.

Rocking yourself into his hand, a myriad of needy whimpers left you in droves, ones that occasionally tapered off into wanton moans, others left hushed. Cregan’s chest blossomed with a stoic grunt, the vibrations of it rattling you to your core.

“Cregan,” A fleeting sigh of passion escaped you, breathless and wanting, caught within a tempest of desire and carnality. Your digits touched him wherever you could, from the bulk of his shoulders to his biceps, thick and taut, and his face. “Gods, I need you.” You moaned, coaxing him in for a kiss.

Such a sentiment was mutual — Cregan did not know what depths of want he was capable of, and the carnal need he developed for you was intense. Though, it had also manifested into something else, transcending into affection and ardor.

He did not want to be parted from you after this.

His rough lips molded themselves to yours, kissing you desperately, until he stole every wisp of air from your lungs. He occasionally scraped his teeth across your lower lip, digits still working their way in and out of you, continuing to palm at your breasts.

Between the stimulation of his mouth and digits, you were already worked up, tangled within a web of desire as the cot groaned in protest again — and then snapped.

Only one of the wooden frames suffered damage, and Cregan was quick to shield you from harm, if there was any harm to begin with. He simply sagged further into the canvas, a look of mild amusement rising to his features. “The ground, then.” He rumbled, and you began to giggle, nose crinkling from the awkwardness of it all.

“I could’ve warned you,” You mused, affection dancing within your fond gaze as you kissed his jaw. “It would not survive with your muscles sitting atop it.” Cregan found it difficult not to smile, the gesture faint yet prevalent as he stroked along your spine.

“I will have it replaced.” Cregan grumbled, but you didn’t care in the slightest, the both of you relocating to the sprawling floor of thick, layered furs. It was arguably more comfortable than your cot would’ve been anyway. Drawing you back into his lap, he touched you everywhere he could.

The glow of orange illumination covered the both of you, however faint, aided by slits of clouded moonlight that poured in from the gap in canvas. You were beautiful — everything that he had ever wanted, caged within his arms, staring at him with a heated intensity.

He was mountainous, even when sitting, large and powerful enough to move you wherever he pleased. Your kisses became feverish, as if each entanglement would be your last, heart hammering within your chest with a flurry of excitement.

For a moment, Cregan withdrew, content to gaze upon your smiling visage, gaze sparkling with affection. He lifted his hand, cupping your cheek and jaw, allowing himself a moment to commit every feature of yours to memory. His next kiss was agonizingly slow in the best way possible, causing you to sigh with passion.

He needed to be close to you, chest to chest, savoring every inch of your silken flesh. Cregan had never touched something so soft before, drinking you in again with those tempestuous hues, as alluring as gray clouds before a thunderstorm.

“I want you inside of me,” You pleaded, lips parting slightly as Cregan’s jaw tensed, lust festering within him. Gods, what a wonderful mother you would make — the thought was fleeting, but it lingered like a thick fog, taking up residence within his mind. “Please.”

Cregan did not hesitate, hands joining yours as you hastily unraveled the leather ties of his trousers. He wanted to stay this way, sitting up with you in his lap, allowing him to look upon your face, ravage your skin as he guided you atop his length.

To match his imposing stature and wall of muscle, his cock was just as intimidating, causing your stomach to turn with a twinge of worry. Then again, you had become so worked up that pain seemed impossible. Cregan’s hands steadied themselves atop the swell of your hips, bringing you up enough to let his cock glide against your slick folds.

“As you wish.” He huffed, letting you find your way, the flushed tip of his length beginning to penetrate you. You moaned at the intrusion, able to feel the girth of it stretch you perfectly, just as his fingers had. Cregan grunted, guiding you down until you could go no further.

Strong enough to ease you along his length with his hands alone, Cregan seized the opportunity to kiss you. You were only a few breaths taller like this, slotted within his lap, hands finding their purchase atop his shoulders as you began to ride him.

Gods, he was big — enough for you to realize that soreness was an inevitability. Being flush against him, nearly chest-to-chest, was perfect, something so intimate and sensual that hot shivers rolled down your spine. Cregan guided you up and down upon his cock, ensuring that he went at a sluggish pace, more for your sake than his own.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the tent with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. Your nails sank into the muscle there, countenance one of complete and utter pleasure.

Cregan untangled his lips from yours, finding the column of your throat, greedily kissing and nipping wherever he could. Your taste was ambrosial, skin delicate and saccharine beneath his mouth. You moaned, one hand moving to tug at his chestnut tresses, bringing your hips down upon his cock again and again.

The sluggishness of the repetitive motion was agonizingly wonderful — the pace was perfect, not rough enough in the slightest, but passionate, instead. You much preferred this, the intimacy and closeness of it all, the way in which heat radiated between the both of you.

You felt incredible, every fiber of your body burning for him, arousal thick and heavy between your thighs. “Cregan,” A noisy moan escaped you, grinding yourself against him, hips flush together. It was as if you were touched by hot embers, the heat raking across your body time and time again. “Cregan!”

A deep, trembling groan tore past his mouth, one that made your belly fill with liquid fire. You shivered within his grasp, feeling his lips clamor to the underside of your jaw, nose brushing against your chin. His cock throbbed with a sense of urgency, slick with precum.

He continued to guide you, hands descending from your hips to the pliant flesh of your haunches, digits sinking into your derrière. Despite the chill of the rain and song of the storm raging around you, Cregan kept you anchored, warmth radiating from him.

Your hands deftly roamed across his musculature, coming to plant themselves against the expanse of his chest, his heart thudding beneath your palm. “That’s it.” Cregan rumbled, kissing at your jaw before he finally coaxed you in for a passionate kiss. He wanted you to come undone for him.

The intensity of your release blindsided you, crashing into you like a wave breaking upon the rock. Your nails desperately scratched at Cregan’s chest, sinking into his collarbone as you bucked forward. He continued to guide you up and down along his cock until your legs rattled like leaves in the wind.

Cregan joined you, following suit as he reached his peak, forehead bumping into yours as he sought your mouth for a tender kiss. He swallowed your sweet moans, spilling his seed into your cunt. Hot ropes of his spend filled you completely, causing the both of you to sigh, a low rumble reverberating from his throat.

You very nearly collapsed within his lap, heaving with excitable pants, basking in the aftermath of your release. In an intimate gesture, you kissed his jaw, peppering his visage in soft kisses that only made Cregan pull you closer. “Are you alright?” He murmured, running a hand along your side.

“I am,” You smiled, palm reaching to cup his cheek. Cregan’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, pressing a kiss to the silky skin there. Thunder crackled overhead, followed by a flash of lightning, the onslaught of rain pounding overhead. “It seems you’ve no choice but to stay.”

A bemused huff left Cregan, who seemed more than content to share your tent. “Thank the Gods for the deluge, then.” He rumbled, continuing to kiss from your wrist to your hand. A shiver rolled down the length of your spine, aided by his affectionate gestures.

Removing yourself from his lap, you settled down to lay beside him on the floor of your tent, gazing up at the damp canvas. The Warden of the North descended to you, offering you a muscular arm to rest against, moving the furs around the both of you.

It was a comfortable silence, born in the aftermath of your lovemaking as you curled against Cregan, palm settling above his abdomen. “When do you ride next?” You uttered, referring to the raging war that you were both caught within. It was easy to not think much of it when you were with him.

“On the morrow,” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together. He loathed the thought of leaving again, now that he had so much more to lose. His calloused digits idly traced around your shoulder, his other arm propped beneath his head. “We will fight hard, like Northerners.”

A subtle terror gripped your heart, foul tendrils sinking into every fiber of your being. You sat up just enough to gaze upon him, fingers drifting toward the slope of his jaw. “Promise me that you’ll be careful.” You uttered, stern as could be.

Cregan could not make such a promise — war was harrowing, and it was unpredictable. Instead, he reached for your face, holding you there as he met your gaze. “I will try,” A low rumble left him, gray eyes boring into you with devotion. “Should I fall prey to another arrow or sword, I will know who to seek.”

It was difficult not to smile, in spite of everything. You sighed, leaning in to kiss him, allowing gentleness and ardor to prevail. A low grunt escaped Cregan, gray hues fluttering shut as he drew you closer into the warmth of his musculature.

“I would certainly hope so.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal my work and claim it as your own. please do not translate my works onto other platforms.

[kuronarnze]

hihii, do you take requests? if so, can i request where reader is a really good cook where we're talking gordon ramsey type of skill? (≧∇≦)

a/n: hihiii anonn !! of course I take requests! (≧∇≦)/ I LOVELOVELOVE doing requests, thank you for requesting!! Enjoyyy !

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••���┈┈•

Blue lock boys with a reader that is a Gordon Ramsay-Level Chef !

ft. Isagi Yoichi, Itoshi Sae, Itoshi Rin, Shidou Ryusei, Nagi Seishiro, Mikage Reo

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈•

Isagi Yoichi

- At first, he underestimates your skills. Like, sure, you're a good cook—he’s had friends who can cook, right?

- Then he tastes your homemade bento. Silence. Actual silence.

- “...This is… like a five-star restaurant in a box??”

- He watches you cook with sparkles in his eyes like you're performing magic.

- Catch him secretly studying your techniques to try making you something decent in return.

- “Can you teach me how to make that sauce? No, wait—teach me everything.”

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈•

Itoshi Sae

- He's hard to impress. That smug face? Unshakable.

- Until you serve him handmade pasta with black truffle oil, freshly baked focaccia, and perfectly seared wagyu.

- "…You're not normal." That’s the closest you get to a compliment.

- Now he casually texts: “Cooking tonight?” and shows up at your door uninvited.

- He’s smug but respectful. “You might actually be better than my private chefs in Spain.”

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈•

Itoshi Rin

- His walls are high, but food breaks through.

- First meal you cook? He stares at you like you summoned it from heaven.

- He tries to hide how much he likes it.

- Keyword: tries.

- “Tch… I guess it’s okay.” (He finishes the entire plate and doesn’t make eye contact.)

- Secretly takes photos of your food and hides them in a locked folder labeled “Important.”

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈•

Shidou Ryusei

- “Ohhh, you cook? Like real food? Not instant ramen?”

- Doesn't believe you're that good… until he takes one bite and literally moans out loud.

- “YOU’RE A GODDAMN HOT CHEF. HELLA GOOD FOOD. AND THE ONE WHO COOKED IT IS HELLA HOT TOO?? MARRY ME. FEED ME FOREVER.”

- Now follows you around like a gremlin and begs for food.

- Tries to “help” in the kitchen once. You ban him instantly after he lit a towel on fire.

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈•

Nagi Seishiro

- Lazy boy is your biggest fan. He acts like he doesn't care—until he smells your cooking.

- Physically gets up on his own just to eat. That’s love.

- AND YES he actually had the will to eat a full meal.

- “Mmm… This is better than sleep.”

- He wants you to feed him like a spoiled cat. He pouts if you don’t give him bites from your hand.

- “You should open a restaurant. Or just stay here and cook for me forever. Whichever’s easier…”

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈•

Mikage Reo

- He’s rich, so he’s had the finest cuisine… but your food? Instant obsession.

- “Wait, wait—did you make this from scratch? Even the bread?”

- Treats your cooking like high art. He wants to film it, photograph it, write poems about it.

- Tries to convince you to open a luxury restaurant with him as your investor.

- Spoils you in return by getting you rare ingredients and top-tier kitchen tools.

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈•

TYSM FOR READINGG have a nice daayyy, plsplspls send me requests, i honestly don't have anyyy idea on what to writee.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request headcanons for Logan and Wade with shy gn s/o please?

I’m going to assume separate unless told otherwise as poly relationship between Wade/Logan and reader would be cool too, but again unless specified I’m just going to assume it’s separate.

Wade Wilson/ Deadpool

Wade found your shyness adorable but found your reactions to his teasing and flirting.

And he abuses the shit out of that to his hearts content.

Mouse was a nickname that you were given almost immediately from the moment you met as you were quiet and cute as one too that to Wade it just fit you perfectly.

Wade; stop being so fucking cute!

You: huh?

Wade: you heard me! It should be illegal to be as cute as you! You should be locked up for the thing you do to me, but I’d rather keep ahold of the details because half of them might make you faint little mouse.

You: oh. 😶🫣

Wade will make it a tradition to take you by surprise, whether it be by randomly kissing you, hugging you from behind, playfully smacking your ass, it didn’t matter because your tendency to whine his name out in embarrassment ‘waaaaddde!’ Before hiding your face in his chest as he laughs and whispers teasing words into your ear that only makes your flustered state worsen.

Wade didn’t mind that you were shy, he really didn’t as he found it to be one of the many things he loved about you and wanted to protect, he didn’t want you to feel as though you should have to change to better fit him when he was more content with you being you.

He’s never had as much fun nor laughter in his life like he did when he was with you, and Wade considered himself lucky to have someone as soft and sweet as you that he often times thought you’d be better off without a fuck up like him in your life but he’d kept it to himself, disguising it with humour and teasing you instead.

Logan Howlett/ Wolverine

Logan finds you being shy amusing to say the least.

It brought his protective instincts out as someone as soft and shy and softly spoken as you would need him by your side 24/7.

He’s your guard dog, scary dog privilege in the form of a very traumatised man who’s became more familiar with pain and heartbreak than the tender affection and touches you give him.

So you found it best to be patient with Logan and give him time to become familiar with your love and affection until he felt ready to reciprocate in his own way. And Logan appreciated you for that and would let you know his appreciation by planting a soft kiss to your forehead.

Logan is a softy with you and while he’s quick to bite back at other people, with you he’s much softer with his words that they’re practically sweet murmurs whispered within your ear, as he held you against his chest protectively as you both drifted off to sleep.

He more or less acts as your voice whenever you felt discomfort, he’d could easily tell from your bodily language and would immediately step in, and voice your discomfort for you in your stead for Logan knew that you’d rather avoid conflict then delve headfirst into it like him.

However Logan would be the type to try and teach you ways to defend yourself and how to stick up for yourself when he couldn’t, this is probably out of his fear of losing someone dear to his heart again, but he wasn’t about to risk looking you when he could give you the tools to keep yourself safe while he was away.

He gives you his jacket, just make sure that the point gets across that you were his and not theirs, after all he’s a possessive man who doesn’t like sharing what’s his with anyone else.

He didn’t care about anyone else, you were the only thing he gave two shits about alongside Laura Kinney (x 23) other then you two, nothing else mattered to Logan. He just wanted you to be happy for as long as possible.

Side note: he’d love it if you and Laura got along, it’ll mean all the more to him.

[librarygarten]

Chain x Murica! Reader

Y/N brought a gun to a sword fight. It goes pretty well. Until the boys start asking questions... (I wrote this at 3 AM while high on Nyquil. I don't even know what's happening in this one anymore. Read at your own risk.)

You had fallen into a world of fantasy. Large monsters lurked in abandoned dungeons brimming with treasure. Sword-weilding heroes defeated evil dragons and saved princesses. Honestly, you’re not sure how you’ve survived this long traveling with a band of heroes, apparently gathered from across time and space to face the greatest threat this world has ever encountered.

Knowing your inexperience in battle, they had tried to keep you away from the fighting. But they were occupied now.

You hold your weapon out in front of you, staring down the giant creature that had attacked your group. Some of them called it a Lynel. Whatever it was, it was bad news. Besides the fact that it looked like a nasty lovechild between a lion and a horse, it had already knocked some of the others away with the giant, hammer-like sword it wielded.

You took a deep breath.

The shot rang out in the clearing, the beast suddenly falling to the ground. The sounds of battle were replaced with a still, eerie silence.

Oh, yeah. That was how you survived. #secondammendment, baby!

You lower your pistol, looking around at your companions, most of whom were staring at you, jaws hanging open.

“You guys okay?” You asked, noticing the various scrapes and bruises most of them had.

“Y/N. What in Farore’s name was that?” Warriors stares at the gun in your hand like it’s going to suddenly jump out and bite him.

“Was that a spell?” Hyrule peers curiously at you from where he’s kneeling, his hands glowing as he tries to heal Wild. Knowing Wild, he’d probably missed a backflip during the fight and gotten his ribs shattered. Again.

“Uhh, no? It’s a gun.” You motion to the gun in your hand. “Do you guys not have guns in this world?”

“What’s a gun?” Wind pipes up, suddenly at your elbow. He leans forward, trying to get a better view of your weapon.

“I thought you were a pirate? Don’t pirates have pistols?” You raise an eyebrow at the young boy. He makes a confused face.

“Pirates use swords. And canons,” he explains.

“Then think of this like a small canon. There’s a tiny explosion that shoots a piece of metal super fast.” You trace your finger down the barrel, showing the path of the bullet out of the gun.

“How did you get a canon this small?” Four is suddenly standing at your other elbow, examining the gun with a confused look. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to make sense of the device.

“Beats me, man.” You shrug.

“Wait, how can you not know how your own weapon works?” Legend scoffs, crossing his arms in annoyance. You simply shrug again.

“It’s not like they teach us about it. Heck, schools don’t even let kids pretend to play with guns.” You roll your eyes in annoyance. “When we played cops and robbers on the playground, we got detention for pretending to shoot each other.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair.” Sky furrows his eyebrows. “Swordfighting was practically encouraged at my school.”

“Well, people have used guns for mass shootings. Lots of people died. Teachers are probably worried about kids getting ideas.”

“Doesn’t your kingdom have laws about getting such a device? Surely they wouldn’t let children have a tool that could harm a person so severely.” Time nudges the fallen Lynel with his boot. It remains lifeless on the ground.

“Well, obviously the government has some laws, like minimum age and stuff.” You nod, partially agreeing with Time. “But if they added too many restrictions, that would interfere with Americans’ right to bear arms.”

“Bear arms!?” Wild perks up, suddenly invested in the conversation. It’s clear he’s not thinking the same thing as you.

“The right to own and use guns,” you explain, and he slumps back down, perhaps saddened by the fact you don’t have government-given pet bears.

“So, let me get this straight.” Warriors pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your world has miniature, hand-held canons that can kill a Lynel in one hit and have historically been used to kill large numbers of civilians. And your royalty do little to control these devices?”

“Woah, man.” You gasp, offended. “America doesn’t have a monarchy. We got rid of the king, like, 200 years ago or something.”

“Got rid of…?” Twilight glances between you and the weapon in your hand. “What do you mean?” The rest of the chain share similar looks of horror.

“Ack, what are you looking at me like that for?” You swat the air with your hand, as if shooing away their ideas of regicide. “King What's-his-face lived across the ocean. We just sent him a very nice letter telling him to shove off, then when he sent soldiers to take back control, we fought them.”

“Right. Because that makes it so much better.” Legend rolls his eyes.

“Hey, at least we didn’t do what the French did!” You huff.

“What did they do?” Sky tilts his head, an innocent question. Shoot. Now you regret bringing that up.

“Welllllll…” You trail off. Maybe talking about the creation of democracy and the abolishment of the monarchy was a bad subject to talk about in a group made up of the Knights of Hyrule or whatever they were called.

“What did they do?” He asks, more serious this time.

“Okay, so from what I remember from history class, they just. Killed them all? Like publically executed every royal and court officail that didn’t flee to another country.” You wince as you speak. The boys’ faces go pale.

“Why would you want to get rid of the royalty? Don’t they have the blood of the goddess? And powers?” Wind scratches his head. That’s right, he had grown up without a monarchy controlling his island. But wasn’t he also friends with a long-lost princess? Honestly, these kids had led more interesting lives than could possibly be good for their mental health.

“No?” You furrow your brows. What did he mean by the blood of the goddess? “The king kept taxing random stuff and soldiers kept forcing themselves into people’s homes. I think they also killed a bunch of colonists one time firing-squad style, but I don’t exactly remember.”

“Oh. You had an evil king.” Time nods, as if finally understanding. Then he turns to the rest of the group, “Like Ganondorf.”

Most of the others nod along.

“Who’s that?” You tip your head to the side, confused. The outrage and utter bewilderment on the chain’s faces catches you off guard. They quickly descend into utter chaos.

“WHAT!?” “HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW!!??” “Does the name Ganon ring any bells?” “You know! The GIANT PIG MONSTER.”

You smile nervously. Maybe you should have just tried using one of their swords instead.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Engines and Affections

Pairing: Poly 141 x Assistant!reader

AU: Mechanic 141

Warning: fluff, the boys are a bit touchy

Authors note: I hope yall enjoy, it’s not poly until about half way through. I had to change a lot of this because it was similar to someone’s post that they posted so this is the newer one

Word Count: 2.2k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The air at Price’s Auto Garage buzzed with the sound of engines and tools, the usual symphony of work that set the place alive each day. Price, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost moved around the garage with quiet confidence, focused on their tasks. They were the best at what they did, hands skilled and practiced, but the front desk? It was a mess. Calls went unanswered, invoices piled up, and the schedule was a puzzle no one had time to piece together. Price finally decided they needed help at the front.

The moment you walked in for the interview, they noticed.

You stood in the doorway, posture relaxed, radiating a confident smile as you scanned the space. Even though garages weren't exactly familiar territory, you weren’t about to let that show. Price gave you a welcoming nod, gesturing you inside, while Soap looked you over with a smirk, already leaning against a toolbox. Gaz offered a warm smile, while Ghost stood off to the side, arms crossed, as unreadable as ever.

Price glanced through your resume with a quick nod, but it was clear they’d made up their minds as soon as you walked in. A few questions later, and the job was yours.

It wasn’t long before you found yourself in the midst of the garage’s organized chaos. The phone rang constantly, schedules made only partial sense, and sometimes, the invoices looked like a language of their own. You tried your best to keep up, but this was a whole new world.

“Ah, I think… these are for you?” You handed Price a stack of papers one morning, hesitating when his eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Love, these are last week’s invoices.” Price held back a chuckle, his eyes kind even as he gently corrected you. “I’ll show you how we sort ’em out, alright?”

His large hands guided yours through the stacks, showing you the little tricks they used to keep things organized. He took his time, explaining everything patiently, his voice low and calm as he brushed your shoulder every now and then. By the end of it, you had a better grasp—sort of.

Soap, however, took a different approach. Every few hours, he’d call you over, pulling you away from your desk to check out whatever project he was working on.

“Oi, lass, come look at this,” he called out one afternoon, grinning as he waved you over to the car he was working on.

You tried to seem interested, leaning in as he explained the engine in detail, even though the terms were lost on you. Your confidence started slipping as he talked about pistons, valves, and all kinds of parts you’d never heard of, but you nodded along, pretending to understand.

“See this part here?” He pointed, smirking as you leaned in closer, glancing from him to the engine.

“Oh, yeah! The… thing,” you managed, biting back a laugh when he rolled his eyes, grinning even wider.

“You’ve no idea what I’m on about, do ya?” He chuckled, nudging you playfully with his elbow. “Don’t worry, lass, I’ll teach ya everything I know. Might just take a bit.”

Despite your confusion, his excitement was infectious, and you found yourself laughing along, even if you still didn’t understand a word.

Gaz was the one who always made sure you felt comfortable, sensing when you were a bit overwhelmed. Every morning, he’d bring you a coffee, setting it on your desk with a small smile.

“To keep you sharp,” he said with a wink, and you’d thank him, feeling a little less lost in the unfamiliar world of auto repairs.

One afternoon, as you struggled with the printer again, Gaz appeared by your side. He’d noticed your mounting frustration and stepped in without a word, reaching over to press a few buttons with expert ease.

“Here, let me show you.” His hand rested on yours as he guided you through the steps, his voice soft and patient. You felt his presence close beside you, his attention entirely on helping you, and your nerves calmed as you finally figured out the tricky machine.

“You’re getting it,” he said with an approving nod, his fingers brushing yours for a moment longer before he stepped back, a quiet sense of pride in his smile.

Ghost, meanwhile, kept his distance—until you made a mistake too big for him to ignore. One evening, you’d accidentally given the wrong keys to a customer, causing a brief mix-up in the garage. Ghost’s expression was steely as he came over to you, clearly unimpressed.

“These keys belong to the truck in the back,” he said, his tone gruff but calm as he held them out to you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I just—” You stammered, caught off guard by the intensity in his gaze.

He took a slow breath, running a hand over his face before meeting your eyes again. “Just double-check before you hand ’em out next time, alright?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed, but Ghost’s expression softened almost imperceptibly when he noticed your nervousness. Later, he quietly came over, placing the keys in their correct spots while you watched, making sure you’d gotten it right.

“Just remember,” he said, his voice low, “no rush. Take your time.” And with a small nod, he returned to his work, his rare show of patience lingering with you.

---

One rainy evening, as you prepared to leave, you stood by the door, staring at the downpour. You’d forgotten your jacket, and with the way the rain was coming down, you’d be soaked in minutes.

Ghost was passing by, his eyes flicking between you and the rain outside. He let out a sigh, already pulling out his keys. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”

Surprised, you followed him to his truck, slipping into the passenger seat as he climbed in. The ride was quiet but comfortable, the steady rhythm of the rain filling the silence. His presence was somehow reassuring, and you found yourself relaxing, even sneaking a few glances at him as he drove.

“Thanks for this,” you murmured as he pulled up to your place, his gaze still fixed forward.

He gave a small nod, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just get yourself a jacket next time.” But the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and you knew he didn’t mind.

After that night, you’d started to find your rhythm in the garage. The guys were quick to help when you needed it, and slowly, you felt like part of the team. The way they each looked out for you in their own way brought you a quiet sense of belonging that you hadn’t expected, making the unfamiliar chaos of the garage feel like somewhere you could finally call home.

——

Over the next few months, the garage became more than just a workplace—it became a second home. The guys were always there, whether to lend a hand, share a laugh, or tease you about some new mistake. You noticed how each of them had their own way of making sure you were taken care of. And somewhere along the way, your small, shared moments with each of them started to feel… different.

Price became more attentive, stopping by your desk to chat with you about your day, his warm gaze lingering a moment too long. Soap’s teasing got softer, almost affectionate, his laughs filled with genuine happiness when he saw you smile. Gaz made a habit of bringing you coffee every morning, but now he’d stay a little longer, brushing your hand as he passed the cup, his gaze lingering on your lips. Even Ghost, usually distant, had become gentler, staying around the garage a little longer just to make sure you got home safe.

The four men started to notice each other’s shifts in behavior too. What was once harmless camaraderie and teamwork started to feel like an unspoken rivalry, each of them vying for more of your attention. Eventually, it reached a tipping point, and one late night at the garage, they decided to address it head-on.

“Alright, lads,” Price began, crossing his arms as he looked at the others. “It’s about her, isn’t it?”

Soap scoffed, trying to brush it off. “You mean the way you get all soft whenever she’s around?” he said, though there was no real bite to his tone.

Gaz chuckled, running a hand over the back of his neck. “We all know it’s not just Price. Let’s be honest with ourselves here.”

Ghost, silent as ever, watched the others, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted, his voice low but steady. “Guess we’ve all got feelings for her. Question is, what’re we gonna do about it?”

They sat in silence for a moment, each processing the quiet admission that their feelings ran deeper than simple friendship. Price broke the silence, his voice firm yet understanding.

“We’re not just co-workers; we’re a team,” he said. “So, if we’re all on the same page about her, then maybe it’s time we tell her.”

A few days later, the four of them gathered the courage to bring up the subject with you. It was the end of a long workday, and you were about to head home when Price called you over, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

As you walked into the main garage, the four of them stood there, exchanging glances as if silently confirming that this was the right moment. You felt your heart race, sensing that whatever was about to happen was important.

Price cleared his throat, his usual steady demeanor softening as he looked at you. “We, uh… have something we need to talk to you about. All of us.”

Confused, you looked between them, giving a small nod. “Okay, I’m listening.”

They each took turns explaining, their words stumbling a little at first but then gaining confidence as they shared their feelings. Price told you how much he admired your kindness and resilience, how you made the garage feel like home. Soap shared how much he loved making you laugh, how your presence was the highlight of his day. Gaz spoke of his protective instincts, how he felt compelled to make you happy. Even Ghost, usually guarded, admitted in his own quiet way that he’d come to care about you deeply.

It was overwhelming but touching, hearing each of them express feelings that you hadn’t dared to think might be mutual. Finally, Price looked at you, his eyes searching yours with a question that didn’t need words.

“Would you be open to… to something with all of us?” he asked gently.

It took a moment for you to process what they were asking, but as you looked at each of them, you realized that the idea didn’t scare you—in fact, it felt right.

“I… I would be,” you admitted, smiling as their tense expressions melted into ones of relief and happiness.

From that point on, your relationships with them grew deeper and more intimate. You shared quiet mornings with Gaz, who’d bring you coffee and pull you close, his arm around you as you eased into the day together. Soap’s playful teasing turned more flirtatious, his laughter warm as he’d brush your hair back, stealing little kisses when no one was looking. Price had a way of grounding you, his strong arms always there to wrap around you at the end of a long day, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your forehead that made you feel safe. And Ghost, though still reserved, became more open, offering a gentle touch here and there, his presence comforting in a way that words couldn’t quite describe.

One evening, after closing up shop, you found yourself nestled between them on the worn leather couch in the break room. Gaz leaned close, his hand tracing gentle patterns on your back, while Soap’s arm draped across your shoulders, pulling you close as he whispered jokes in your ear, his voice warm and soft. Price sat at your side, his hand resting on your knee, thumb drawing small circles as he met your gaze with a soft smile, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding.

And Ghost, ever the silent observer, brushed a gentle hand over your shoulder, his fingers lingering at your neck. You felt their affection surrounding you, each of them bringing their own unique warmth and comfort, and you knew that this—this closeness, this shared connection—was something rare, something to be cherished.

Over time, your moments together grew more intimate. The nights you spent with them were full of whispered words and gentle touches, each one of them showing their love in their own way. Soap’s playful nature softened, his teasing replaced with gentle affection as he held you close, his laughter quiet as he stroked your hair. Gaz would pull you into his lap, his hands warm against your back as he kissed you deeply, his eyes filled with warmth as he traced his thumb over your cheek. Price, always steady, would hold you close, his presence reassuring as he kissed you with a softness that made you feel cherished, his voice low as he murmured words of love.

And Ghost, though still quieter than the others, would sit beside you, his fingers brushing over yours, his touch reverent as he watched you with a gaze that spoke volumes. When he held you, it was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he couldn’t believe you were there with him.

In these shared moments, you found a kind of love and connection that you’d never known. Together, you formed a bond stronger than any you’d ever imagined, a family bound by love and trust. And in their arms, surrounded by their warmth, you knew you’d found a home, one where you were loved wholly and completely by each of them.

Hope you enjoyed! Please follow, like and Reblog💜 -Midnight’s Cafe

[amarmoria]

Nepenthe

꩜.ᐟ Qimir x Padawan! Reader

Why would your master want a padawan like you when he has his acolyte?

Notes: I've seen fics abt padawan reader and none can quench my thirst eugh😫pls note i have nooo idea what goes on in the star wars universe please don't come for me😣

"Hand me that one, fast" He gestured to the purple fruit just beside you, not daring to glance at you. "Yes, sir"

You curiously peeked over your master as you handed the fruit, what was so important it had him rushing like this?

"It's for Mae," he says, the squelching fruit making you frown, you forget he reads minds as easily as breathing. Your frown deepens as you remember. Mae. His acolyte, he took you in a few months before Mae came, that first few months felt like heaven, it was just you and him, in this unknown planet, training, practicing.

Yet, after Mae came, it almost felt like you were some kind of servant for the both of them, he trained with her day and night, leaving you to fend for yourself, he told you it's because you've already been trained by him, that you don't need to anymore, you didn't mind, you got along with Mae... on your perspective that is.

Mae was a fast learner, you were proud of her, now you have someone to share your training with, converse like a normal person, but later you realized that him and her were two sides of the same coin, quiet, mute, they don't like conversations, although you made an effort to be friends with Mae, than you ever did with your master since she was the lesser evil, you're quite proud of yourself when your conversations with her turned from smalls nods and no's to simple phrases.

You didn't care that your master had two Padawans under his belt, that is until he taught her some things he never even told you about, every now and then he would drop hints about what he would teach you next, to prepare you, but this one was unknown to you, you thought, maybe, maybe he forgot to tell you since he was so engrossed in trying to make Mae catch up to you, but Mae didn't just catch up to you, she had already passed way above you, while your stuck on the pedestal she was weeks ago.

"Something on your mind, little bee?" That nickname, he never once gave an explanation on why he calls you that. "No, uh, nothing.. master"

You focus on his muscles grinding the stone bowl.

"I don't think that's nothing"

"I'm fine, really." You bite the inside of your cheeks. "Hm"

You blink, fiddling with the hem of your robes, you let a few seconds pass before speaking up.

"Why.. why does Mae need it?" He halted his movements, and right then and there you almost regretted asking, almost. "She's having nightmares"

He resumed his cooking, although his brief answer didn't provide you with anything, so what? You were having nightmares once too, and he told you to suck it up.

And as if he read your mind, which he did. "I don't want it to hinder her performance, we don't want any distractions during this time of her training."

What about my training? You wanted to yell at him, what about me? Why can't you make me one of your anti-nightmare potions too?

You could only clench your fists, making sure he doesn't hear some of your thoughts, which is hard considering he didn't teach you to, only Mae, along with healing your body by using the force, all her, and your left in the dust.

Your master said using negative emotions is the best fuel for people like them. Them. He told you, him and Mae obvi, you're nowhere near the equation, like an addition symbol in a multiplication question, makes no sense right? Because you make no sense being there when he clearly prioritizes Mae.

"—are you still listening?"

"I, huh," your eyes flutter up to him, frowning when he says nothing but look at you. A few seconds pass with only the both of you staring each other down, I mean, him staring you down with his creepy mask, he suddenly lets go of the pestle, the tool colliding with the mortar loudly.

He was now towering over you, and you realize then how big he was compared to you, it's like a dwarf next to a willow tree. (Guys no matter how big you think you are, Qimir is always bigger✋)

"I can't hear you, but I feel you" oh fuck, you forgot about that. "What is this plaguing your mind?"

Before you could answer, Mae comes running.

"You're back" He focuses on her, you let out a deep breath, for once your relieved Mae came in just a nick of time. "The ship's ready, master"

"Good, let's go" he grabs his robe from behind you. "Finish the potion before we come back"

"Whe, where are you guys going?"

"Nothing of importance, now go." He gestures to the stone bowl, his menacing helmet buzzing in your ears. "Yes, master.."

"Good girl." you couldn't hear his last few mumbles, only registering everything when they left the cave, leaving you alone.

-

You decided that you're gonna make an anti-nightmare potion for yourself too, because why does only Mae get it when you can make one in case you get nightmares?

And the best place to buy ingredients was with the best apothecary in town.

"Qimir?" You knock on the door. "I need to buy things for him, are you there?"

No answer.

"Hellooo?"

You pouted and turned around, now everyone's busy when you're not, you wanted to wait for a few more seconds but people might think you're crazy for trying to buy from an abandoned pharmacy, your master told you Qimir was there anytime you needed something to use for missions, but now that you don't go to missions, you love to annoy the clumsy pharmacy owner.

"Hey, wait!"

You tried to stop the smile creeping to your face when you hear the door bust open.

"I'm here!" He yelled, you turned around and waved, a big smile covering your face. "What took you so long?"

"What do you mean?" He playfully shrugged. "Been here since forever"

You felt more comfortable with him, you don't have to have to tiptoe around him unlike with the other, you liked to tease him about not taking a bath and for looking like a ragged hobo.

"What are you doing here though?" His eyebrows furrowed as you skip to him, you gave him a warm smile once again before making your way inside. "I need some things for him."

He frowned.

"Things? He didn't tell me he needed anything when they passed here."

"Well he told me, so go fetch it for me, servant" you chuckle and hit him on the bicep, he fakes a cry before hesitating to open the shelves.

"Here's the list of his majesty needs"

"His majesty?" He laughs, you just love making him laugh, maybe it's just you, or maybe you're just alone, but if there's anyone in the world you're going to survive an apocalypse with, it's Qimir.

"Uh huh, he keeps barking orders, finish this, finish that before we get home nyeh nyeh nyeh"

He chuckles once again. "Are you sure about telling me that? I might just snitch and get a promotion."

You feign an insulted look. "You don't dare"

"Oh but I do"

You both sat there laughing, forgetting about what you were here for. You clutch your tummy and struggle to inhale air.

"I can't— stop—" you burst out laughing once again, your face heating up, the tears in your eyes now brimming full.

"No no don't die on me" He jokes, you can see him staring, you wanted to look at him like that, shameless, but you can't stand looking at him for more than 3 seconds without blushing.

"Really?" He mumbles, but you heard him, clear as day. "What?"

"I, I mean, really h-huh? You can't stop laughing?" He waved both his hands in the air.

"You weirdo"

"Oh so now I'm the weirdo?"

"Uh huh"

"Since when?!"

"Since we met"

"Says the person who keeps barging in my shop"

"You like it though right?" You look up at him expectantly. "Like w-what?"

You gesture with your hands. "This?"

"This what?"

"You're always alone here, you must be grateful that I always visit."

"Yeah, always"

"What does that mean!" You put your hands on your waist. "It means you're always here, so you're like an everyday occurance by now"

You roll your eyes as he finishes up the list.

"Here's the last one—" you frown as he pauses. "What?"

"Isn't this," he picks up the list again. "It's for.."

You gulp, your fingers fumble with the wooden seat.

"N-no, no, it's not" you avert your eyes from him, the floor looking a little more interesting today.

"It's for nightmares isn't it?"

"I don't know, he only gave the list, nothing else."

"It is for nightmares, why do you need these?"

"I don't know, it's not for me." You clench your fists. "If it was for him he'd tell me himself"

Your eyes try to find something, anything, to tell him.

"I think it's for Mae okay? Maybe, maybe she's having nightmares and, and maybe he doesn't want it to distract her.."

"But I al—" he pauses, his jaw flexing. "I already gave him these."

His eyes narrow on you, like a deer in the headlights you could only look away.

"Tell me?" His soft voice lures you to him. "Are you having them?"

"No.." you sigh, do you tell him you're making the potion out of spite for your master? For making one for Mae and not for you, ugh it all sounds childish now, before you left you had a plan, and now you look like a child caught.

"Just—" you let out a deep breath. "Give it, and I'll be on my way"

He stares at you for a moment, before placing everything in a small pouch. You thanked him and left the credits on the table before hurriedly leaving, you could still feel his stare at the back of your head.

[whisperofaflame]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 3: The Cat, the Witch and the Spider

WandaNat x [femme, innocent] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Story Summary:

After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.

Chapter Summary: You spend the rest of the day in Wanda's company, anticipating the return of her wife, Natasha.

Word Count: 6.6k

Featuring: A really cute cat, and the first appearance of Natasha.

When you pull yourself out of your daydream, you realise you haven’t been to the bathroom for hours, and you really need to pee. You stand up and hastily make your way out the bedroom and into the bathroom on the same floor. You’re so focussed on your need that it isn’t until after, when you’re washing your usable hand at the sink, that you notice the state of yourself. Starting at your chin and spreading up your right cheek is a patch of pink, grazed skin. You look awful; it’s very evident that you endured something untoward recently. It looks clean though, so you consider that someone must have seen to it at some point this morning, since it most likely came from your close encounter with the tarmac, and that must have left some residue. It’s funny, how seeing your injuries in the mirror triggers your brain to receive the pain. You can feel the sting in your cheek now that you know it is there, now you understand the signals. You wonder if it was all getting mixed up with the shoulder pain before.

You look down at the rest of you, seeing your top is worn thin beneath the sling, where it dragged along the road. Your jeans too look a little battered, but there don’t seem to be any rips or holes. You wonder what your legs look like beneath, whether there are more scrapes hidden under the denim, or any purple patches emerging under your skin. You’d really like to change out of your jeans into something more comfy, but it occurs to you that it’s going to be an ordeal to change with only one arm, and your non-dominant arm at that. Even going to the toilet was a faff. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror again, you realise there is perhaps one thing you can do to improve your appearance even a little. Your hair is sticking up all over the place, half in and half out of the bobble you wrapped around your ponytail before you left your flat this morning. No wonder Wanda keeps brushing it out your eyes. And as lovely as it feels to have her gentle touch, you’d much rather look presentable in front of her. 

You remember there is a mirror in the walk-in closet of your bedroom, which you glanced in your periphery when Wanda was showing you around. So you head back there, and wiggle your hairbrush out the toiletries bag, after wrestling with the zip a while. You’ve found it’s best to attempt everything with one hand first, and only employ the dangling fingers of your right arm in the direst of straights, since any use of that side inevitably provokes an intensive throbbing in your broken bone. So you wrangle the tool out with a single fumbling hand and approach the mirror with a grimace of determination. 

It’s clumsy work, making you really how lopsided your muscles must be in your body, but you just about manage to tame your hair with your left hand. That is, until you gain confidence and start making fast, cocky strokes — which you simply don’t have the dexterity to control. The full weight of the hairbrush, plus the momentum you’ve pushed in with your hand, collides with your collarbone, and you have to bite hard on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. You hiss out through the cracks, scrunching your eyes shut and squeezing out a few tears. A range of swear words run through your head as you try to fight the feeling with ferocious thoughts. 

It doesn’t really go away, but it does subside a tiny bit after half a minute of agony. You force yourself to take deep breaths and look up at yourself again. It’s good enough; no more hair brushing for now, you decide. 

You don’t feel particularly tired anymore; your dozing in the car seems to have been enough to revitalise you. So there’s nothing to do but go downstairs and join Wanda in the kitchen. You wonder about bringing something down with you, something to do, but you decide against it. For now, you’ll just go with the flow. 

You leave the bedroom door open as you leave, since it feels private enough tucked away at the top of the stairs, and you don’t have anything to hide anyway. Then you take careful, quiet steps down the winding staircase. Down to the level with Wanda’s bedroom, then down again to the entrance level, as the sound of classical music slowly seeps into your consciousness. 

You turn to your left at the bottom of the stairs, stepping softly into the kitchen in your ankle socks. Wanda is at the stove but she twists to face you, greeting you with an all-encompassing smile, which reaches her eyes and softens her shoulders. 

She’s so beautiful. 

“Here, sweetheart,” Wanda says, pulling out a bar stool from under the island in the middle. “Take a seat while I cook.” 

You awkwardly shimmy onto the high stool, feeling off-balance due to your rigid right side. Then you place your good hand on the counter and push against it to spin the stool, so you can face Wanda. She places a hand gently on your knee.

“I’m making a big omelette for us,” she tells you with a smile. Then she tilts her head slightly. “I hope that’s okay?”

You nod, feeling dazed. It’s hard to focus like this, when your senses are assaulted by her kindness from all avenues — her voice, her smile, her touch. Wanda gives your knee a light squeeze, then she turns back to the pan on the hob. You chew your lip and press your hand between your legs, just above your knees. It’s only now that one arm is out of action that you realise how fidgety you are, since you’re constantly initiating motions to clasp your hands or arms together, all of which have to be aborted when you remember your arm is off-duty. Instead, your feet find a little rung on the stool and you lightly bounce your left leg up and down while you watch Wanda. She’s moving so fluidly, her body responding ever so slightly to the music playing from a radio on the corner of the counter.  She hums a little too, happily occupied in her cooking. You let the sight, the sound, the smell wash over you.

When Wanda finishes the omelette, she pulls two plates out of one of the overhead cupboards and begins plating up. Your processing is so slow in the wake of the accident that it’s only when she lifts the plates and turns that the idea of offering help occurs to you.

“Sorry — can I do anything?” You stand up from the stool, and it creaks a little with your hasty motion.

Perhaps Wanda sees a certain desperation in your eyes, because she gives you a token task to do.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Could you bring the glasses over, please? I’ll come back and get the jug.” 

You nod, and wait until she’s walked past you before approaching the counter and gently stacking the two glasses Wanda took from the cupboard. Then you carry them across to the dining table with your remaining hand. Wanda passes you again on her way back, and smiles. You duck your head to hide flushed cheeks, and set the glasses down one at a time, beside each plate. Wanda turns the volume down on the radio, then fills the jug from under the tap and then carries it over, meeting your watchful eyes. She sets it down, then pulls out the chair beside you. You’re about to move to the other side of the table, sure you’ve managed to accidentally hover at her spot, but then she gestures with her hand for you to sit. 

“Thank you,” you mumble, as you obey without question. You slide in front of the chair, and lean down to pull it forward, but it moves slowly without your input. So you sit, and turn back to see Wanda smiling down at you. She briefly places a hand on your intact shoulder, then moves round the table, taking the seat opposite you. 

A warm, cosy feeling settles in your stomach. You feel a little exposed, with her facing you, but her kindness is chipping away at your discomfort and softening your demeanour. Wanda picks up her fork and flicks her eyes towards your plate meaningfully, so you lift yours too, and begin to eat.

It’s a little awkward, only having one hand, but luckily the omelette isn’t too difficult to cut with the side of your fork. The two of you eat in peaceful tandem, and you’re surprised by the ease of the silence, the lack of pressure to speak. It’s appreciated, because you can’t think of anything to say right now, and your brain probably wouldn’t comply if you were obliged to answer any questions.

The first interruption of the meal comes from the stairs, a loud and insistent meow which makes you jump. You turn to see a small white cat approaching the table with slightly skittish steps as it scopes out the two human bodies at the table.

“Oh, silly me,” Wanda chuckles. “I’m sorry Y/N, I forgot to tell you… Meet Mayakovsky. Or, Myau-kovsky, as Nat calls him. Because he meows so much.”

Mayakovsky stops a few steps from the table, tail flicking and eyes watching you intently. You glance at Wanda for permission, and she smiles. So, very slowly, you crouch down on the floor, and extend your left arm, hand in a fist except for your index finger, which you stretch out for a greeting.

Mayakovsky’s tail settles into an upright curl, and you wait patiently, trying not to move or stare at him too intensely. Soon, your patience is rewarded by his approach, cautious at first, but then confident as he begins to trust you. He boops his nose against your finger, then goes round to his right, rubbing his cheek against your fist and sliding along your outstretched arm. Your face lights up at his acceptance, and as he circles behind you, tail wrapping round your legs as he goes, you slowly turn your head to Wanda and grin happily. 

“Well, he’s taken to you rather quickly, sweetheart,” she says, laughing lightly. 

When Mayakovsky comes back around to your front, you slowly sit down on the floorboards, and offer your hand again. When he rubs his head against you, you turn it into a testing stroke, and you hear and feel him purring against you. 

“You’re very handsome,” you whisper to him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“He is very handsome,” Wanda agrees, “but he’s also a bit of a liability.”

“Really?” you ask, wondering what sort of antics he gets up to.

“He’s deaf, but also not very coordinated, so he often falls off things when he gets a fright. If you need to get his attention or let him know you’re there, it’s best to step heavily on the floor so he can feel the vibrations.”

You nod, and look back at Mayakovsky, who’s nudging you to give him more pets. His whiskers are tickling against you, making you giggle. You stroke him a while longer, until he gets bored, or remembers what he came in for. He trots over to Wanda, and meows loudly again, like he doesn’t realise how loud he’s being. Which, you suppose, he can’t.

“OK, OK, I’ll get you something,” Wanda tells him, standing up. You return to your seat at the table and watch as she goes into the kitchen and takes a bag of cat food from a cupboard near the door. Then she pours a small amount into a bowl, partially hidden under a shelf, which might be why you missed it when she showed you around. Once the bag is away and Mayakovsky’s face is buried in the bowl, she opens the balcony door a little, letting in a welcome breeze.

“Nat thinks I spoil him too much,” Wanda sighs, coming back to you and leaving Mayakovsky to eat. “But I can’t help it, he’s just too cute.”

“He is,” you agree, taking another bite of your omelette. “How long have you had him?”

“Not long; I adopted him less than a year ago. Nat wasn’t happy at first,” Wanda laughs. “But then, it was a surprise for her — I adopted him the day I found out about him, and didn’t have a chance to warn her. It took her a while, but I think they’re quite fond of each other now, though neither of them will admit it.”

You grin, but inside you’re beginning to feel a little worried about meeting Natasha. You can’t help but feel that you, like Mayakovsky, are a surprise arrival. And you’re certainly nowhere near as cute as him, which must have helped ease the blow. 

Mayakovsky finishes his food, and trots out the slight opening of the door to the balcony. Wanda explains that there’s a cat flap downstairs too, so he can get out even if the door is closed. You finish your omelette and drink some more water, feeling the cold liquid dripping down your throat and quenching the thirst you hadn’t registered until now. 

Wanda stands to clear the table, and you help her stack the plates and carry everything through to the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, as she loads the plates, cutlery and glasses into the dishwasher.

You shrug. “I’m okay. A bit sore though.”

“Of course, sweetheart” she nods, then glances at her watch. “You can have some more painkillers in an hour.”

Your head tilts in question, wondering how she knows this. Wanda huffs out a half-laugh, and smiles at your confusion.

“The doctor who gave us your medication, darling. She said you could take it every six hours, but we should count from the drugs you were given in the ambulance around nine this morning.”

“Oh,” you say, realising you remember none of this, despite your attempts to appear engaged in the hospital. Maybe the concussion is affecting you more than you think.

“It’s okay honey, I can keep track for you until you’re feeling a bit better.” Wanda reaches over and squeezes your hand. “I can’t imagine how confusing all of this must be for you, but you’re doing just fine, alright?”

There’s a tensing, twisting feeling in your chest; you feel so comfortable and self-conscious at the same time, and you don’t know how that can be.

“Now, what would you like to do this afternoon? I wondered about watching a film downstairs, to let your body rest a bit. What do you think?”

You shrug, then nod very slightly. You don’t have any other ideas, and a movie sounds nice. Internally, you wonder if she will join you. You hope that she will join you. 

“Alright,” she says, closing the dishwasher. “Let’s go down, then.”

You scoot out of the way to let her lead, still not confident enough to initiate anything. She smiles at you ask she passes, and looks over her shoulder to watch you tiptoeing behind her. When you reach the stairs, you’re able to use the banister on the left side to reassure yourself on your descent. You still feel off-balance with your right arm strapped tightly against your torso, and as the painkillers begin to wane inside your body, the bruising impact of the crash is beginning to emerge in your legs too. Wanda watches you the whole way down, glancing back and pausing when you slow.

“That’s it honey,” she encourages you softly. “Take it slow.” 

When you reach the bottom, she grants you a quiet “good job”, and you bite your lip in an attempt to restrain the blushing.

Wanda leads you to their living room space, sitting down on the sofa and patting the cushion beside her. You sidle behind the coffee table and perch down slowly, lowering yourself with your good arm on the sofa and leaving an appropriate gap between you. Sinking in to the sofa and surrounded by cushions, your jeans suddenly feel more restrictive and uncomfortable on your body. The denim grating against grazed skin, digging in to your tummy as you sit. You begin to regret leaving them on and not changing when you could. You’ll just have to bear it, and hope that you can be distracted from the feeling.

“What would you like to watch?” Wanda asks, picking up the remote and turning the TV on. 

You shrug. It’s silly, and a little rude maybe, so you force yourself to find the words. “Don’t know.” Still, it feels insufficient. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to think…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she reassures you, interrupting your babbling explanation. “Let me think for you. Just let me know your thoughts if and when you can.” 

You nod, with a small smile of relief. It’s a welcome reprieve, to be given the opportunity to rest. Leaning back against the cushion, you feel your muscles relax, making you realise how much tension you’ve been holding in them for hours. Wanda watches you, and smiles at your contentment. 

You look up at the TV screen, your breath slowing. Wanda navigates to Netflix, and flicks through some options. You find it hard to keep up with the changing images, so you let your eyes wander a little, turning slowly to face her and gaze at her intent expression.

“Hmm,” she hums, thinking. “When I’m feeling under the weather I like to watch something relaxing, like a Studio Ghibli film.”

You perk up at that. “I love Studio Ghibli films!” you pipe up, eyes jumping back to the screen.

“Have you seen this one?” Wanda asks, highlighting Kiki’s Delivery Service. You frown, and shake your head. “It’s one of my favourites,” she tells you, and you turn back to her.

“Can we watch it then?” you ask, realising you’ve assumed she’ll stay, but hoping she intended to anyway.

“Of course, sweetheart. Let’s see if you enjoy it as much as I do.”

You smile, sinking deeper into the sofa, happy that she seems to be settling down to stay too. She starts playing it, and tucks her feet up so that her legs are crossed on the sofa beside you. Her knee is very close to you now; you can feel the heat of her body. But you force yourself to focus on the screen, which doesn’t turn out to be hard. You’re very quickly transfixed by the gorgeous animation, the gutsy young witch and her doleful cat companion, Jiji. You’re so engrossed that you gradually forget where you are, and who you’re with. In the scene when Jiji the cat sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry into the air, you giggle and pull your feet up onto the sofa, forgetting Wanda’s proximity. Your foot bumps into hers, and you’re brought back to earth at once, blushing at your clumsiness and the level to which you have become invested in the film. You tuck your feet underneath you a little tighter, so your crossed left foot can’t bump into her right. And you stare back at the screen, determined not to look at Wanda and show her your burning face.

After a while, Wanda puts her feet down on the floor and shuffles to the edge of the sofa. 

“I’m just going to get your meds, sweetheart,” she whispers in explanation. “I don’t want you to leave it too late and get more sore.”

You blink at her, thoughts still occupied by the film. As she stands, your brain finally catches up.

“Thank you,” your murmur, and she gives you a little smile before passing in front of the coffee table and returning to the stairs.

In her absence, you shuffle back into the left corner of the sofa so that you can rest you legs out without intruding into Wanda’s spot. It’s a little uncomfortable though, because you need to stay at a certain angle to avoid pressing your bad side into the sofa.

When Wanda returns, she is carrying a glass of water in one hand and the pill bottle in the other. She sees your shifted position, and frowns briefly. 

“Honey, switch over to my side,” she directs you gently. “It looks uncomfortable, having your shoulder against the cushions.”

Because she’s phrased it as an instruction, rather than a question, you feel obliged to obey without offering an initial polite refusal. You swing your legs to stand, and sidle between the coffee table and the sofa to sit in the opposite corner instead. Indeed, when you sit down it is a lot more comfortable. With your right arm facing out you can lean back fully, and relax your core muscles. Plus, there’s still the hint of warmth on the cushion, the ghost of her body heat left behind.

Wanda crouches down beside you, and holds out the glass of water. You have to sit up again a little bit, afraid of spilling, before taking it in your left hand. Then she opens the pill bottle, pressing and twisting with both hands to undo the seal and overcome the child-lock. She shakes one pill out into her hand, then twists the lid back on with the tips of her fingers and places the bottle onto the table.

“Ah,” she says, realising at the same time as you that you now don’t have a hand to take the pill with. A wild, imagined image of her placing it on your tongue leaps to the forefront of your imagination, and you’re suddenly gripped by the terror that she can somehow see it, read it on your rubescent face. You hand back the glass, averting your gaze, and let her swap it for the small white pill instead. You open your mouth just a little to let it in, then take back the glass and wash it away with the water. It gets a little caught in your throat, and you pull a face without meaning too, grimacing as you try to flush it down with more water. Finally, it relents its grip and disappears down the pipe.

Wanda takes the glass back from you in her right hand, and simultaneously brushes your hair behind your ear with her left, making you catch your breath at her soft, whispering touch.

“Hopefully this will help your pain a bit,” she says, frowning at you sympathetically. You lean back again, looking into her grey-blue eyes, blinking stupidly. Then you nod, because she doesn’t seem to be moving, and you’re not sure if you should be doing or saying something. She smiles at this, and shuffles in front of you to sit on the other side of the sofa, where she’ll surely also feel the warmth of your body beneath her. She’s also chosen to sit right beside your feet, and you can almost feel the charged space between your toes and her thighs. 

“Do you want me to go back a bit?” she asks, gesturing to the screen when you look back at her in confusion.

You shake your head. “It’s okay,” you say quietly. She smiles, nods, and turns back to watch the film. And you do the same, tension evaporating as you focus on the story again, letting the music lull you. You’re so comfy, and the movie is so calm and comforting with its soft colours and gentle music. It gets a little blurry and harder to see, but you don’t really notice, and you definitely don’t mind. Slowly, your eyes flicker and begin to close, as you drift off to sleep.

When you wake, you find a soft blanket draped over your body. Turning to face the screen, you see it has been turned off. Wanda is sitting at the far end of the sofa, tucked into the opposite corner, legs crossed and hands rhythmically knitting between them. She glances up, and her face breaks into a smile.

“Hey, sweetheart. Good sleep?”

You have to think a moment, still catching up to where you are and what has happened. Finally, you nod. 

“How long was I out for?” you ask quietly.

“Just over an hour,” Wanda tells you, her voice gentle, like she’s trying not to startle you so soon after waking. She leans down and places her knitting on the shelf beneath the coffee table. “I was just thinking I should wake you up soon actually. Nat should be home from work shortly, and I’d better start making us some dinner.”

You sit up, eager not to hold her back from her daily routine. The blanket falls away from you a little, reminding you that she must have tucked it in around you while you were sleeping. The thought makes you feel a lightheaded, giddy kind of joy. But then you realise that this fuzzy, cosy state you are in is not how you want to be when you’re introduced to Natasha, who sounds capable and serious and discerning.

“Is it okay if I go upstairs and get changed? You ask, feeling there is finally enough incentive to justify the inevitable pain of removing your scuffed clothes. 

“Of course, darling. Do you want any help?”

“No thanks,” you say hastily, terrified at the notion of her seeing your body when you’re trying so hard to contain (and deny) all your haphazard emotions. “I appreciate the offer, but really, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, fixing you with a look that makes you feel like you’re being x-rayed. “It might be tricky with your sling, honey. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” you assure her, trying to sound confident, despite fully agreeing that yes, it will be tricky.

“Okay,” she relents. “But I’d prefer to wait outside your room, and then you can call me if you get stuck, alright?”

You nod, biting your lip as you consider the premise, imagining getting stuck halfway through changing and having to desperately call for aid in such a compromising position. The thought makes you shudder. 

You peel back the blanket, attempting to fold it but hardly managing with one hand. Wanda smiles at you though, so you think it will do. 

The two of you walk up the stairs together, climbing the three flights to your — no, the guest — bedroom. Once there, you take a deep breath, summoning all your resolve to complete this task. Wanda waits, as promised, outside, and you close the door over most of the way behind you. 

It’s an almighty ordeal: even just shimmying out of your jeans and pulling on a loose pair of joggers feels like a marathon effort, and involves a lot more painful leaning than you expected. With your lower half sorted, you immediately realise how stupid you were to assume you could manage any of the next part by yourself. It dawns on you just how dependent you are now, at least until your collarbone heals enough to move your arm without excruciation. Throwing caution to the wind, you attempt to undo the sling, breathing heavily in wheezing pants of pain. But then you are stuck, crying out as the weight of your arm is released and you are forced to tense it in position, the energy rippling through your bones. 

“Y/N, honey, can I come in?” Wanda asks, sounding desperate. 

You can’t reply verbally, you’re expending all your effort on trying not to scream. But the door opens anyway, and she’s rushing to you, hushing you gently, hands taking over with reassuring efficiency. You close your eyes as she supports you, checks for your consent. When she asks what you want to change into you open your eyes just enough to gesture at the baggy t-shirt you laid out on the bed. You nod pathetically whenever she asks if she can proceed, desperate just to get it over with, no longer worried about your dignity since it’s already gone, deserted from your body along with your tears.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to be too forward, and you can absolutely say no if you’re not comfortable, but do you maybe want me to take your bra off? I just wonder if it’s adding pressure to your collarbone…” Wanda asks, cautious and gentle.

You really think about this. It occurs to you that it will have to come off at some point tonight, and maybe it’s better if you get it all out of the way now, rather than having to rehash this undignified sequence again later today.

“Um, w-would you?” you ask, very quietly. “It’s just, it is kind of uncomfortable, and I don’t… I can’t…” You tail off, but she is quick to reassure you.

“Of course I can, sweetheart. This must all feel so awkward, hm? But it’s okay. I’m happy to help, you just need to let me know if you want me to stop at any point.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and duck your eyes down again. 

It’s embarrassing, yes, but Wanda is very careful and respectful as she helps you undress. She focussed her attention entirely on keeping you right arm at the least-worst angle, and averts her gaze expertly from the source of your self-consciousness. Slowly, so as not to jar you, she slips the t-shirt through your sore arm and then over your head, letting you contort your left arm through the sleeve yourself. Then she gently reassembles the sling on your body, making sure it’s sitting right and the fabric of your t-shirt is smoothed out underneath.

“There,” she whispers, “all done.”

You breathe out a deep, relieved breath, and cautiously look up into her eyes.

“Thank you,” you tell her, really focussing on holding her gaze, since you are desperate to communicate the full extent of your gratitude. Your collarbone aches something rotten after all the contortion of changing, but you feel infinitely more comfortable now that you’re out of the clothes your body was violated in.

“You’re so welcome,” Wanda assures you, placing a hand on your head and smoothing down your hair in a light stroke. “Now, I’m going to go downstairs and start cooking. Do you want to join me, or would you like some time to yourself before dinner?”

Her touch is like a drug, one that leaves you desperately wanting more. You feel a tugging sensation inside you, one that yearns to stay near and languish in wait for more of that feeling, of her fingers against your skin, of her soft lips smiling nearby.

“Can I come with you, please?”

She smiles, and the small glint of her white teeth between her lips is like the glint of heaven’s gates breaking through the clouds. 

“Of course, sweetheart. Such good manners,” she hums approvingly. You blush, and take her hand automatically, which you think she was holding out for you, but now you’re not sure. She doesn’t let you doubt though, because she squeezes your hand gently in hers, like she wanted it all along, even if she didn’t.

Back in the kitchen, you offer to help but Wanda distracts you with a recipe book, somehow convincing you to flick through and find something to bake tomorrow, and making you forget you ever asked to assist her. You’re gazing avidly at a photo of some expertly iced cupcakes when you hear a door opening in the distance, and turn around with a hint of trepidation. 

Through the open-plan level, past the table and the armchairs, you can see a woman has entered the main door, and is putting her shoes away.

“Hello, my love,” Wanda calls out. “We’re in the kitchen.”

Your body cools at once in anticipation of meeting Natasha. Does she even know you’re here? Has Wanda told her to expect you?

Natasha approaches, her gait confident and casual. She’s maybe slightly shorter than Wanda, and her body is more lean. You can see the muscles in her arms as she walks, and you notice her posture is straight and strong. When she nears, you observe her face. She has dyed red hair, glossy and clean in a tight french-braid at the back. She’s also beautiful, in a striking, slightly intimidating way. She fixes you with an inquisitive stare, and you again have the feeling that you’re being x-rayed, though this time, it feels a little less friendly.

“Nat, did you get my message?” Wanda asks, walking over to her and giving a chaste kiss in greeting. Natasha reciprocates, but quickly returns her gaze to you, frowning slightly as she answers her wife.

“Only just,” she says shortly.

“Well,” Wanda smiles between you and her wife. “Nat, this is Y/N.”

“Natasha,” she says, nodding her head to you. And you’re caught between thinking that she’s introducing herself, versus instructing you to call her by her full name.

“It’s nice to meet you, Natasha,” you say, but it comes out in a little squeak which rather diminishes the formal impression your were going for.

Natasha gives you a very brief smile, then takes a breath in and looks to Wanda.

“Right, I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay. When will dinner be?”

“No problem, my love. It should be ready in fifteen,” Wanda tells her, turning slightly so you can no longer see her expression, only the slight cocking of her head from the back. You think Natasha might give a small nod of her head, but it might have been a meaningless movement. Then she gives Wanda a quick kiss, and departs upstairs. 

You watch her go, feeling a little crestfallen, and mentally chastising yourself for letting it get to you.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Maybe she’s had a bad day. And besides, she’s entitled to feel a little taken aback by you, you’ve essentially gatecrashed their lives.

“Don’t worry about Nat, sweetheart,” Wands tells you quietly. “She… Well, it takes her a while to warm up to people. It’s not personal, okay?”

You look up at Wanda’s face, furrowed with concern like she yearns to make sure that you aren’t taking her wife’s behaviour to heart. Her words are a bit reassuring, though they don’t quite go all the way to assuaging the worry that you’re not wanted. But you nod, forcing a smile, because somehow it pains you more to see Wanda worried, and you desperately want to be a good guest for her, since she’s going to all this trouble to help you. So you try to reassure her in a casual manner.

“It’s okay — I hadn’t really noticed it anyway,” you say. It’s a lie, and perhaps an obvious one, judging by the way Wanda’s lips curl into a somewhat pitiful smile. But you don’t pay it much mind; your focus is stolen by her hand reaching out and taking hold of your left hand. She clasps your fingers from below and wraps her thumb on top to draw light circles on the back of your hand, watching as your body reacts unconsciously, eyes fluttering in hazy delight.

“Just give her some time,” Wanda hums, her words echoing in your brain like a mantra. “Soon she’ll be as taken with you as Mayakovsky and I are.”

You blush, and smile to yourself, looking at your lap as she squeezes your hand and lets you go. She returns to her cooking, and you turn back to look at the recipe book. But you’re not reading or looking at the pictures at all. None of the pages turn, as you’re engulfed by the giddy feeling that maybe, just maybe, you are wanted after all.

Eventually, Wanda pulls you out of your haze and asks you sweetly if you can set the table. You nod quickly, and almost fall off the stool with your eagerness. She chuckles and catches you with an arm at your waist.

“Careful, honey,” she laughs, and you grin bashfully in return. 

You set the table in a slow, laboured manner, since you only have one arm to carry things, and Wanda gives you a light warning not to stack things when she sees you attempting to balance three plates in one hand. So you go one item at a time, trying to get the right balance between speed and stability. Natasha appears as you’re finishing, her hair loose and damp on her shoulders, watching you as she attempts to dry it with a towel. You avoid her gaze, feeling uncomfortable at being perceived so intensely by her. You wonder what Wanda told her in the message; you wonder what she thinks of you. 

When Wanda calls for you both to take a seat, you wait for Natasha to sit first, scared of taking her place and causing a greater rift between you. She looks at you for a moment from her seated position, observing your body swaying slightly on the spot in indecision, before she pulls out the chair beside her. You bite your lip, and force yourself to smile at her, before travelling round the other side of the table and sitting down. 

“You look a bit rough,” Natasha says bluntly. “What happened?”

“I, um, don’t really remember,” you say, in an awkward, stilted manner. “Wanda says I was hit by a truck at the intersection.”

Wanda carries over a big pan, filled with the sweet-smelling apricot and chickpea tagine she told you she was making. 

“She was, Nat; it was awful,” Wanda explains, brow furrowing sympathetically at you as she relates the story. “It hit her from the side; I was right behind her, so she was flung onto my bonnet. I only just stopped in time — she could have been crushed otherwise.”

“Broken collarbone?” Natasha asks you, and you blink in surprise.

“Yes,” you respond, surprised by her quick and accurate diagnosis. “H-how did you know?”

Natasha shrugged. “Broke mine a few years ago. It really sucks, I’m sorry.”

You give her a small, grateful smile, which has to double up for two kindnesses when she takes your plate for you, serves you a portion, and places it down again.

“Thanks,” you murmur. She just nods simply, and focusses on serving herself. 

Wanda asks some general questions about Natasha’s work day, and Natasha offers some vague answers in return. You’re not really listening though, you still feel a bit groggy from the pain and the meds and the sleep. Plus, you’re concentrating really hard on eating your tagine without spilling it on you.

The quiet sounds of chewing and light scraping of cutlery against plates is disrupted by a loud meowing from the door. Mayakovsky strides in, and you watch as he approaches Natasha’s chair, then opens his mouth to release a black, eight-legged mass which wriggles as it falls to the floor.

You and Wanda both jump in surprise, but Natasha just laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Of course you would save this for me, malen'kiy negodnik,” she says with a dramatic sigh.And she confidently scoops up the spider in her hands, nimbly avoiding Mayakovsky’s desperate swipes and standing up with her hands cupped around his prey. You watch as she walks to the balcony door, opening it wider with her elbow, then steps outside and releases the spider into one of the plant pots. Mayakovsky stalks behind her, but then scarpers down the steps, abandoning his prey in search of something better. 

Natasha comes back in, closes the door behind her with one of her toned arms, and walks to the sink to wash her hands. 

“What would you do without me, ladies?” she calls out cockily.

And, hearing her husky voice and watching her self-assured movements, you realise with a jolt to your stomach that you may now have more than one crush to contend with.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the introductions of Natasha and Mayakovsky. Here is a photo of the cat that inspired him (the real version belongs to my friends; this beautiful boy is also deaf and he has a crooked tail so he's not very coordinated. He is blessed with pretty privilege, however). ♡

[internetladyfables]

[Headcanons] Hugo Vlad: Reader with High Ether Resistance (Strangers to Lovers?)

cw: self-indulgent, possible OOC, female reader. Requested by anon.

At Elpis Port, Hugo notices you — anxious and trying to look inconspicuous. But it doesn’t work on someone like him. You stick out like a sore thumb, and he has a keen eye for everything valuable.

He doesn’t approach at first. Just watches from the shadows. Until  he spots a group of suspicious men — definitely workers of TOP — scanning the area with experimental equipment, he puts the pieces together quickly. You’re not here on business — you’re on the run.

As the men almost approach you, Hugo makes his move. He strolls up to you with a practiced elegance and wraps an arm around you. And dramatically sighs. “Darling, you’re late. I thought you’d ghosted me again.” You’re shocked, but play along. You have no choice. Hugo escorts you away, leaving the men confused.

“Me? Just a humble gentleman. I couldn’t leave the lady in danger when a group of suspicious men tried to approach her.” He tells you when you’re alone and confront him. 

Being pursued by TOPS is a big deal, so he offers you not just a protection, rather a partnership.

As you talk, you reveal your high ether resistance, which is 100 — extremely rare. He’s intrigued and cautious — he understands the value and danger that comes with it. He promises he won’t let anyone use you as a tool or experiment, no matter the cost.

You begin to open up. Not much, but Hugo listens. The more time he spends with you, the more your bond grows deeper.

He starts teaching you how to disappear better. How to read a crowd. How to disguise yourself.

You start teasing back. You make him laugh. You see the man beneath his mask — a man who carries too many burdens.

Your partnership shifts naturally into something deeper. Hugo’s playful teasing becomes intimate smiles and lingering glances. He starts noticing the smallest details about you — the way your eyes light up when you talk about things you find interesting, the way you furrow your eyebrows when confused or serious, the way you bite your lip when flustered. 

One night, after you almost got abducted, he loses his usual calmness. Hugo grabs your shoulders, looking you in the eyes: “I’m not letting them take you. I don’t care who they are.” You carefully touch his face, and for the first time, he leans into it. No mask. Just him. You kiss him first. He kisses you second—longer, deeper, with a sigh like he’s been holding his breath since the day he met you.

After the kiss, he smiles smugly: “Careful, darling. I might steal your heart.” You smile back at him: “You already did. Quietly. Like a Phantom Thief in the night.” 

You find your palace in Mockingbird. Not an experiment. Not a victim. Not as someone who constantly runs, but as someone who’s loved.

[dakusan]

hi hi !!

i love love love ur vamp!skz universe and im wondering if you’ll tell us how each boys got turned?? im sorry if you’ve already done this and ive just missed it, but im soooo invested in this universe i MUST know how they all got turned.

you’re an amazing writer and i’m looking forward to indulging in this universe even more<333

OOOOHHHH THIS IS THE BLOODLINE QUESTION OF THE CENTURY 🔥🩸

thank you—you’ve just opened the coffin door and unleashed the origin lore of each vampire boy.

and yes, babe, I will give it to you. And since we’re already howling under this moon, I’m taking the chance to give you the full profiles of every member:

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🕯️ VAMPIRE!SKZ LORE: ORIGIN + CHARACTER FILES

𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍 // Abnormal — The Leader

Born Abnormal. Eldest son of the legendary Bahng bloodline.

🩸 Blood Type Preference: A+ — says it tastes like control. 🩸 Bite Spot: Neck or heart. Always leaves a mark. 🩸 Risk Level: High. Do not lie to him.

Bahng Bloodline: A dynasty of Abnormal vampires known for intellect, power, and empire-building. They're respected, feared, and so fucking tired.

Occupation: CEO. Medical empire overlord.

❖ EMPIRE OVERVIEW

1. 𝐋𝐔𝐗𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇 Flagship Reach: 13 facilities worldwide (Seoul, NYC, Geneva, Dubai, Tokyo, Singapore, Berlin…) What it is: A network of luxury medical campuses and trauma centres that function like private sovereign kingdoms. What it offers:

Elite trauma response units (some vamp-only),

Surgical wings equipped with vampire-safe tools,

Discreet blood-donor programs for feeding complications,

24/7 hybrid maternal wards,

Enchanted ICU rooms for patients with volatile magical signatures,

Postpartum sanctums.

How it runs: Every doctor, intern, and nurse is background-screened magically and politically. No one gets in without blood-clearance. And every building is rigged with silent security enchantments known only to Chan.

2. 𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐒 HQ: Underground beneath an “abandoned” teaching hospital in Osaka Employees: 83 total—47 scientists, 13 vampires, 6 war criminals turned researchers, 1 talking AI What it does: High-clearance research on:

Abnormal vampire genetics,

Inter-species fertility + gestation,

Soul-bond chemistry,

Venom therapies and neural reprogramming,

Rage-state prediction and pre-hormonal suppression formulas.

3. 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 HQ: Seoul, hidden behind a high-end tech startup Subsidiaries: 9 licensed shell firms, 3 black-market syndicates What it sells: Top-tier, vampire-adaptive medical tech. Some legal. Some… not. Main Products:

Vamp-compatible IV systems (no iron spike, scent-neutral tubing),

Hemoclot gauze: used in abnormal labour + field trauma,

Self-stitching scalpels: close tissue in 0.3 sec,

Bite inhibitors: prevent fatal overfeeding during sex or rage episodes,

Feeding suppression cuffs: rare, restricted, and locked behind magefire clearance.

4. 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 Established: Over 150 years ago under another name. Current Holdings: Over 70 registered shell companies, 200+ shadow contracts, assets in 11 global sectors Main Focus:

Vampire security firms,

Blood currency exchange management,

High-level scent encryption tech,

Strategic real estate purchases near bloodlines of interest,

Loyalty enforcement firms (aka very legal hitmen with degrees).

5. 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐒 + WHISPERS

Has scent ownership over 4 black-market vampire auction routes (never used them),

Secret shareholder in Hyeon-Bio, the largest supplier of iron-rich synthetic blood in Asia,

His personal blood vault is temperature-controlled and spell-locked.

⸺⟡⸺

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 // Abnormal — The Prince of Teeth

Born Abnormal. From an aristocratic vampire family.

🩸 Blood Type Preference: B — "B for bite me, baby." 🩸 Bite Spot: Inner thigh. Just to watch you twitch. 🩸 Risk Level: Extreme. Glamours first, fucks after.

Lee Family: Aristocratic Abnormal vampires so ancient their bloodline predates language. They believe in order, lineage, and old magic.

Occupation: Executive Director of Containment & High-Risk Retrieval

❖ 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 Minho is Luxe Health’s final option. He doesn’t run a hospital. He protects the entire machine. He operates in shadows—enforcing blood oaths, hunting threats, and handling bond-based emergencies no one else can touch.

What he actually does:

Tracks down rogue vampires who break hospital bonds or threaten mate pairs,

Personally retrieves stolen blood samples, escaped experimental subjects, and traitors,

Handles bond enforcement violations—especially vampire-hunter syndicates who target mates,

Interrogates internal security threats (very few of these leave intact),

Protects Chan without ever being asked to.

⸺⟡⸺

𝐒𝐄𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐍 // Normal — The Enforcer

Born Normal. From a proud Normal vampire family.

🩸 Blood Type Preference: O- — calls it rare. treats it like a reward. 🩸 Bite Spot: Just below the ribs. Deep. Bruising. Precise. 🩸 Risk Level: Moderate—unless you're crying. Then he breaks.

Seo Family: Normal vampire family known for bodyguard bloodlines and brute loyalty. They don't scheme. They protect.

Enchanted Jewellery for Sun Protection: Dual silver hoop earrings. They keep him stable and sun-safe.

Occupation: Director of Hostile Containment & Physical Defence Operations

❖ 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 He’s not the planner. He’s the defence system. The vault. The riot wall.

What he actually does:

Leads containment units that subdue rogue vampires in medical environments,

Personally handles rage-state patients (he’s the only one strong enough to suppress them physically),

Trains Luxe staff in defensive protocols,

Keeps rage suppressant venom under strict lock—his blood is used in emergency antidote formulas.

⸺⟡⸺

𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 // Abnormal — The Siren

Born Abnormal. Abnormal vampire mother. Human father. …and he never lets his dad forget it.

“You pulled my mother? With those weak human genes? Bro.”

🩸 Blood Type Preference: AB — says it's complicated, like you. 🩸 Bite Spot: Over your pulse point. Wrist. Neck. Inner thigh. 🩸 Risk Level: Lethal. Will make you beg, cry, and thank him.

Hwang Line: Hyunjin's mother: a high-ranking Abnormal vampire matriarch. Stunning, powerful, untouchable. His father: a human with no idea how he pulled her. Hyunjin roasting his dad is normal occurrence.

Occupation: Artist. Director of Sensory Magic & Bond-Stabilisation Therapy

❖ 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 Though he doesn't run anything, he's indispensable to the emotional architecture of Luxe Health.

What he actually does:

Oversees rooms where patients are emotionally unstable due to blood-bond trauma,

Performs ritual scent-mapping—helps bondmates reattach after mental collapse,

Creates magic-infused paintings used in trauma units to reduce psychic overload,

Monitors the sensory energy of Luxe hospitals, adjusting scent/sound magic,

Helps mate-pairs in distress by feeding them calm via shared dreaming

⸺⟡⸺

𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐉𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆 // Normal — The Shadow Walker

Turned vampire. Born human, loud as hell. Got turned by a Normal vampire who didn’t even mean to turn him.

“I was just gonna feed a little—I didn’t know you'd bite me back!” Woke up the next day like “why does the sun feel like betrayal?” and “why do I want to bite the cashier at 7-Eleven?”

🩸 Blood Type Preference: A— — "light, fast, makes me hungrier." 🩸 Bite Spot: Wherever you're exposed. Probably when you're distracted. 🩸 Risk Level: Unstable. You'll think you're in control. You're not.

Han Family: Chaotic, mortal home where the TV was always too loud and nobody ever knocked before entering. His mom still doesn’t know he’s a vampire. She just thinks he’s sensitive to light and drinks “imported beet juice.”

Enchanted Jewellery for Sun Protection: Chaotic collection of silver and black rings. They absorb sunlight, protect from UV shock, and stabilise his energy.

Occupation: Lead Hemalchemist & Magical Encryption Architect

❖ 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 Nocté Labs’ resident panic button + bloodcode architect

Cracks encrypted vampire contracts, binding curses, and genetic seals,

Designs venom modulation formulas for vampires in unstable emotional bonds.

What he actually does:

Designs blood-reactive compounds used in venom neutralisation, soulbond preservation, and hybrid pregnancy survival,

Synthesizes fetal-compensating serums,

Created the blood-matching algorithm used to stabilise inter-species transfusions,

Writes enchanment-locked medical codes for hospital tech (IV drips, blood storage, surgical authorisation),

Cracks cursed blood-seals and reversed magical bindings—like when a rogue vampire curses their own records,

Developed a venom-response biometric lock: doors open only when the right vampire's venom is present.

⸺⟡⸺

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗 // Abnormal — The Dreamer

Born Abnormal. Abnormal bloodline from a solar house.

🩸 Blood Type Preference: AB+ — "dreamers always taste sweeter." 🩸 Bite Spot: Over the heart. Tops of breasts. 🩸 Risk Level: Soft until he isn’t. You won’t wake up the same.

Lee Family: An Abnormal rare bloodline from a Solar House, steeped in dream-magic, prophecy, and radiant aura work. Soft-spoken, terrifyingly intuitive, and believe that every dream is a message.

Occupation: Director of Bond Stabilisation & Post-Feeding Regulation (Luxe Health)

❖ 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 Where Chan leads, Minho protects, and Jisung breaks systems—Felix heals the aftermath.

What he actually does:

Monitors vampire feeding patterns to prevent overbinding, venom addiction, or withdrawal,

Performs post-bond stabilisation rituals for mate pairs,

Oversees emotional syncing in new hybrid families.

⸺⟡⸺

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 // Normal — The Beloved

Born Normal. Normal x Normal vampire family.

🩸 Blood Type Preference: A+ — "clean. sharp. predictable." 🩸 Bite Spot: Inner arm. Slowly. Like he's reading you. 🩸 Risk Level: High for overthinkers. He'll see through you.

Kim Family: A sweet, clean Normal x Normal vampire household where everything is labelled and dinner happens at 6PM. They believe in civility, stability, and passive-aggressive policy memos.

Enchanted Jewellery for Sun Protection: A minimalist silver hex-pendant with diamond facets (Chaumet's Bee My Love necklace). Blocks UV. Cancels glamours. Magical lie detection, it vibrates softly if someone isn't being truthful.

Occupation: Director of Medical-Legal Integrity & Bond Law Arbitration (Luxe Health)

❖ 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 He is the law inside the blood. Where Chan builds, Minho eliminates, and Hyunjin dreams—Seungmin makes it all function.

What he actually does:

Handles disputes between vampires and blood donors—usually ends with someone glamoured or gutted,

Is one of three licenced enforcers allowed to break a soulbond if needed (he hates it),

Reviews all new Luxe Health experiments, hybrid procedures, and blood treatments,

Vetos anything that violates consent, autonomy, or emotional safety,

Investigates feeding misconduct, glamoured coercion, or illegal bond formation,

Oversees background screenings for every single hospital staff member.

⸺⟡⸺

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍 // Normal (Evolving Abnormal) — The Smile with Fangs

Born Normal. Normal x Normal vampire family. Supposed to stay that way. Except… things started happening.

His aura began distorting.

His heartbeat slowed.

His veins started glowing when he was hungry.

🩸 Blood Type Preference: "Yours is the only one that matters." 🩸 Bite Spot: Whatever he sees first. He can’t wait. 🩸 Risk Level: Unknown. His blood hums. And so does the dark.

Yang Family: Normal x Normal vampire lineage. Steady. Safe.

Occupation: Junior Bond Support Specialist, Luxe Health

❖ 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 He is the law inside the blood. Where Chan builds, Minho eliminates, and Hyunjin dreams—Seungmin makes it all function.

What he actually does:

Works under Felix's supervision to comfort patients post-bonding trauma,

Learns how to manage bond flares, withdrawal symptoms, and memory bleed,

Smells emotions better than most normals—Felix suspects this is early Abnormal scent-mapping,

Occasionally enters micro trance states while feeding — Abnormal memory-linking? Still undocumented.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🩸 BONUS SCENE — HOW HAN JISUNG GOT TURNED

It started at a club. Of course it did.

Jisung was 21, overly cocky, and two shots past good judgment. She was glowing—red dress, dark eyes, and a stare like she knew things. He asked if she wanted to dance. She asked if he tasted good.

They ended up at his place.

Clothes flew. Lights flickered. Neck-kissing intensified. Somewhere between a moan and a joke, she sank her fangs into him without warning. Jisung yelped, swore, and out of pure chaotic panic—he bit her right back.

Like. Fully chomped her shoulder.

Not seductively. Not vampirically. Just… human instinct + rage + horny adrenaline.

“YOU BIT ME, I BITE BACK. IT’S CALLED BOUNDARIES—”

She laughed so hard she fell off the bed. Then vanished.

And Jisung? He woke up 12 hours later, naked, on the floor, with the blinds open and his skin sizzling like bacon.

The bite on his neck was half-healed, but his teeth ached, his heartbeat was missing, and he couldn’t stop hearing the guy next door crying about his failed Tinder date.

And the fridge? The fridge was screaming. Not audibly. But energetically. Emotionally. Spiritually. The pickles had rage. The oat milk was mourning.

His dog wouldn't come near him (he took that personally).

He lasted twenty minutes before shoving on sweatpants, three pairs of sunglasses, and a bucket hat and speed-walking to the ER like a man possessed.

He burst through the ER doors like a disaster.

“I think I’m dying. Or I’m already dead. Or the pickles are gaslighting me.”

A nurse screamed. A security guard passed out. And one intern fainted when his eyes glowed after yelling “WHAT’S IN THE BLOOD BAGS?!”

They restrained him. Badly.

Cue, Bang Chan.

He got called.

He stood in the doorway with one brow raised, arms crossed, as Jisung sat on the hospital bed with two nurses passed out and an empty blood bag in his lap.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jisung asked.

Chan blinked. “You bit back, didn’t you.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“Yeah. Got laid, got bit, and you panicked. Bit her back?”

“SHE STARTED IT.”

Chan nodded, pulled out a tablet, and typed something.

“Congratulations. You turned yourself. That’s rare. Stupid, but rare.”

They had to sneak him out of the hospital to a Luxe Health affiliate facility. Chan handed him a velvet-lined box with five mismatched silver and black rings.

“These are panic-forged. Calibrated to your blood and neurochemical spikes. Wear them or burn.”

“Will they help with the milk screaming?”

“Eventually.”

Jisung put them on. The room stopped spinning. The fluorescent lights stopped crying. He exhaled for the first time in 12 hours.

“Okay. So now what?”

Chan smirked.

"Now you either implode, or you figure out how to live with it. You seem like a lab rat. We'll see."

Jisung didn’t implode. He started reading. Obsessively. And then coding vampire encryption algorithms just to “see if he could.”

He broke into Nocté’s internal database within four days. By day five, Chan hired him.

“You’re annoying, unstable, and your emotional energy shorts out half our security systems… but you’re a genius. Don’t make me regret this.”

"Too late."

He became Lead Hemalchemist & Magical Encryption Architect six months later. Still wears the rings. Still talks to his dog. Still hasn’t told his mom.

“What happened to the vampire woman?”

“No clue. Hope she’s well. Hope she’s confused.”

“Hope she’s telling people ‘he bit me back’ and they think she’s joking.”

🩸 And that’s how Han Jisung became a vampire. No destiny. No plan. Just sex, panic and bite reflex. Rest? History.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🦇 HOW CHAN MET THE KIDS

HAN JISUNG

How they met: ER. 9AM. Chaos. Jisung walked into the hospital like a possessed cryptid. He had a half-healed bite on his neck, glowing eyes, and a blood bag clutched like a Capri-Sun. Bang Chan got paged. He arrived to find two unconscious nurses, one passed-out intern, and Jisung blinking up innocently. They sedated him with sugar cubes and sarcasm, smuggled him out through the supply exit, and brought him to a Luxe Health affiliate. Chan handed him a box of black-and-silver enchanted rings.

Bonded over: Neurotoxin theory, cursed coding, and shared chaos energy. By Day 4, Jisung hacked Nocté’s database. By Day 5, he was hired. By Month 6, he was Lead Hemalchemist & Magical Encryption Architect. Still unstable. Still a genius.

⸺⟡⸺

SEO CHANGBIN

How they met: A rooftop brawl in Busan. Chan was handling rogue vampire surveillance. Found a hulking figure beating the unlife out of two ferals with nothing but his fists and a cursed trash can lid. Turns out Changbin, a Normal vampire, had taken one look at some ferals harassing a kid and gone full WWE. Chan stepped in. Changbin squared up. “You next?” Chan: “God no. I’m here to offer you a job.” Changbin: “...Do I get dental?” Chan: “You don’t need teeth cleaning, but sure.”

Bonded over: Heavy lifting. Shared distaste for drama. Emergency planning. Mutual respect. He’s now Chief of Enforcement & Containment. Still punches through walls.

⸺⟡⸺

LEE MINHO

How they met: Chan was tracking a rogue diplomat who’d gone dark in the southern city sectors. What he found instead was a blood-soaked apartment, two neutralized traitors, and one barefoot vampire sitting on the kitchen counter eating strawberries like nothing happened. Minho didn’t look up. Just said, “You’re late. I cleaned already.” Chan: “You kill them?” Minho: “They tried to touch my cat.” Chan blinked. The cat blinked. The corpses did not.

Bonded over: Deadpan sarcasm. Precision. The mutual understanding that some monsters are better on your side. Also: they both hate unnecessary meetings and love sharp tailoring. Minho now runs the most feared branch of Luxe Health. Executive Director of Containment & High-Risk Retrieval. If you go rabid, defect, break a pact, or bite a diplomat? He’s the one they send.

⸺⟡⸺ LEE FELIX

How they met: In a lucid dream. No, literally. Chan fell asleep in a cursed zone and woke up in a dreamspace filled with glowing doors and ocean sounds. Felix was sitting in the middle of it, braiding golden threads into a circle. Felix: “Took you long enough. I saw this meeting six months ago.” Chan: “...Am I dead?” Felix: “No. But your shirt is ugly.”

Bonded over: Dream magic. Prophetic patterns. Moonlight rituals. Felix later appeared IRL at Nocté’s doorstep holding a blood map and a smoothie. Now Director of Bond Stabilisation & Post-Feeding Regulation at Luxe Health. Monitors bond integrity across blood partnerships. Specializes in emotional imprinting post-bite and venom-laced intimacy fallout. Sleeps more than he's awake.

⸺⟡⸺

HWANG HYUNJIN

How they met: Chan was called in to calm a rogue Abnormal with volatile sensory magic wreaking havoc in a high-rise studio gallery. The paintings were screaming. The scent of memory was leaking from the floors. And one of the interns claimed her lipstick was whispering her secrets. Chan stepped into the center of the room—and found Hyunjin barefoot, shirt half-painted, surrounded by levitating canvases and crying brushes. “Hi,” Hyunjin said. “Do you ever get so emotional your aura starts painting without you?” Chan blinked. “You need containment protocol.” Hyunjin tilted his head. “I need better brushes.”

Bonded over: Chaos, controlled burnouts, the sanctity of beauty, and how the council has no taste. Chan offered him a role. Hyunjin agreed—on the condition that no one ever touches his sketchbooks and he gets a studio. Now Director of Sensory Magic & Bond-Stabilisation Therapy (Luxe Health) but also Resident aesthetic menace. Full-time artist.

⸺⟡⸺

KIM SEUNGMIN

How they met: Chan was giving a very serious presentation on venom-resistance protocols to the Vampire Medical Council. Seungmin raised his hand mid-sentence and went: “Your math’s wrong. Your fourth slide contradicts your second.” Chan: “…Excuse me?” Seungmin: “Also your tie is ugly. Continue.” They argued. For 47 minutes. In public. Chan’s eye twitched so hard his glamour nearly cracked. He hired Seungmin out of spite. Seungmin accepted out of boredom. He’s been judging everyone since.

Bonded over: Sarcasm, obsessive data ethics, filing council complaints just to see if they get read. Official Director of Medical-Legal Integrity & Bond Law Arbitration (Luxe Health). Has blackmail on everyone. Including Chan.

⸺⟡⸺

YANG JEONGIN

How they met: He just… showed up. No seriously. One day he walked into Nocté Labs asking for internship credit. Said he was Normal. Blood test disagreed. He broke a lab door with his smile. Chan: “You’re Awakening.” Jeongin: “Cool. Can I still work part-time?” Chan: “Sure, just don’t explode.” Jeongin: “No promises.”

Bonded over: Snark. Surprising feral strength. Jeongin mocking everyone’s drama while secretly becoming the most terrifying one. Currently in training. Awakening into something… dangerous. Still uses emojis in reports. Current role is Junior Bond Support Specialist, Luxe Health under Felix.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

sweetfang. chaos-summoner. thank you for this ask I blacked out. Woke up with 13k+ words and bloodlust in my coffee.

did I go overboard? probably. do I regret it? absolutely not. do I hope you read it under a blanket at 3AM whispering “oh my god”? yes. yes I do.

this universe has fangs now and you helped feed it. so drink deep, dream wild, and remember: 🩸Han Jisung got turned by biting back during sex. 🩸Bang Chan owns a hospital empire and your soul. 🩸Jeongin showed up like a glitch.

🖤 stay haunted, stay hungry

[kuronarnze]

Hello may i request blue lock characters of your choice with a s/o who is horrible chef as solomon from obey me but she likes her own cooking?

a/n: thank you sosososo much for requesting ! I kinda rushed in this one, so im sorry if there are any mistakes, i hope you enjoy the oneshot!

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Bluelock boys with a s/o who is a horrible chef

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Itoshi Sae

- “Are you trying to poison me?”

- He stares at the plate like it insulted his entire family.

- One bite and his soul leaves his body.

- “What the hell is this flavor? Metallic battery acid??”

- Lowkey traumatized but lets you eat it with a horrified expression.

- Still loves you—just never lets you cook again.

- He’ll subtly drag you to restaurants every time: “Let’s eat out. Again. Please.”

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Itoshi Rin

- He wants to believe in you. He really does.

- You hand him a cute bento and say, “I made it with love!”

- One bite and he’s coughing like he just inhaled a ghost pepper dipped in motor oil.

- “This is… not edible.”

- But then you go, “Really? I think it’s kinda good!” and happily take a bite.

- He stares in disbelief as you smile like it's the best dish ever.

- Wonders if you're secretly immortal.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Isagi Yoichi

- He’s the nicest about it. Tries to chew with a smile.

- But his eyes are SCREAMING.

- “Ahaha… it’s… unique?”

- Honestly thinks it’s his fault. “Maybe my taste buds are off today…”

- Cries internally every time you bring out your “special homemade katsu curry.”

- Will definitely try to teach you how to cook without hurting your feelings.

- “Let's cook together next time, okay?” (Please let him save you both.)

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Michael Kaiser

- Dramatic af.

- Takes one bite and flops onto the couch like he’s dying.

- “You’ve ended me. This is how I go out. Death by love.”

- Complains the entire time but never refuses your cooking outright.

- Secretly finds it endearing… but swears vengeance on your stove.

- Might try to “accidentally” break your kitchen tools.

- “Oops. Guess we’ll have to order in, liebe.”

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Kunigami Rensuke (before Wild Card)

- He’s the kind who wants to believe in you.

- Takes a big bite like a brave warrior.

- Regrets it instantly but powers through.

- “It’s… definitely food.”

- The way you beam at him makes him continue eating. He’s in pain but won’t stop.

- Might try to guide you gently: “Hey, maybe we can try a new recipe together next time?”

- Sweet boy. Protect him.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Mikage Reo

- Gourmet taste. Pain.

- The first bite almost sends him into a coma.

- “You… actually like this?”

- Tries to gently offer to cook for you instead.

- “Next time, how about I surprise you with dinner?”

- Starts treating you to private chefs and luxury meals in hopes you’ll never enter the kitchen again.

- Will absolutely pretend your food was “interesting” at parties just to hype you up.

- “No one else could’ve made that… whatever it was.”

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Shidou Ryusei

- Sees your “creation” and grins like it’s a challenge.

- “Hell yeah. This looks like it could kill a man.”

- Takes a HUGE bite with zero hesitation.

- Five seconds later, he’s foaming at the mouth like he just licked battery acid.

- “It’s… so awful… I love it.”

- Absolutely unhinged—he finds your cursed cooking fun.

- “You’re a menace, babe. Let’s open a restaurant and scare people.”

- Would proudly name your dish “Doom Delight” and offer it to Rin just to watch the drama.

- May ask you to pack it in his lunch just to freak out teammates.

- “You’re perfect. Psychotic. Dangerous. I’m in love."

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Tysm for reading! and omg obey me mentioned 😈

Please feel free to request ! (I need requests 😓) Have a nice day 🫶🌹

[with-my-calamitous-love]

HE’S LIKE A POEM I WISH I WROTE ☆

eijiro kirishima x reader

more boyfriend thoughts, for his birthday!

inspired by so american

eijiro kirishima, who insists on driving you everywhere. who lets you put your feet on the dashboard, playing your shared playlist. who says he only listens to hard rap but somehow knows all the lyrics to your favourite sappy love songs. who smiles at you when you’re not looking, who almost runs a red because he’s mesmerized by you.

eijiro kirishima, who might be the funniest guy you have ever met. who makes stupid jokes and loves to tease you. who loves your laugh, and can’t help but smile when get gets a genuine laugh out of you. who chases after your smile, and furthermore, your happiness forever. who interchanges calling you bro and babe.

eijiro kirishima, who is really insecure. who doesn’t believe his quirk is heroic or good enough. who thinks its unmanly to speak on his thoughts, so hides behind a smile. who feels safe enough to confide in you about his fears. who sighs when he sees his friends succeeding, cheering them on but wondering if he’ll measure up. who lets you teach him that vulnerability is the manliest thing you can do.

eijiro kirishima, who has the deepest morning voice known to man. who will lazily prop himself up on one elbow, smiling at you when you stir awake. who’ll pull you back into bed and ask just where you think you’re going when you try to get up. who’ll wake you up with kisses to your shoulder and whispering dumb jokes into your ear. who is never not spooning you, loving the warmth you radiate.

eijiro kirishima, who maybe isn’t the sharpest tool, but who is the master of subtlety. who remembers tiny details about you, like nail biting or your sleep habits. who reminds you to eat or take your medicine without expecting anything in return. who is your biggest cheerleader, validating all of your feelings and who is proud of you no matter what.

eijiro kirishima, who treats you like his trophy. who gets so excited with his boys, chanting after every achievement because they’ve come so far. who runs to you and kisses you because you’re the best thing he’s ever done. who loves you because no amount of success in his life will measure up to how much he adores you.

eijiro kirishima, who wonders if he’s boring sometimes. who wonders if he’s too plain or not flashy enough. who, at first, works out because he doesn’t feel good enough, but eventually learns to do it with you. who pushed you through that last set and gives you a kiss on the forehead when you push through. who you love to hug despite how sweaty he may be.

eijiro kirishima, who loves when you wear his clothes. who thinks you look so pretty in them. who hands are so warm, they make hell seem cold. who loves his bed, but finds it hard to sleep when you’re with him. who’ll stay up way past his bedtime, having late night conversations with with his one and only. who just smiles when you fall asleep, pressing a kiss to your forehead before sleeping alongside you.

eijiro kirishima, who apologizes the moment he thinks he’s being too much or if its too soon. who doesn’t want to assume where this is going, or what you two are. who doesn’t just have a feeling- who knows he’s in love. who wonders if you are too, and who lets you kiss away his worries and doubts. who you swear to marry if he keeps this shit up. <3

[wannaeatramyeon]

Meeting Johan Seong for the first time: J-High

G/N. Soft because he deserves it. Can be platonic or romantic. Canon compliant. Post 517. Masterlists

The new guy in your class seems kinda important.

Half the school appeared to be waiting for him on his first day of enrollment, cooing over how sweet he looks in his new uniform as if there was already extensive history there.

You paid him no mind until he was introduced as the new student in your class.

Zack Lee is particularly distressed that he didn't join the Fashion department. He's started hanging outside your classroom most mornings trying to convince him to change vocation before eventually being dragged away by Mira Kim with promises to catch up at lunch.

Daniel Park is less pushy, just greeting him constantly with a smile. He's a sweet kid anyway, greeting everyone and yourself kindly, but he seems especially excited to see the new addition.

As does Vasco and the rest of Burn Knuckles. It's a little unnerving to find the Architecture guys hovering around all morning and see Vasco clap him on the back and tell him he's glad he's not a bad guy anymore.

The girls in your department have taken him under their wing like some kind of stray. Eli Jang too, although the less said about that the better because his haircuts really are atrocious and you shudder to think about his bad habits being passed on to anyone.

Yours, however, aren't.

You're the top of the class and the one assigned to actually show Johan Seong the ropes.

It takes a few days for you to coax him out of his shell, finally winning him over when you show him pictures of your dogs.

You find he's a little bad tempered at first and bratty before he eventually mellows out and knows there's no malice in your words or actions. Realises you're helping him without prejudice and you screeching when he accidentally shaved the training head half bald wasn't a personal attack.

(How he managed that feat with scissors in a split second will forever remain a mystery to you.)

You show him how to hold the shears properly, resting your pinky on them for balance and control. Stress that he should take off too little rather than too much. Teach him to section hair and to angle his snips to soften the lines.

That good coverage is required for colour but you warn not to over promise and applying so much bleach that the hair turns straw-like and brittle should be avoided at all costs.

When you talk, he listens and watches silently then repeats your exact movement in a perfect imitation once you hand the tools back over to him.

You tell him he's a natural at this, after all, and he blushes.

You tell him you want to have your own hair salon one day and cheekily add that he can come work for you.

He hesitates, biting his lip and looking deep in thought, before he tells you that his mom has a hair salon too. That she is the only person who has ever cut his hair.

With a shy smile, he invites you to visit with him one day and you happily agree.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 9

Source for pic

Imperfect 9

Word Count: 5836

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I'm sorry, everyone, this might not be the chapter you all deserve, but it's the chapter I managed to get out. Life kicked my butt a little bit these last few days. I aimed for this chapter to have a little bit more plot, but it was already getting too big. Still, plenty of setup for exciting things to happen next chapter. I hope you're still with me and enjoying this! Love you all.

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

“I can’t believe it, Kid, you really remade this engine from a bunch of scrapped junkyard parts?” You’re leaning on the tips of your toes, admiring the new farm tractor engine Kid is setting up. 

Well, ‘new’ is an euphemism. Kid was just telling you how buying a new engine was about as expensive as a new tractor, since your dad’s tractor is over fifteen years old. So, he came up with a cheaper solution. 

“Sure did, Sparkles.” Kid tightens another bolt and cranes his neck your way, one eyebrow shooting up in disbelief. “I’m actually offended ye doubt me!”

A giggle escapes your lips as you raise your hands in mock defense. “Don’t be! You just keep surprising me, that’s all…” Your voice softens as you lock eyes with him for what feels like the hundredth time today. 

A loud harumph breaks the spell and Kid gets back to his screws while you turn on your heel to scowl at your father. Shanks decided he had ‘stuff to do’ in the barn while you helped Kid fix the tractor, which was code for: “I don’t want you alone with Kid if I can help it.” And there’s nothing you can do about it. 

“I found parts in three different scrap yards, cleaned ’em up, rebuilt what mattered, ditched the rest… bam! New fuckin’ engine for half the price, more power too. Yer welcome.” Kid wipes the sweat off his forehead and leaves a small streak of grease across it, making you giggle again.

“What?” he growls, looking back at you. 

“Got a little something there, hang on.” Stepping closer, you remove the rag from his back pocket and scrub the grease mark. His hand instinctively grips your waist, and you bite your lower lip, holding back a gasp.

“Ah-ahem!” Shanks clears his throat again, and you exhale sharply, handing the rag back to Kid and stepping away from him while he chuckles and gets back to work. You death-glare the back of your dad’s head, since he doesn’t even deign to give you a side glance, pretending to fuss over the bedding of the horses’ stalls. 

“Cockblock…” Kid whispers beneath his breath, and you turn your loud chortle into a fake cough. 

After that, Kid keeps explaining what he’s doing and asking you to pass him some tools. You said you wanted to learn and to help, and he’s teaching you. 

“So, um…” Kid sighs after a while, hands deep in the bowels of the tractor, eyes fidgeting without looking your way. He’s not whispering, but he’s speaking softly. “I got Victoria registered for a Car Show… It’s in a few days and, um…”

Shanks stops what he’s doing, and Kid gets visibly more flustered, but you wait to hear what he has to say before reacting, even though you can already guess where this is going. He stops and looks at you before continuing. 

“Well, I was thinkin’, since ye helped set her up, maybe ye wanna come with?” You stare at him, lips parted, eyes wide, and silent. He takes your silence for a denial and starts to shake his head, already turning back towards the engine. “Ye ain’t gotta come. I just thought, ye know—”

“Yes! Obviously I want to go!” Kid lets out a huff of breath but quickly turns his expression into an unbothered one. “When are we going?”

He continues tweaking the tractor’s engine, but his movements are lighter. “It’s a weekend thing. Whole day Saturday and Sunday till late afternoon. We’ll have to spend the night—”

A horseshoe clatters against the floor, and one of the horses neighs while Shanks curses loudly, losing his balance and banging his head against the side of the stall. 

“Are you okay, Dad?” You’re already turning around to see if he’s fine, but he’s quick to answer.

“Fine! I’m fine!” His growl seems far from fine, but you leave him alone and turn back to Kid so you can finish the conversation. 

“I’m game!” you agree, ignoring another colorful expletive leaving your father’s lips. “I guess we should work really hard on Victoria until then, right?”

Kid nods, never meeting your gaze, even though there’s a stubborn smile on his lips, he’s trying to contain it. “Aye. Just the finishin’ touches.”

“Get ready, Kid. I’m not the easiest person to deal with in a road trip!” you say, squealing with excitement, and ignoring Kid’s mock pained grunt. You do not miss, however, the way your heart swells at Kid's invitation to tag along on such an important event. 

-*-

“Spit it out, Dad,” you say, your fork clattering obnoxiously against the plate as you set it down. Shanks has had ‘the look’ ever since Kid left. He keeps side-eyeing you like he has something to say but he’s trying his damn hardest not to.

“It’s… It’s nothing,” he mumbles, not lifting his gaze from his half-eaten baked potato. 

With a groan, you push your plate to the side. He’s going to make it difficult. 

“Dad, just say it. We can talk like adults. I don’t want you to keep your opinions and thoughts to yourself.” You know what this is about: Kid, obviously. Shanks hasn’t uttered another word about your burgeoning friendship with the redhead since you two fought the other time, but you can tell that the way you’re close to Kid bothers him.

Much more than he’s willing to admit.

“I know,” he admits with a shrug. Sipping your water slowly, you give him more time while he chews both on his thoughts and his food. “So you’re going to that car show with Kid, then? It’s settled?”

You nod. “Yeah, it sounds fun. I helped Kid with his car, even though I barely did anything, and I want to go. Unless… do you need me that weekend?”

Shanks’ eyes light up, and you know it’s because if he says ‘yes,’ it’s his chance to make you stay without being a smothering father. 

“No,” he sighs defeated. “I don’t need you, Bug.”

You let out a small, relieved huff of breath and get up to fill your glass of water before returning to your seat, giving Shanks time to gather the rest of his thoughts. 

“Be careful.” Well, that’s… vague.

“Sure. I’ll make sure Kid drives slowly.” As if. He’ll want to test Victoria’s limits, and you’re not going to be the one to stop him, especially because you’re also curious. 

“Not that,” Shanks pushes the plate to the side and sighs your name, his hand tousling his hair nervously. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it as often as it takes: Kid is dangerous.” Shanks lifts one finger to stop you from intervening. “Don’t give that look, I know him.”

“So do I!” you interrupt anyway.

“Sure, you know what he shows you. But when he’s pressured or cornered, he lashes out, and that’s when he sees red, baby, that’s when he’s volatile and you—”

“I’m not afraid of him, and you’re not going to make me fear him, Dad.” Kid already felt cornered and pressured when next to you. He lashed out, sure, but you handled it just fine!

“I’m not trying to make you fear him,” Shanks pleads, slamming his palm on the table. “I just want you to be careful, stay sharp, pay attention!”

“He’s not a ticking time bomb!” you say.

“He’s an angry man!” he counters.

“Sure!” you groan in disbelief. “But being angry is a far cry from being dangerous. Yes, he’s loud, yes, he’s irascible, but that shouldn’t be what defines him when there’s so much more underneath.” You let out another huff. “Besides, he’s not angry at me. Kid’s angry at himself.”

Shanks raises in his chair, his hand supporting his weight on the table so he can look at you. “And that is the problem, babygirl, because when you’re constantly angry at yourself, the ones who suffer are the ones who care the most.” 

Your breath hitches as you lock eyes with Shanks, and his eyes soften. He squeezes your hand gently, a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes gracing his lips. “And I know you care. So I’m so scared you’re going to suffer.”

He’s not wrong. Kid is constantly angry at himself, whether he shows it or not; there’s an underlying grudge he can’t seem to shake. 

“I’m a fuckin’ monster.” His words still echo inside your head, still holding your heart ransom to the pain he was feeling. 

Kid’s angry. Kid’s suffering. And Shanks is right. He will make you suffer too, but not in the way your father fears. 

You suffer because he’s in pain. Not because he causes you pain.

-*-

“She’s shining! She looks so good, Kid.” You pace around Victoria, taking in how the bright red, closely resembling her owner’s hair, stands out in the dimly lit garage. Kid’s been working nonstop to get her show-ready, and it’s paid off. “Are we going to ride her to the show?”

Kid takes out two beers from the fridge, but doesn’t put back the one you decline, instead setting it down on the workbench to drink once he’s done with the first. He leans back against the counter and tilts his head at Victoria, making sure everything is perfect. 

“Damn right we are. I’ll get her fuckin’ sparklin’ again once we arrive.” He smirks and takes a long sip of his beer. “She ain’t no helpless virgin to be carried around in a tow. She holds her own.”

With a soft chuckle, you lean on the workbench next to Kid, purposefully brushing your leg against his. His arm stops midway before raising up for another sip of beer, but the silence stretches for a while before you decide to break it. 

“Why haven’t you kissed me again?” It’s a question that’s been lodged in your throat since that day. You helped Kid in a terribly vulnerable moment, and he let you. You thought, once again, that you had made progress, that walls had been torn down and breached. But he hasn’t kissed you or mentioned what happened between you since. 

Kid sets down his beer and exhales a long breath, his hand reaching up to press over the lower half of his face. 

“It ain’t so simple…” Still avoiding your eye contact, Kid pulls up a stool from under the workbench and sits down, as if pressured by a heavy weight and standing up seems unbearable. 

“It isn’t?” you ask in disbelief. 

“Aye…” Kid risks a small glance at you and breaks it the next second. “I told ye before. I don’t know how to do this.” He gestures to the space between you. “I claim girls and I dump ‘em. That’s what I do.”

Right. He has said so before. Where’s he going with this, and why is your heart pounding like it wants to escape your chest? Does it always have to be one step forward and two steps back with Kid?

“What do you mean, Kid? Is that what you’re going to do to me or—”

“No.” Kid wraps his hand around your waist and pulls you to him, dragging you to the middle of his open legs. You eye him with suspicion, never quite knowing what to expect from him. Then his fingers dig into your waist, and he forces eye contact. “That’s exactly what I don’t want to do to ye.”

Oh.

“I’m wired to do that. Kill says it’s a defense mechanism, but what the fuck does he know, he ain’t a shrink,” Kid grumbles. “So I’m—”

He minces his words with grunts and sighs, and you know what he can’t say. He’s scared. About everything. The heat of his body spreads to your palms as you place them over his chest, waiting for him to go on. 

“I can’t take that risk. I can’t take it further. Yet.”

You take another step forward, and you’re nearly flush together. Kid’s hands drop to your hips.

“We don’t have to take it further,” you admit. Then a sly grin curves the corner of your mouth upwards. “But I do like your kisses…”

Kid leans down, his mouth hovering over yours.

“Aye, me too. But the problem is I like ‘em too fuckin’ much.” You let out a small giggle at that, hands climbing to his neck as you twirl strands of his hair. “When I’m kissin’ ya, I don’t want to fuckin’ stop.”

Your lips brush but never quite touch. He leans his head to one side, and then the other, just small feathery brushes that tease you more than if he were actually kissing you. 

“This is torture,” you whisper, anticipation climbing to impossible heights while his fingers dig deeper into your flesh. You press on his neck, pulling him towards you, but he’s not budging. He keeps leaning away from your search for a deeper touch. “God!” you breathe out the expletive in exasperation. 

Kid’s smug chuckle warms your lips, and you nearly let out a whine. “Not my name, sweetheart, but I don’t mind the upgrade.”

You start to chuckle lightheartedly at his smugness, but that’s when he shortens the distance between you and your mouths collide. It starts slow; hands behaving nicely, barely touching or gripping, lips only pressing, tongues still. 

And then you whimper softly, so softly it resembles more a sigh than a moan. Yet, it’s all it takes.

Kid makes a deep, throaty noise and wraps both arms around your back, pulling you flush against him, his fingers climbing possessively to your nape. He grips your hair and tilts your head back to deepen the kiss. 

No longer do tongues stand still; instead, they eagerly explore. Kid pushes more, and teeth collide before he nips your lower lip and sucks it into his mouth. His hand lowers and finds the hem of your shirt, already slipping inside to touch the feverish skin of your back. 

A proper moan leaves your lips, and Kid breaks the kiss abruptly.

He doesn’t push you away, though. With your foreheads pressed together, he removes his hands from your skin as you both regain your breath.

“See what I mean? Can’t fuckin’ stop. Ye do this to me.”

Why do his words stir something so real inside you? It’s like everything he says provokes a visceral reaction in you; be it rage, desire, or this weird feeling you can’t quite explain.

“But you did stop. Does that mean we can try it again?”

“Temptress,” he teases, and you stick out your tongue at him. 

“Fineee,” you let out, trying to wiggle out of his embrace. “I’ll behave.” He eases his grip, and you take a step back, though you’re still between his legs. “Guess you can delete that awesome schedule you prepared for us the other day…”

Ass demolition… being folded like a pretzel… You sigh. 

“Ain’t doing that,” he rasps as his hands find their way back to your waist. 

“What?”

“I’ve postponed it. To a month from now.”

You raise your brow, bringing your index finger to your lips in a pensive expression. “One month? You expect me to keep my hands off you for that long?”

Kid grunts, his hands squeeze, and you don’t miss the way his eyes fixate on your curving lips. “Rules and schedules are meant to be broken, Sparkles. I ain’t the man to follow rules, ye should know that already. Still…”

You smile softly, knowing where he’s going with this. He wants to take things slow, he doesn’t want to mess this up. He’s being different for you. Having a sort of deadline; an objective, makes it real and easier to abide by.

“All right. Let’s behave, then.” You push away from him and point at Victoria. “There’s another lady that needs your attention right now, and I don’t mind sharing with her.”

Kid grins, passing by you and squeezing your ass, eliciting a small yelp from your lips, before heading towards Victoria. 

“Well, yer a better person than me, then, because I wouldn’t share ye with nothin’. Not even a car.”

-*-

“So, are you guys officially dating?” Killer tilts his head to the side, arms crossed over his chest, as Kid exits Victoria and walks over to open the trunk. He drove the car outside of the garage, and he’s waiting for you to arrive before heading off. 

“No.”

“But you said you kissed again,” Killer deadpans.

“Right.”

“And you’re not doing your ‘just for fun’ bit?” Killer keeps pressing. Kid throws a duffel bag and a toolbox inside the trunk and goes back into the garage to get his set of cleaning products to pack it too. 

“No.”

“Well, you’re really talkative today. I’m so happy we shared this insightful conversation, Kid.” 

“Aye, me too.”

If looks could kill, Kid would be dropping dead at any second now. 

He sighs, places the cleaning products inside the trunk before closing it and leaning on it. He looks over at Killer without searching for his eyes. “It’s… we… it’s a situationship, I guess.”

“The fuck is that?” Killer asks, genuinely curious.

“Fuck if I know!” Kid growls. “We ain’t dating, but we ain’t NOT dating. Got it?”

“No.”

“Fuck off! We’re somethin’. That’s it.”

Killer’s about to retort when your car pulls up and you park it in the shade. “Good morning!” you greet them, stepping out of the car and reaching into the backseat for your duffel bag. It’s an overnight stay, you don’t need much stuff. 

“Hey,” Killer waves, going into the garage for a moment. 

Kid walks over to you and grabs the bag so he can store it in the trunk. “Mornin’, Sparkles.” You show him that sweet smile that could start wars, and he fights back the urge to press his lips against yours. 

If you were anyone else, any other girl, he would’ve already done a million things to you. Surprisingly, manhandling and folding you like a pretzel are actually very tame activities for what he usually goes for. And then he would’ve dumped you without looking back or thinking twice about it. 

But you’re not just any other girl. Despite what he said the other day, you are special, and he’s not about to ruin that. Girls have taken one look at him and decided they could fix him. More times than he can count, actually. He just has this unreachable, broken aura about him that gets some girls going. 

You said you didn’t want to fix him. You said you wanted all of his broken pieces. 

And fuck it. He was not expecting that. To be accepted exactly as he is. 

So he needs to be a little bit better; he needs to try and be good, even though he doesn’t know how to do it. He’s willing to try. 

He’s about to turn to Victoria to place your bag in the trunk when you reach up, holding his face with one hand and standing on the tips of your toes just so you can land a kiss on his cheek. 

And he just stands there, like an idiot, holding your bag and staring at you.

That’s when they start to snicker. He can’t see them, but he feels them. They’re always there.

‘Coward.’

‘Undeserving.’

‘Stay miserable for the rest of your life.’

They’re ruthless. But they’re right.

He doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve happiness.

Why does he even allow himself to think of a possible future with you? Sure, you’re special and different, but he’s not. He’s the same selfish, cowardly motherfucker who can’t do anything right with his life. 

He can’t drag you down with him. He refuses. 

But fuck it all to hell. He’s selfish enough to want to try, even if it hurts both of you.

Killer returns with a paper bag in his hand, and Kid immediately turns to place your bag inside the trunk, dismissing his thoughts instead of letting them cloud the time he’s about to spend with you. 

“What’s that?” you ask Killer, hopping over to his side to try to take a peek.

He gently swats your hand away and hands the bag over to Kid. “It’s breakfast. Sun’s barely up, and it’s gonna take you close to three hours to get there. You need something to eat.” The lilt in his voice tells you he’s smiling, and you thank him. Then he leans down as if he’s sharing a secret and whispers, “Good luck putting up with Kid, by the way.”

You snicker loudly, and Kid grumbles. Whenever you and Killer get together, Kid always ends up being the butt of the joke. And damn it if he doesn’t like that. Not that he would ever admit it to you two. 

“What is it?” You try to pry the bag away from Kid, but he just holds it high above your head, and you don’t even try to reach for it. Instead, you frown at him, hands on your hips.

“Sandwiches,” Killer answers. 

“No eatin’ in the car! We’ll stop soon enough to eat ‘em.” Kid places the bag on the floor of the backseat, away from your reach. “Let’s go, Sparkles.”

“Fine,” you grumble, nose crinkling in an adorable way. “But I get angry when I’m hungry.” Then you turn to Killer and wave. “Thanks, Kill. See you soon.”

Killer waves and tilts his chin up to Kid. “Hear that, Kid? She gets hangry. Make sure to feed your Gremlin soon.”

You snort on the way to the car, and Kid shakes his head at his friend, slapping him on the back. “Thanks for watching the shop, asswipe.”

Killer slaps his back, too. “Drive safely, dickhead.”

“I don’t understand this type of bromance…” you mutter before settling into your seat. 

-*-

When Kid slows down and parks Victoria on the side of the road, under the shade of a tree, you stretch your arms over your head. You’ve only been riding for forty minutes, but you tested his patience for over half an hour, saying the sandwiches smelled delicious, that you were getting pretty hungry, and that you should stop to eat. 

He got tired of listening to you whine and pulled over.

“She’s amazing,” you admit with a light tap on the dash. “You outdid yourself, Kid. Everyone’s gonna love her at the show.”

Kid grumbles, grabs the paper bag, and exits the car. You follow him as you both lean on the hood of Victoria, staring at the road stretching ahead of you; just worn-out asphalt, barely any curves. You’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dirt and trees, birds, and lush greenery. It’s peaceful. 

“What’s wrong?” you try, not knowing if he’s in the mood to answer you or to be a puzzle.

“Nothin’.” Kid lets out a grunt and hands you your sandwich. 

“She’ll do just fine, Kid,” you take a guess. He fussed so much about Victoria being just right for the judges when he was prepping her that you’re pretty sure your educated guess is accurate. 

“Aye, I know. I built her.” The defensiveness in his answer shows that you were right on the money. 

“Maybe that’s why you’re so nervous. Because although they’ll be judging Victoria, you’re the one under scrutiny.”

His head snaps to the side, and he widens his eyes at you, not believing how you can already read him so well. Right on the money, indeed. 

“Whatever,” he grumbles and turns away from you. 

You unfold the foil covering the sandwich while Kid processes your words. You know he won’t talk about his real feelings, but you do know he’s listening to what you have to say to him. “She’s perfect. You did an amazing job. Everyone will love her so much, you’re going to get jealous.”

This pulls a smirk from the corner of his lips as he mimics your actions to get the wrapper off the sandwich. 

“Aye. I can handle her bein’ ogled. As long as nobody gets too fuckin’ touchy.”

You stifle a snort. “Nobody but you can touch your gall, right? Possessive much?”

He finally grins, giving you a side-eye. “Fuck yeah, I am. Ain’t nobody touchin’ what’s mine. Besides, nobody knows her like I do.” His hand drops to the hood of the car in the space between your legs, and he pats it affectionately. Then his fingers brush against the side of your thigh, and he gazes back at you. “I know every curve of her body, every little purr, everything she likes… Nobody can take care of her like I can.”

Your breath hitches as you hold his gaze. Is he still talking about Victoria?

“Good to know,” you murmur, getting back to your sandwich. “Maybe she doesn’t even want anybody else’s touch. Maybe all she craves is yours…”

You feel the heat of his hand leave your thigh even before you see it, but there’s no time to miss it when he places his fingers beneath your chin, tilting your face up so you can stare at him. 

You hold your breath again as Kid swipes his thumb across your lower lip, slowly, deliberately. “Keep sayin’ stuff like that and ye’ll be taken care of better than her.” Parting your lips, you draw a breath, ready to answer him, but he removes his hand and pats the half-unwrapped sandwich on your lap. “Eat, Sparkles. If ye eat that cold ‘cause I was busy flirtin’ with ye, Killer will murder us in our sleep.”

You huff a soft chuckle and nod, unwrapping the food and taking a greedy bite out of it. “Hmm! Damn!” You take another bite, not even bothering to swallow the first, and hum in delight again. “This is so good!” you say between bites, “Stupid good!” 

Kid snorts and takes his own bite. “Aye. Killer’s a damn good chef. Learned in the army. Used to cook us the best food ye could get in the middle of the goddamned desert.”

You nearly stop chewing. Kid never talks about their army days. You just nod, absorbing the information like a greedy little sponge. You don’t press, don’t push for more. You’ll take whatever he gives you. 

But it’s clear he’s not going to share any more for now, and that’s fine. It’s enough. Whatever he gives you, it’s enough.

“Remind me to thank him later, then.”

Kid hums in agreement, and you finish your sandwiches not long after. The silence is more comfortable than awkward at this point. 

You’re wiping your hands on your jeans when Kid throws something at you. You stumble with it, juggling the object in your hands before steadying it. With a confused gaze aimed at Kid, you raise your hand and inspect it. It’s a keychain: a guitar, a miniature Harley, and Victoria’s keys dangle from it. 

He wipes his hands on his pants, opens the passenger seat door, and sits in your place, adjusting it back so he can fit his legs. 

“Well? What are ye waitin’ for? She ain’t gonna drive herself.”

After all that talk about ’nobody touches Victoria but me,’ he just hands you the keys? Is he seriously trusting you to drive her?

“Are you serious, Kid?”

“Sweetheart, ye’ve been messin’ with her guts for weeks. She knows ye, she trusts ye. Get yer fine ass inside and let’s go. Don’t wanna be late to show her off to rich bastards.”

Well, since he’s put it that way! 

You grin, getting comfortable in his seat. Then you adjust the seat and the mirrors and take three deep breaths just before starting her up. 

“Ye ain’t givin’ birth, Sparkles. Just be careful with the clutch and let’s go.”

“Hey, I got it!” you grumble defensively. Kid snorts, opening the window and leaning his elbow. 

“I’ve seen ye drive. I’ve fixed yer car.” Kid stares back at you, an infuriating smirk painting his lips. “Watch the clutch and let’s go.” You mumble something unintelligible, mostly cursed words aimed at him, and he snickers. 

Victoria eases back into the road like she owns it, and for a vintage car, the ride is smooth as velvet. You feel happy. Kid looks happy. And the road trip extends for a few more hours that pass in a beat.

You trade places with Kid along the way again because he can’t act like a passenger princess and spends the entirety of your drive giving you pointers and being a backseat driver: ’careful with that sharp turn; that truck’s gonna hit the brakes, give him space; easy on the clutch; you can’t stand to hear him anymore, so you relinquish your seat.

Eventually, time rolls by as lazily as the road, and you reach your destination. There are still cars parking up, and one of the staff comes up to Kid to tell him where to park and that he needs to have his car ready in an hour before the judges and guests start coming in. 

The car show is being held outdoors, sprawled across a large park. The large trees cast a much-needed shade all around, and their leaves rustle softly with the vernal breeze. Kid parks Victoria in her designated spot, and you step out, stretching your arms and taking a big breath.

It smells like fresh grass, wildflowers, and, unavoidably, gasoline. 

Your eyes roam through the paved lot, taking in the car lineup in awe. There are a lot of classic cars, some well-cherished, others pristine new, like they’re never touched except for exhibits, which is probably the case. 

They’re impressive. 

But none of them is Victoria. You may be biased, but seeing her shine, burning as hot as fire amid boring classics that shine without flair, just cements this fact. She’s a beast of her own, and she’s going to claw her way to the top.

Kid groans as he too looks around. You close your door and stop beside him, placing one hand on his bicep and squeezing. “You got this, Kid. You got the best gal, don’t doubt it!”

Then you turn to open the trunk so you can take out the cleaning gear and get her show-ready. Kid grins, a very cocky grin. “Aye, I fuckin’ do have the best gal.” And when he winks at you, you’re left thinking once more if he’s talking about you or Victoria.

-*-

“I’m so exhausted!” you hide a yawn behind your hand as you walk to the motel conveniently located in front of the park. 

The first day went on in a blur of thrill and novelty. Beyond the first stressful hour when you and Kid worked hard to get Victoria gleaming and shining, everything worked out perfectly. The judges made their initial pass through the show, taking in their first impressions of the displayed cars. Their eyes lingered on Victoria with interest, and you swore Kid was proud when they nodded approvingly. 

Then came the side contests: loudest exhaust, best paint job, craziest modification. Victoria wasn’t registered for any of those competitions, but watching the crowd go wild was pretty fun. Even Kid seemed amused, grinning and smirking far more than his usual scowls. 

You had a quick lunch with some food from the food stalls, washed it down with ghastly locally brewed beer, which made you gag and almost lose your lunch. Kid called you a lightweight and suggested that you should stick with water instead of drinks made for men. He regretted that comment instantly when you started to discuss gender equality with him in a loud, passionate discourse until he was begging you to stop.

When the audience started to pour in after lunch, Kid tensed up because they were, in his words, ‘touchy, meddlesome, uneducated, and annoying.’ Though he might’ve phrased it a little less eloquently and with many more curse words in between. 

When he almost lost it, grumbling at a kid because he was about to touch Victoria with his ice-cream-covered hands, you took over talking to the public, and he only spoke to answer technical questions. You told him he did a very good job at being a grumpy Wikipedia page, if Wikipedia pages were R-rated. 

When the sun set, after your dinner consisted of a repeat of lunch minus the awful beers, the show closed for the night. Some participants decided to hit the town bars and keep the party going, but you were feeling exhausted. Kid said he wouldn’t be caught dead socializing with other people, and you knew he just didn’t want to leave you alone, because you’d never seen him say no to a few drinks. 

Now, Kid opens the door to the motel’s reception, and the obnoxious bell on the door dings to get the receptionist’s attention. Kid drops the two duffel bags on the floor and leans on the counter. 

“Hey, I had a reservation under Eustass Kid. It was a single, but now I gotta get one with two beds.” He told you during the show that he still didn’t know you were coming when he made the reservation for himself. 

The girl behind the counter chews her gum and clicks her mouse without looking at either of you, clearly bored out of her mind to be working the night shift. 

“We’re out of doubles, but we have rooms with king-size beds.”

Kid grunts a curse between his teeth. “Another single, then.”

“Oh, no need!” you chime in, stepping forward and shoving yourself between Kid and the counter. “The one with the king-size bed works just fine.”

The girl starts to click the mouse again, and Kid scowls at you, which only makes you grin. 

“Don’t worry, Kid, I’ll only bite if you want me to.”

The receptionist snaps her head up for the first time since you entered and gives you both a knowing smile. Kid tries to act annoyed at you, but the smirk and glint in his eyes tell you he’s looking forward to this as much as you are. 

“Careful not to swallow yer words, Sparkles.”

You reach for the card that the now-amused receptionist hands you, and Kid grabs the duffels. “Big words for someone who wanted two singles just a minute ago.”

He huffs a laugh and leads you outside with his hand on your lower back, barely touching but scorching you like a live flame. 

“Keep talkin’ and see where that attitude gets ye.”

Under you or over you would be great, thank you very much. These are the words you want to say, but you can’t. Because you’re both taking things slow. Torturously slow. 

“A girl can only hope…” you snicker at him, and he lets out one of those throaty sounds that send a shiver coursing through your spine but doesn’t say anything else. 

You can barely keep it together in shared spaces, as poor Killer can attest. How the heck are you going to last a full night sleeping next to this man?

Fuck.

Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha @theloserqueen @mapachito @shamblespirate @ibuch7

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|Chapter 10🔞|

[pretzel-box]

HII, THIS IS MY FIRST TIME REQUESTING SOMETHING IF IM DOING SOMETHING WRONG FEEL FREE TO DELETE THIS ASK, BUT I WAS WONDERING…. In one of his lines sebastian makes a joke about having cards and such, the later says “ive never played cards actually.. meaning to learn.”. SO WHAT IF, i were to kindly and politely ask for anything that includes gender neutral reader teaching sebastian how to play cards, thank you for reading this in advance :3

UNO!

words: 1,7k

tags: uno, the card game.

authors note: I had too much fun with this and added Uno into the scenario! Sebastian learns everything about the wonderful world of cards.

Years ago, during a weekend at your grandparents' house, your grandpa placed a worn stack of playing cards in your hands and asked if you'd ever played. At the time, you hadn’t—being young and inexperienced—but that was the day you learned. Every time you visited afterward, your grandpa would teach you a new card game, keeping you entertained for hours.

So, when Sebastian mentioned that he had a deck of cards buried somewhere among his tools, junk, and files, a wave of nostalgia washed over you. Excited, you immediately hopped off his tail, which you had been using as a comfy seat, and began rummaging through his things in search of the cards.

“Don’t expect me to play with you,” he huffed, trying to avoid getting pulled into your sudden enthusiasm. He tried to mask his lack of skill by pretending he simply didn’t want to play, but your excitement made it clear that he wouldn’t be able to escape.

Before he knew it, you were sitting in front of him, shuffling the deck with ease, your fingers expertly spreading and reassembling the cards in one fluid motion. The sound of the cards snapping back together caught Sebastian’s attention, and despite his initial reluctance, he found himself watching you with curiosity.

You smiled at him, seeing the interest flicker in his eyes. “Come on, it’s not that hard. I’ll teach you.”

Sebastian grumbled under his breath but sat down across from you, folding his arms as if to keep up the pretense of disinterest. “Fine. But I’m not going to enjoy this.”

“We’ll see about that,” you teased, dealing out a hand of cards to him. You started with something simple, a basic game that didn’t require too much strategy. As you explained the rules, Sebastian’s brow furrowed in concentration. He kept glancing from the cards to you, trying to piece together what you were saying.

“Wait, so I can only play a card if it matches the suit or the number?” he asked, holding up a card as if it might give him the answer.

You nodded encouragingly. “Exactly. And if you can’t, you draw from the deck until you get something you can play.”

Sebastian stared at his hand, clearly overthinking his next move. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered, his frustration starting to show.

“It will, just keep going,” you assured him, demonstrating a few moves to help him along. Slowly but surely, Sebastian began to understand, though he still looked uncertain with each card he placed down.

But as the game progressed, something surprising happened—Sebastian’s competitive side started to show. His earlier confusion faded as he began to grasp the game’s rhythm, and soon he was playing his cards with more confidence. You noticed the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth whenever he played a particularly good move, and it made you smile in return.

By the second game, Sebastian was leaning forward, more engaged than he would have admitted. “I got it this time,” he said, his voice tinged with unexpected enthusiasm. He played a card that blocked your move, his eyes lighting up as he realized he was starting to get the hang of it.

“Nice move,” you praised, genuinely impressed. Sebastian’s smirk grew, and he gave you a sidelong glance that was almost playful.

“Don’t think I’m going easy on you,” he warned, but there was no real bite in his words. He was enjoying himself, and it showed.

As the games continued, Sebastian’s initial reluctance was replaced with growing excitement. He began to anticipate your moves, even teasing you when he managed to outplay you. The grumpy, stoic man you were used to was momentarily replaced by someone who was genuinely having fun, and it warmed your heart to see him like this.

By the time you reached the fourth game, Sebastian was fully invested. He was still far from a card shark, but he was learning quickly and starting to enjoy the process. After winning a round a rare smile of his made a brief appearance.

“I knew you’d get into it,” you replied, happy to see him loosening up. “Maybe next time I’ll teach you something more challenging.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, the hint of a grin still on his face. “You think I can handle it?”

“I know you can,” you said confidently, shuffling the deck once more. “But first, let’s see if you can win another round.”

And so, the two of you continued playing, the shop filled with the sound of shuffling cards, quiet laughter, and the growing bond between a grumpy fish and his human friend.

Three days had passed since you first taught Sebastian how to play cards, and in that short time, it had become a regular part of your routine. Whenever there was a lull in your mission and you saw his open vent around, you’d pull out the deck, and Sebastian—despite his initial reluctance—would join you, slowly improving with each game. The more you played, the more his gruff exterior seemed to soften, revealing a side of him that was competitive yet surprisingly good-natured.

On the fourth day, you decided it was time to take things up a notch. When you walked into the shop that morning, a mischievous grin spread across your face. Sebastian looked up from his work, his brow furrowing in curiosity when he noticed the new deck of cards in your hand.

“What’s that?” he asked, eyeing the colorful box with suspicion.

You sauntered over to the table where you usually played, setting the box down with a flourish. You found this in a dumpster around one of the many office rooms. “This,” you said, holding up the deck, “is a game called UNO. I figured since you’ve gotten pretty good at regular cards, it’s time for a new challenge.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, still wary but clearly intrigued. “UNO, huh? Doesn’t sound too tough.”

You smirked, shaking your head as you started to shuffle the cards. “Oh, you have no idea. This game’s a bit different. It’s not just about matching suits and numbers—you’ve got action cards, wild cards, and, of course, the dreaded Draw 4.”

Sebastian watched as you dealt out the cards, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.”

You began to explain the rules, showing him how to match colors or numbers, how to use the action cards to skip turns, reverse the order, or make the other player draw more cards. Sebastian listened intently, nodding along as he picked up the basics. But when you explained the Draw 4 and Wild cards, he gave you a skeptical look.

“So, I can change the color and make you draw four cards?” he asked, holding up the card and studying it closely. “That sounds a little unfair.”

You chuckled, enjoying his reaction. “It’s all part of the strategy. You have to know when to play those cards—and when to save them for later. Trust me, once you get the hang of it, you’ll see why it’s so fun.”

Sebastian wasn’t entirely convinced, but he went along with it, sorting his hand and planning his first move. As the game began, it became clear that this was a whole new level of challenge. The fast-paced nature of UNO, combined with the unexpected twists from action cards, kept him on his non existent toes.

At first, Sebastian struggled with the new mechanics, hesitating as he tried to remember which cards did what. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him concentrate, his usual grumpy expression deepening into a thoughtful frown. But soon, just as with the regular cards, he started to catch on. The competitive spark you’d seen before returned, and before long, Sebastian was playing his cards with growing confidence.

“You’re getting the hang of it once again,” you noted, as he successfully played a Skip card, blocking your turn and earning a satisfied grunt from him.

“Yeah, it’s not so bad,” Sebastian admitted, though his tone was more grudging than he probably intended. “Still not sure how I feel about that Draw 4, though.”

“You’ll learn to love it,” you teased, winking as you placed down your own Draw 2 card, watching as he groaned and drew two more cards from the deck.

As the game continued, Sebastian started to enjoy himself, even laughing quietly when he managed to reverse the play order right before you could make your move. It was clear that he was getting into the spirit of the game, and the playful banter between the two of you made it even more fun.

By the time you were nearing the end of the game, Sebastian had only a few cards left, his earlier hesitation replaced by determination. But just as he was about to play his second-to-last card, you laid down a Wild Draw 4, changing the color and forcing him to draw four more cards. He stared at the card you’d played, then at the stack he had to draw from, his mouth opening in disbelief.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, though there was no real anger in his voice—just the frustration of someone who was so close to victory but had it snatched away at the last second.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter as you watched him reluctantly pick up the four cards. “Welcome to UNO, Sebastian. Anything can happen.”

He gave you a mock glare, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “This game’s ridiculous,” he grumbled, though you could tell he was already plotting his next move.

Despite the setback, Sebastian managed to hold his own, and when the game finally ended—with you barely winning by a single card—he was already asking for a rematch.

“Again,” he said, shuffling the cards himself this time. “I’m not losing like that twice.”

You grinned, happy to see him so engaged. “You’re on. Just don’t blame me when you end up drawing another four cards.”

As the two of you began the next round, the shop filled once more with the sounds of shuffling cards, playful competition, and the growing camaraderie between you and the man who was quickly becoming more than just a grumpy store owner.

[kiemiu]

dating skater!chris | ( fem!reader ) fluff + soft hours. established relationship headcanons + scenarios wc 1.1k (library) + (request)

skater!chris who invites you to the skatepark to show off his impressive moves. first thing he wanted to do was show his skills off to you. he wanted you to fawn over how cool he looked and brag to your friends about how awesome he was. his daydream was, sadly, short-lived. his nerves became so shot that he was unable to land any of the tricks he had practiced hours before your date. he was disappointed in himself, not to mention embarrassed. but once you reassured him and called him 'cute' for trying to impress you, he was a goner. in that moment he told himself he'd fail all of his stunts if it meant you'd call him cute again.

skater!chris who ultimately falls trying to impress you by attempting a difficult stunt. after awhile, chris's nerves aren't as shot around you anymore and he's able to land his regular stunts. he still does become a bit too cocky and tries to bite off more than he can chew by doing difficult moves he's only ever seen professionals like tony hawk pull off. after a particularly rough landing, you'll rush to his aid with your book bag that you thankfully had stocked with first aid supplies. disinfecting his cuts, and even giving them a light kiss after applying your disney princess band-aids. he swears that you have magical kisses and sometimes fakes injuries so you'll give him one of your healing kisses. you always give in, even when you don't see any hints of an injury.

skater!chris who teaches you how to skate. he'll stand in front of you and hold a firm grip on your waist as he gently guides you up and down hills and sharp corners. at some point he'll start teaching you to push off on your own without his help and he'll become so proud when you start to skate around comfortably without his help.

skater!chris who has your initials carved into his skate board. when applying his new grip tape to his board, he used a razor blade to carve out your initials including his in a heart that remains in the middle of his board. he actually thought of the idea after your second date together. and now, everytime the grip tape wears off and is no longer of use, he scraps off the old design and replaces it with a new one and repeats the same ritual by carving out your initials into his board.

skater!chris who buys you your own skateboard. after expressing your want to skate with him, chris wastes no time in getting you a board. he goes to a local skate shop and customizes your board himself, picking out all of the tools needed to assemble a skateboard such as the wheels, the board, the grip tape, and even the deck rails. he triple checks the picture he took of your shoes to make sure he gets a skateboard you can ride comfortably on, not too big or too small. and when he gets home, he wraps it up like a christmas gift, giddy at the thought of how surprised you'll be, seeing your own personalized skateboard.

skater!chris who tries to catch you before you fall. after awhile, chris starts to teach you some tricks like simply jumping while being on the board and how not to fall on your face when there's a curb nearby. even with the easy moves you still sometimes have a misstep and come close to face-planting. chris is always close-by to stop that from happening and usually pulls you towards him before you can meet the concrete. but with as clumsy as chris is, he'll still end up falling, but the outcome is worth it to him, as you end up with no scratches or bruises from using him as a cushion.

skater!chris who treats your wounds just like you take care of his. whenever you do have a harsh landing and chris isn't there to protect you, he'll be the one to treat your wounds for you. he'll hum the doc mcstuffins theme song while applying your cute band-aids and even kiss your injury, just like you do with his. most of the time he forgets to disinfect the area though and you'll have to clean your cuts and reapply your band-aids once you get home.

skater!chris who doesn't ride the skateboard you bought him for his birthday. on his 21st birthday, you gifted him a specialized skateboard that took weeks leading up to his special day to customize. it was dosed in his favorite colors, and had graffiti tags all on it that had hints of his brothers as well as a small part of you in it. he cried when he first saw it and immediately took on the responsibility of caring for that skateboard as if it was his one and only child. he doesn't let anyone touch it, not even you despite the fact you gifted it to him. it remains hung up over his bed on his bedroom wall and to this day he still claims it as one of his most prized possessions.

skater!chris who says 'this is for you' before landing a kickflip. he'll point directly at you and make eye contact as he screams that phrase out at the top of his lungs before jumping off of an elevated layer of cement. once he lands, he throws his arms in the air and skates his way over to you, a triumphant smile on his lips as he hears you loudly cheer for him. "where's my celebratory kiss, hm?". other times when he doesn't land it, he'll quickly scramble to his feet before shouting out "uh- it was meant for the ghost behind you, this next one's for you!" and he'll keep attempting the trick again and again until he finally lands it. "first try!" it was his 19th.

skater!chris who likes sitting on his skateboard with you between his legs while you eat snacks. after hours of skating around, and filming him do his tricks, chris will take you to the nearest gas station or fast food place and gather a bunch of your favorite snacks. sitting in front of the establishment but off to the side so you're not in the way of anyone, he'll lean his head down on your shoulder and wrap his unoccupied arm around your waist. you can feel the motion of him softly chewing, and usually the sound of crunching would annoy you, but it does the exact opposite and instead helps you further relax in his embrace as you drink your shared slurpee. "i lohmf ouh" he mutters with a mouthful of french fries, making you laugh incredulously. "i love you too, now chew your food!"

' 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ' 🥡: @emely9274 @ginswife @madifilipowiczslvt @chrisstvrns @conspiracy-ash @sturnina @lovetaylorrussellgrr @nervoussagittarius @sacaydia @chrissturnsss @hearts4werka @oliviagirlsworld @koilaniazul @starsforu