#i was not meant for this life i was meant to live in a tent by the mountain lake i swear to god

[ravixen]

can you do one wherein they're on a variety show and someone asks about your relationship?? (they are publicly dating) With Seungcheol, Wonwoo, Minghao and Vernon?

svt + variety show asks about idol!s/o

➔ reaction || requested || idol!y/n

➔ warnings: none || 0.6k words ➔ notes: fluff ; this prompt feels like it'd go well with my previous posts "svt + sending a video message on a show" from 2022 and 2023! I originally wrote this for a non-idol!y/n before I realized that by "publicly dating," you probably meant an idol s/o so I redid it. I had a little trouble thinking of situations since the prompt was broad, but it was still fun to write. might do another part with the more open members. please reblog if you liked it!!

SEUNGCHEOL: if he was promoting with his members, he wouldn't even entertain the question; working as part of a team matters a lot to him, and as the group leader, he has to set an example. but today he's doing a solo interview and lets himself be more open. when the hosts ask about you, he absolutely tries his best to hide his initial reaction, but he can't help the smile that automatically appears at the mention of your name. he attempts to play it off with an arrogant hair ruffle that fools no one. literally so embarrassing. "am I happy? ...yeah, I'd say so." he laughs. "why would I say no? all of my important people are healthy and living their best life." he doesn't share too many details about you, just to protect your privacy, but he'd be proud to promote any of your recent achievements, regardless of your occupation.

WONWOO: he's a private person, so while he is technically dating in the public eye, there's not much known about your relationship; that's exactly why the show hosts are taking advantage of this opportunity to grill him about you. but he evades their questions with the practiced grace of someone who's had media training, dancing right in front of the answers they're looking for. he looks so at ease: crossed arms, leaned back, a hint of a smile on his lips. but perhaps it's due to this false sense of security that, when they bring out the big guns, it knocks him off-balance. they have pictures. nothing incriminating. it's just embarrassing to see his affection collaged like this: peeks of you as his lockscreen, him dancing in the crowd at your street performance, him staring affectionately at your back as you order from a food truck...yeah, they caught him with it all.

MINGHAO: he's an extremely private person—I'd argue even more so than wonwoo—so he warned the program beforehand that he wouldn't answer any questions about you, other than to confirm that yes, you are still happily together. they agree...and of course scheme ways to get around that. so instead of asking about you directly, they decide to reference you a few times throughout the shooting to catch his reaction. maybe your song as a random dance or screenshots of your show as memes. they have audacity, he'll give them that. if he was a lesser man or earlier into his career, he'd cave and play into their wants, but neither of those apply to him so he smiles every time, ignoring the references, until they get bored and move on. then, at the end of the shoot, they ask if he has any closing words. "thanks for promoting their work so seriously," he says with a sarcastic bow.

VERNON: he's yet another private person (do you have a type), though not through conscious choice like minghao. he's publicly dating and has nothing to hide, but he's not the type to flaunt personal matters so he just doesn't. obviously his friends and family know the important details, but beyond that, he doesn't see the point in sharing information with people that don't really know him. so when the hosts ask him about his relationship, it catches him off-guard. he fully blinks and stares at the host until someone breaks the silence with an awkward laugh. "unless you two broke up?" they offer tentatively. "no, we're still together. it's been, uh, it's been good. great." he nods. "we actually went to see a movie yesterday." and the hosts sit there waiting for him to continue, and he's staring back at them like. that's all I wanted to say...are we moving on?

[seenthisepisode]

.

[envy-of-the-apple]

Fun Sized

Dark!Fairy!Gojo Satoru x reader

Word Count: 2k

Synopsis: You save a tiny fairy. Gojo Satoru decides that you and him belong together, regardless of how little he is and how little you think of him. 

(Warnings: Yandere, not many warnings in this one ngl)

The fae are a dangerous bunch. You've heard more than enough stories to be spooked. Sirens will sing beautiful songs before dragging you into the depths. Dragons will burn you to a crisp before a second's thought. Nagas would make sure you were alive until the very end as they feast on your organs. Centaurs would use their powerful legs to stomp yours to mere twigs. Driders would suck your blood until there's nothing left but a husk of your body. 

You've never heard anything about fairies. They didn't live in your region. Their lands were high in the mountains, where humans rarely traveled. Also, they were so tiny, according to the books. The biggest seemed to be barely the size of your hand. They were harmless, you concluded. Harmless to humans. Harmless to you. 

He had been harmless. At first, you thought it was a cluster of leaves in the stream, but as the current drew it closer, you noticed tiny arms and a tiny face. He was unconscious; you didn't even know if the poor thing was alive. 

The Fae are a dangerous bunch, but saving one tiny fairy couldn't hurt, right? 

Your guest quickly proved to be a bigger hassle than you initially thought. 

When you brought him to your cottage, he laid in a basket of warm linen, asleep for hours near the warm fireplace. The blueberry pie was still hot when you turned around and caught him staring at you. 

It was silent for a while, and then you said: 

"Do you like sweets?" 

That's how your tentative friendship with the other kind started. Gojo Satoru (you later learned his name) was a boisterous thing. He did in fact like sweets, which helped bribe his friendship. You're surprised that he ate so much despite his stature. Did all faires have black holes for stomachs? 

He healed up rather quickly. At first, you were afraid that his wings had crumbled due to the prolonged exposure to water. But after stuffing himself full of the blueberry syrup, he smiled widely before flitting out your window. 

You thought that would be the end of it, but then he just came coming back. 

Apparently, your baking skills left an impact on the small creature. He didn't visit often, but when he did, you would always make sure you had something. Whether it be cookies, brownies, or that blueberry pie he was so fond of. Anything was good enough for Gojo's taste palette. 

"In the fae lands," Gojo said when you prodded, "sweets are too sweet. Yours is just enough."  You weren't too sure what he meant by that, but you took it as a compliment. You were sure the fae wasn't something who'd give praises so easily. 

It's not like you were upset at providing food for your tiny friend. Quite the contrary. You loved it when Gojo visited. You found him fascinating, the way he could fly miles and miles above your head. How tiny he was. The amount of times you had to hold yourself back from squishing him between your fingers because of how cute he was scared you. 

And you hoped you were fascinating enough to entertain Gojo. You had to be; you don't know why else he'd keep coming back. Even after gobbling down your cooking, he'd lounge around your home, entertaining you with his stories. You learned of the other magical creatures he was in contact with, the students he taught, and how fond he was of them. You don't know why he was so open about sharing his personal life with you, in the stories fae hated humanity, but you would never complain. 

It doesn't click as to why Gojo's so invested in you until he comes out and says it himself. 

"Instead of me coming back and forth like this, why don't you just come live with me?" He says, "I would cut down my flying time by a lot." 

You stare at him in amusement, sure he's joking. "I'm not sure how I'd fit in your house." You tease. "I'd probably crush all your furniture." 

"I can make my house bigger." He announces. "Don't worry 'bout it, just say yes." 

You stare at him, slowly realizing that he isn't as amused. He's still smiling, but there's no joke. 

"No," you finally say, "I'm not doing that." 

He cocks his head surprised as though he's never had someone reject him before. 

"What?" He asks, "Why not?"

"Well." You clear your throat. "For one, I'm human, and you're a fairie. I don't think Fae would appreciate a human wandering around in their lands." 

"Who cares about all that?" Gojo waves his hands around. "You'll be with me, anyways. It'd be fine." 

"I don't get why you're so fixated on the human realm." His mouth turns into a sneer. "It's all so boring. Nothing ever happens. And our magic is much more advanced than yours." It's true. You can't disagree with that. Satoru didn't wear clothes made out of leaves or vines, unlike the common fairy stereotype. His clothing looked much more advanced compared to your loose cotton dresses. A black shirt with intricate buttons and long sleeves. Along with black trousers. You wonder what material could make his suit so shiny. 

You laugh at his disgust. At that time, you saw Gojo as a tiny child clutching their mother's skirts, a cute puppy. You hadn't yet taken Gojo Satoru as the threat he was. 

"It's because I am human." You say, not offended by his remarks. "So I like being near other humans." 

He groans as though your logic makes no sense. "Yuji and the others ask about you all the time, though. They've been dying to meet you." 

"You talk to your students about the giant that cooks for you? I'm flattered." 

"You're dodging," he warns. You roll your eyes. 

"Satoru, I'm not coming to live with you. It'd be too much of a hassle." You finally say. "Besides, you're not my type." 

"I'm everyone's type." He argues. 

"Not mine." You smile, and then you make your first blunder. 

"I like my men a little taller." 

He stiffens, and you know you said the wrong thing. Your smile fades as does the cheery energy in your cottage. He says nothing, but he's zipping out your window before you can apologize. 

He doesn't return for the longest time. You count the weeks. Guilt weighs on your shoulders, heavy and burdensome. Every day you bake something even tastier than the day before. Not even that is enough to coax him back. 

You think you've lost him forever, when he returns on one sweltering summer evening. 

"Hi." You blink. He's watching you, sitting idly on the window, kicking his tiny feet. 

"Hi." He smiles. 

You're happy enough to grab him with one fist and hugging him to your chest, but as always, you stop yourself. Instead, a shy smile rests on your face. 

"I'm sorry," you say, "I really am...will you accept an apology pie?" 

He grins wider, and you relax. 

He eats, and you're grateful. Something you once cherished in your life has finally come back to you. You might not return Gojo's feelings, but you still care for him. You'd rather die than ever hurt him again. 

"No, you're right." Gojo surprisingly concedes when you apologize for the third time. "We're too different. It'd never work out. Not as the way you are, right now." 

You nod, grateful he's so understanding. "Exactly." 

He's finishing up when he announces he brought you a gift. 

"I've been working on it for the past few weeks," he cheerily says. "It took a while, but it's finally safe for human consumption." 

He takes out a tiny glass bottle filled with something swirling and blue. When he asks you to bring a glass of water, you acquiesce. To your astonishment, when the elixer is poured, the entire water becomes a swirling mass of a color comparable to none other than galaxies. You're so mesmerized by the color, it's enough to stump your voice. 

"For you!" He declares. "You've always been cooking for me; thought I might return the favor, just this once." 

"What is it?" You ask, amazed by the color. You admire the glance, unaware of the glint in Gojo's eye. 

"It's kinda like the wine you have in the mortal realms, but a little less poignant." He gives when you glance at him. "Go on, tell me what you think?" 

You're too trusting, and so you make your second blunder. 

Once you start, you can't seem to stop. The taste is otherworldly, addicting. You drink and drink, not wasting a single drop. You're breathing heavily once the cup detaches from your lips. 

"Amazing." You say before looking at him. His eyes are too wide, but you're too distracted by the taste still on your tongue. "Seriously, what was that? Can I make it here?" 

He scratches the back of his head. "Not really, the ingredients are pretty hard to find." He shrugs. "Besides, it's supposed to be a one-time use." 

Your eyebrows twist, and then the world sinks. 

You're falling. You think you are. You don't really know. Everything feels like it's stretching. The walls of your tiny little cottage get higher and higher and higher. The floor gets more and more warped. You're sinking, sinking through the air. When you scream, nothing comes out. You feel like you're choking because you can't breathe, and then your vision grows black. 

The next time you open your eyes. It's still dark, and to your horror, you realize you're buried underneath something. 

You panic, clawing and tearing your way out. The material gives away easily. It's fabric. Cotton. But there was so much, an undying ocean of fabric. You lift yourself up from the pile and that's when you realize you're completely naked. 

The mountain of cotton you just climbed to the top of was your old dress. 

Everything was gigantic—the table, the chairs. The windows seemed endless. The ceiling looked miles above you, and you know what happened, but your brain can't formulate it because it can't be—it just can't be.

There's a flutter of wings. You always thought he was so quiet before. Now, he's all you can hear. Immediately, you wrap your body with the cloth. It's hard to keep still; your body is buzzing with nerves and you still can't understand. You have to force yourself to look at him.

You don't know why you expected shock, guilt, something other than the pure manic glee on his face. Satoru towers above you, head tilted. He bends down, cupping your trembling face in his hand because he's big enough to do that now. 

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any more adorable." He coos. 

You can see him now. His skin isn't pale, it's borderline translucent. His canines are sharp and pointy. And his eyes. Oh God you've never seen eyes so terrifying before—an endless mass of blue, threatening to swallow you whole. 

He wasn't a cute little fairy. He was anything but that. 

"Gojo..." You start, heart squeezing. "What did you do.." 

You know. He knows. That's why he ignores your question entirely. 

"I'm surprised it worked." He says, mainly talking to himself. "Shoko said it might be a dud, and she was so sure of it, that I mostly believed her." 

"But now look at you!" He roughly pinches your cheek. "You're the perfect size now." 

"Stop." You blubber, pushing his hand off of you. "Don't touch me. Change me back. Change me back." 

He frowns. "Why would I do that? You being human-sized was always such a hassle. Lumbering around. Way too loud. Don't get me wrong, I adore you either way." He proclaims like it's something benevolent. "But this has its charm."

He leans forward, and you scuddle backward in fear. His grin widens. 

"So, am I tall enough for you, now?" 

[ellecdc]

New to Nesting

alpha!Remus Lupin x omega!bestfriend reader who nests for the very first time [2.2k words]

p2 to this post but can be read as a standalone

Prompt: Nesting-character A is building their first nest and is a bit overwhelmed and confused - their nest ends up being a bit...unconventional. Character B is still incredibly proud of course.

Remus had spent the majority of his life fighting against The Wolf, his lycanthropy, his nature; he resisted the deeper urges and instincts that threatened to take over at any given moment.

So when his best friend presented as an omega, prompting him to present as an alpha, he was once again ready to fight his instincts, his nature.

Sirius told him all he knew about alpha’s - the Black’s being a line of alpha’s until Sirius presented as a beta were the only examples of alpha’s he could go off of - and it’s understandable why Remus was so wary of giving into his nature, even if it meant getting to keep you.

He had no desire to give into the animalistic urge to claim you, to have you belong to him, to be subservient to him.

So you can imagine that it came as a huge surprise (and relief) for him to realise that being your alpha was not claiming you, it was not you belonging to him, and it was not you being subservient to him.

It was caring for you, valuing you, protecting you, and it was devoting himself body and soul to you.

So, you know, nothing had really changed since the two of you started dating. What he had already felt for you just became instinctual for him.

Being your alpha meant taking care of you, and so he did.

Though he admittedly didn’t feel like he was doing a very good job of it at the moment; mostly because you were pacing around the flat chewing your thumb - which was likely very close to bleeding at this point - and mumbling incoherently to yourself as you picked up and put back various items and then squirrelling back to the room before washing, rinsing, and repeating.

He’d asked you what you were up to a few times, to which you quickly waved him off. He’d asked if he could help you at all to which you quickly declined.

He was pretending to read when you came wandering back into the room, still muttering, still chewing on your thumb, still lovely and beautiful and his and fuck he loved you.

And it was because he loved you that when you ended up standing over him giving him your best doe eyes and asking if you could have the blanket he currently had over his lap, he simply pulled it off his lap and handed it to you instead of pointing out the fact that there was a free throw blanket folded nicely over the couch across the room.

He was rewarded for his sacrifice by way of a sweet kiss, though, so he wasn’t too bothered.

While you were back in the room - doing whatever you’d been doing - he summoned the other throw blanket over and continued in his reading.

But eventually he realised he couldn’t find his bookmark, so he stood and shook his (new) blanket out and put it aside before checking the cushions of the sofa to no avail.

He knew you had come back into the room, but you still managed to startle him when he turned to find you standing right behind him with his throw blanket held tentatively in your grasp.

“What are you doing, dovey?”

“Can I take this?” You asked in way of answering; tone soft and eyes large.

Remus began to speak but his words died on his tongue; he didn’t want to say no to you, but you’d also already taken one of the blankets from the living room. Were you cold? Were you getting sick? Should he light a fire? Should he call St. Mungos?

He didn’t know where to start, so all that managed to escape his lips was “do you know where my bookmark went?”

You wrung the blanket between your hands as you avoided eye contact with him. “I borrowed it.” You admitted in a whisper.

“Oh…okay…” Remus started slowly. “But…what will I use for my book?”

That had, apparently, been the wrong thing to say when your eyes welled with tears and you looked at him in devastation.

“I- I’m sorry.” You nearly sobbed, and Remus was quickly shaking his head.

“No! No no, it’s okay dovey, it’s alright. I’ll use a receipt.” And to punctuate that decision, he pulled a wad of receipts out of his trouser pocket to show you.

That, apparently, was a mistake too as you eyed them in interest. Thankfully he was able to convince you to let him keep one of them before you squirrelled away with the rest.

And then it hit him.

He ran to the kitchen to check the calendar on the wall that the two of you used to track each of your cycles as well as the moon - you were coming into heat.

And though he was accustomed to your heats by this point; this behaviour was very new.

You were nesting.

For the very first time, at that.

Remus felt his chest swell with pride and love, though tried to keep both at bay as he carefully tiptoed down the hall towards your shared bedroom.

He could hear a record - one of his favourites - playing quietly in the background before he made it to the doorway.

Both blankets you had stolen from Remus were hanging over the two side railings of your four poster bed frame - closing in the bed with only an opening at the foot of it not unlike a den.

You seemed to have tucked Remus’ receipts and bookmark in between two pillows, and he could spot a few of his jumpers, his towel from his shower this morning, the throw pillows from the couch he usually used as back support, a hair brush, a few socks, and… a fork?

“Baby.” He breathed out, causing you to turn on the spot and bring your thumb back up to your teeth. “What are you up to?”

You let out a pained breath from your nose as your eyes welled up again. “I don’t know.” You whispered.

“Are you making a nest?” He cooed, and you let out a wet sound.

“It’s bad.”

He found he couldn’t take it anymore and pried your thumb from between your teeth, pressing a kiss to the raw skin you’d been mauling all afternoon. “It’s not bad, dove.”

“It’s terrible.” You continued as you eyed the nest sceptically.

“Stop.”

“I’m terrible at this.”

Remus took you by the shoulders and turned you towards him and forced you to make eye contact with him. “It is not terrible, and you, my love, are certainly not terrible either.”

“I’m not good at it.” You whimpered then, tears finally falling down your cheeks that Remus was quick to catch with his thumb.

“You’re perfect at everything you do.”

You let out a sound halfway between a groan and a sob. “You have to say that.”

“Dovey, it’s your first nest; it’s wonderful.” He pressed, and fought back a chuckle when he could feel you stop your foot petulantly.

“Why don’t you try it out, hm? Maybe that’ll feel better? Do you want to take a shower and get into some comfies to give it a try?” He murmured into your hair, relishing in the way you melted into his side as you considered the prospect.

“Would you come, too?” You asked shyly.

Remus pulled back only far enough to look you in the eyes.

“In the shower? Or-”

“My…nest.” You corrected, though you all but sneered the end of the sentence as if nest was a dirty word.

“I’d love to, baby. Go shower, yeah? I’ll put a jumper in the dryer for you.” He directed with a gentle pat at your hip, but you shook your head and tugged at the jumper Remus was currently wearing.

“I want this one?” You whispered in the form of a question, and Remus should have expected it.

“Done, it’s yours. I’ll wait for you, okay?”

And Remus felt a little guilty, but he figured you didn’t need to know that the second you were out the room, he ran to grab his camera and take pictures of your nest, your very first nest; one you built here, with him, for him and you with things of his you deemed worthy and fuck he was going to simply combust with the amount of fondness he felt coursing through his veins for you.

True to his word, he was standing exactly where you’d left him (if you ignored the fact that he ran to grab his camera, took multiple pictures of your nest, ran to hide the evidence of his picture taking and returned only moments before he heard the water shut off) when you exited the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

He quickly divulged himself of his jumper and held it open for you to put your head through the neck hole, allowing him to pull it over the rest of your body as you let the towel fall to the ground.

“Do you want this one too, dove?” He asked you quietly as he picked up your used towel, referring to the fact that you had his towel in your nest already.

You seemed to consider it as you lifted one end of it, bringing it to your nose to sniff before releasing it with a shake of your head.

Remus bit back a beaming smile as he pressed a kiss to your head and carried it to the hamper.

When he came back, you were kneeling in the middle of the bed with your thumb between your damned teeth again, and a protective sort of possessiveness surged through him at the sight.

“It’s not right.” You murmured sadly.

“What’s not right about it?” He asked gently, reaching over for your hand and huffing when you gave him the one not currently being assaulted by your mouth.

“I don’t know…”

“May I come in?” And you startled as you looked over at him in awe.

“Yes.” You said almost excitedly, moving over to give him room.

He tried to pay mind to where you had seemed to place things, not wanting to shift or disrupt the nest you had made as he crawled in. “Where do you want me?”

You seemed to think on that before ultimately pointing to his side of the bed where he laid back tentatively.

“You look uncomfortable.” You said worriedly as you watched him lay rigidly on his side.

He offered you what he hoped was a smile though he was sure was mostly a grimace. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

You scoffed as you nudged him at his shoulder so he would relax. “It’s already ruined.”

“Dovey.”

“It’s terrible, you can’t ruin it.”

“It’s not terrible and I can ruin it.”

“Stop arguing with me.”

“You stop arguing with me.” He countered, and he relished in the small giggle that escaped your lips as you moved to lay beside him.

“I…I think it’s better now.” You said tentatively, eyes still darting around the bed as though you were trying to make sure.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…I think it was just missing you.”

Remus let out a pitiful sound at that and pulled you into his chest. “Fuck you’re so sweet, I love you.”

You sucked in a deep - and apparently well needed - breath as you melted into his side, pressing your nose to a point in his neck signalling Remus to grab your wrist and bring it to the other side of his neck to scent.

“I’m proud of you- don’t argue with me.” He murmured, cutting you off before you even had a chance to utter one word of contradiction.

“Thank you, Rem.” You opted instead, still hiding your face in the junction of his neck he didn’t deign remove you from.

The two of you sat in contented silence for a while before Remus broke it.

“I think we could do without the fork next time, though.” He admitted as he shifted his hip when he realised that’s what had been poking him in the back.

You nearly ripped yourself from Remus’ neck to grab the fork and toss it across the room, smiling to yourself as you considered your nest again.

“Okay…okay, I- I think this is better. This is better.” You decided, speaking more to yourself than you were to him; he was happy to listen anyway.

Remus smiled as pushed a lock of hair behind your ear. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

You smiled down at him; ethereal and warm and bright and his and fuck he loved you so much.

“I love you so much.” You whispered, drawing a line down his nose with a gentle finger before pausing at his chin, apparently having read his mind.

“I love you too, my sweet girl.”

And Remus was so glad that he didn’t have to fight the instinct to pull you into his chest and breathe you in; to love you, protect you, to devote himself to you, body and soul.

[pellucid-constellations]

A Promise

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: As war inches closer on the horizon, Azriel reminds you of a promise you made to him—one you aren't sure you can keep.

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Angst <3

a/n: Hi I haven't written in a few WEEKS (sorry) 😭 Here's this to get me back in the swing of things

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

“Promise me you’ll run,” Azriel pleaded, his forehead resting against yours. “Anything happens up here and you flee. Promise me.” 

You fought the instinctual shake of your head, always so quick to reassure him—to tell him that nothing would happen. But you couldn’t promise that. Not with a war raging in the distance and you within its throes. 

“I can’t run,” you whispered. “I have an obligation, a duty. I can’t.” 

Azriel’s breath came out as a sharp exhale, the warm air brushing your jaw as he turned his head to your temple. His hands fought for the purchase of your waist, pulling you close until your bodies melded. 

He stayed silent, but you could feel the turmoil heaving down the bond in heavy ropes. Someone called for buckets of water on the opposite side of the camp. Azriel remained pressed against you, eyes screwed shut and brows furrowed. 

“I’m sorry, Azriel.” 

You had told him you wouldn’t be part of this war. But it came on suddenly, unexpectedly, and you couldn’t refuse the High Lord’s request. Your gift was too valuable to stay locked up in Velaris when Autumn and Spring were rebelling against the masses. How could you not aid your mate in this fight?

“We haven’t had enough time,” Azriel croaked.

Something within you fractured and you turned to meet his gaze—to coax his eyes open and capture the full picture of his features. “We will have so much more time, my love. This won’t go the way that you think.”

But you had no gift of clairvoyance, and you’d never fought in a war before. With your hands pressed to Azriel’s cheeks and your head tilted to catch his eyes, you wondered what could have happened in the wars he had fought to cause him so much strife. 

You counted his family members in your head—all alive, none lost to war. 

Nothing to match the tortured expression staring back at you. 

“Me first,” he spoke, so low it was almost lost in the bustle of the camp. “When we die. It’ll be me first.” 

Your brows came together with a sigh. “Azriel—” 

“No,” he countered. He brushed your hands from his face and backed you up until you were behind your tent, a tree meeting your shoulder blades. Azriel’s feet slotted between yours as he bent down. His eyes raced between yours. “I die first. You agreed to that.” 

“There’s no way I could really—” 

“You agreed.” 

You bit into your lip, ignoring the vice-like grip your mate had on the sleeve of your leathers.

You had agreed, but it had seemed like such a small request at the time—something so easy to give him. You had whispered your submission to his worried words if only to ease the distraught way he looked at you. 

Breaking a promise was not something you were keen to do, but thinking on it now—thinking about life without him—it was an unbearable ask. 

“Y/n,” Azriel stressed. Because the camp was getting rowdy and unsettled. It was almost time for him to depart.

Your lips remained sealed, any ease of your expression lost to harsh lines and sharp movements. You had promised. You had agreed. But what if this was a bargain you actually had to do good on? What if you were faced with death, with a choice, and you ran from it? What if that choice left you alone? 

You hadn’t had enough time together. Azriel’s truth bounced around in your head as the shadowsinger beseeched you with his eyes. Barely mated a year, this war had not been kind to your plans. Perhaps that was why you had been so ready to allow your mate to die before you. 

Because you hadn’t had enough time to consider just what that meant. 

“I can’t live without you,” you admitted as if it were a revelation and not a fact ingrained in your being. “I can’t live when you aren’t here.” Your gaze, which had been locked on Azriel’s shoulder—empty, pondering, lost—raced up in search of your mate’s. “I didn’t mean to promise that to you. I can’t… I can’t, Azriel.” 

Panic had begun to drown you. Breathing was difficult. Your hands began to shake. 

This was becoming too real, too much. A figurative imagining materializing in the form of wrinkled tents and pleading eyes. 

You could lose Azriel. 

This was a war, and it was gruesome and cruel and unfair. 

No one cared that you’d only had a year with your mate, and there was certainly no pity from the enemy that you’d never experienced this insurmountable fear. 

You lost the image of your mate to blurry vision and stinging eyes. You pressed harder into the tree at your back, running through the possibilities—all the ways you could lose. It was no longer about not running, but what would happen if you did. 

Azriel’s gentle hush fought for dominance over your labored breathing. His fingers abandoned their grip on your clothes and traced your face instead, brushing back your hair and swiping the tears that had unknowingly begun running down your jaw. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he comforted. “I didn’t mean to make you panic. My love, look at me. Please.” 

You gasped. “No, no, I can’t. You wouldn't be saying this if you thought—you think we won’t win. You think you’re going to leave me. That you’re going to—”

Another choking gasp. 

But you still met Azriel’s eye. 

No tears there—only a grief you couldn't fathom. “We h-haven’t had enough time,” you said, speaking it out into the world again. 

Azriel’s responding breath was achingly broken. It seemed to hurt his chest as it left him. “Oh, my love.” He kissed your forehead, his next words spoken into your hairline. “You forget what I said, alright? I won’t leave and neither will you. We will meet right back here.” 

“Right back here,” you agreed. 

And it was true that you made a promise—two, to be exact. But promises were often only placeholders for fear.

[youryanderedaddy]

War Prize

pt. 1, pt. 2

Tw: female reader, dub-con, somnophilia, stockholm syndrome, possessive behavior, hinted kidnapping, threats, commissioned piece

It had been so long since Raven captured you - five or six years in total, although you couldn't be quite sure of the exact amount as you had no access to books, calenders or even ink to write with.

Nowadays it was mostly calm around the occupied territories - almost domestic in a sense. You let yourself be pampered more often than not - you drunk the silky, bitter coffee Raven's slaves left out for you, and bathed in the sweet oils he picked for you. Long gone were the days when you fought him over the slightest injustice, long gone were the days when you stopped to think about every miserable soul who had to suffer so you could live in luxury. 

It was easier this way really. The barbarian was good to you, even if it wasn't in his nature initially. The hands that once bruised and hit and wrapped around your hair were now caressing your skin softly, the lips once sealed tight with furrowed hairy brows were leaving hot, wet kisses down your throat, feverish to the touch. You could wear the finest furs and dresses, your body covered in stolen gold and plundered diamonds from head to toe. Raven had made it clear - he loved you, and that meant that the whole world belonged to you the way you belonged to him.

Your life was simple, you had one purpose now - to please your master. You didn't have to work long hours on the field or take care of  a big, starving family ever again. All you had to do was spread your legs at any given moment, and stay soft and pliant in his rough, muscular hands. 

***

You'd usually wake up early in the morning from the slow, deep thrusts inside your hot wet cunt - stars dancing in your eyes as his length brushes against your cervix, filling you up to the brim. Your wrists are pinned above your head with little opportunity for movement, keeping you tightly into place. 

Raven starts slowly and keeps turning up the pace until he is practically shoving himself sloppily against your overflowing hole, his nails digging into the meat of your thighs so he can have more leverage over your quivering body.

“I love to see you fall apart beneath me.” He'd growl in your ear, his forehead resting against yours as his nostrils flare - eyes filled with sick, animalistic need to possess you fully. You moan, closing your eyes - too overwhelmed with pleasure to form a proper response. “Ah, ah, ah - no hiding from me. Let me see you, pretty girl.” Raven hisses, spreading your legs even wider, bouncing your hips up and down on his throbbing cock. 

Your lower lip trembles, desperate to stop another wave of wanton moans - but to no avail. Your sweet voice fills the tent, echoing beyond the thick walls.

“Look at you, all cute and teary for me. Aren't you just precious, slave?” The barbarian chuckles condescendingly, all while groping and slapping your ass lightly - playing with the hot doughy skin. “I want everyone to hear you.” His gaze darkens as his fist wraps around your neck possessively. “I want every single one of my men to hear you sing for me. I want their robes to strain with greed and jealousy with the knowledge that they'll never have my most prized possession.” 

You inhale sharply, lost in a cloudy headspace of dreams and red - hot pleasure. You feel your master's hand squeeze your throat tighter, and your pussy flutters around his length, slick running down your thighs and towards your asshole. It doesn't make sense - he is using you for his own satisfaction with little care for your personal comfort, but his touch makes you feel so warm and floaty, fuzzy butterflies tearing at your stomach - proud to belong to such a strong, powerful man. 

“I want you completely broken. I want to fill you up with my love and ruin you for any other man out there.” He'd groan, sinking his teeth into your neck and aiming for your sweet, sweet blood. “I want everyone to know that I tamed your pretty little brain and made you all mine, now and forever.” Raven kisses you, stealing the breath out of your mouth, sucking in all the panicked little sounds coming out of it. “Say it.” He orders, both threatening and desperate like a lovesick child. 

You can't stand it anymore - you throw your arms around his shoulders. You need to feel him against you, skin on skin. “I'm yours, all yours.” You cry out, holding on for dear life. There is no point denying it now - you can't imagine life without your master, no matter how cruel or difficult he may be. Who else would warm your bed? Who would give you purpose? Where else could you even go now that he has claimed you - and everybody knows?

“Say you love me.” His voice breaks, hands shivering as he holds you painfully close to him - as if the moment he lets go, he'd wake up and you'd be gone just like before. “Say you love me like I love you. Say you'll never leave me - or I swear to the Gods I'll chain you up here to never see the sun again.” He blubbers on and on, thrusts getting fast and frantic, pushing in and out of you with the ferocity of a lover and the fear of a man possessed. 

“I love you.” You whisper, laying back like a good little doll - letting yourself move and twist just the way he wants you to. He pulls you up into a standing position and all but swallows your sobs and wails, his tongue fighting yours for dominance. He lowly commands you to keep repeating it over and over again - until he gets sick of it (if ever), and paints your velvet walls all white and sticky with his seed. 

You take a couple of short shallow breaths, trying to resume your normal breathing. His hand rests on your neck - his eyes finally lose the furious, jealous spark, and he reaches out to stroke your hair gently.

“Good girl.”

[diejager]

Dark!childhood best friend Johnny is going to eat away at my mind for the next couple days, thanks =)

Imagine him guilt tripping you into sex, "At least a blowjob Bonnie, please? Ah been yer best friend for forever." Giving you those big blue puppy dog eyes as he ruts against you.

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, blowjob, choking, throatpie, manipulation/coercion, guilt tripping, dacryphilia, tell me if I missed any.

”I don’t know, Johnny,” you bit your lower lip, staring at him with a nervous gleam and answered his hesitantly. You truly wanted to help Johnny, but you didn’t think it appropriate to blow your best friend, especially after your recent break up.

“One, Bonnie, just one.”

Johnny was always insistent, used to getting what he wanted from you as children and teens, your younger and naive mind listening to everything he said. Perhaps he was used to it, but you’ve changed as much as he did, growing up happy but tired with work and life. You’d been hit on, men coming up to you for a quick fuck or to take advantage of you, and how fortunate was it that Johnny was your best friend. That meant you knew a few tricks you’ve heard from prior experience and your friends, but this was Johnny, your childhood best friend who stuck by your side through thick and thin.

“Johnny…” you stammer when he pressed on, cornering you against the couch in your shared flat, his cock - a big and hard and hot mass - rutting your thigh, his hips rucking up your loose shorts, “I’m not sure if-“

He pouted. Johnny pouted, lips pulled down and his pretty, blue eyes gleaming while he begged you to serve him once, he even threw you his puppy eyes. He pressed himself closer to you, hands finding your hips and pulling you into him, his still growing bulge grinding against your burning core, tingling with the fresh flames of pleasure. He groaned, nuzzling your shoulder and panting loudly, his hot breath hitting your neck in loud puffs and grunts.

“Just one, please? Ah been yer best friend fer so long, dinnea ah deserve one, Bonnie?” You couldn’t tell him no when he looked at you with such a pleading expression, sounding so exhausted and restless.

The moment you gave him a tentative nod, Johnny had you kneeling between his legs, excitedly reaching under his pants to pull out his cock. It hung between his legs, heavy with girth and slightly longer than your ex, balls thick with unspent cum and his trimmed hair musky. You’ve seen his naked body before - from the many shared showers and many moments of comfort - but you never really stared at the length and girth of him. Your flustered cheeks made him coo, running his thumb under your eye and letting you take your time, hands wrapping around the base and wetting your dry lips.

You kissed his engorged tip, tongue swirling around it before wrapping your lips around the head, sucking until your cheeks hollowed and bobbing your head lightly. He tasted salty, the dripping pre rolling down your throat each time you took him deeper, slow and careful because of his size. He was thicker than what you were used to, the girth of his cock hard and covered in crossing veins, bulging and throbbing with a pulse; and he was longer than what you’ve had, the head hitting so deeply, making your throat choke around his cock with every drag over your tongue to the back of your mout.

You jerked the rest of his cock, the part that you couldn’t take, with your hands, fingers dragging the skin across his length and traveling down to cup his balls, fondling with his heavy balls. He swore loudly, unabashed and shamelessly moaning out your name, his fingers running through your hair and tightening and pulling when he hit the back of your throat, his cock jumping when you audibly gagged. His whole body shuddered when he caught the first tears under your fluttering lashes, some stray tears rolled down your cheek, gleaming under the living-room light. 

“‘M close, Bonnie,” he rasped, softly running his fingers through your hair, encouraging you to take him deeper and deeper —to let him fill your stomach with him. 

Invigorated by his words, you bobbed your head faster, choking down your retching and tears, feeling him twitch on your tongue and his pre thickening. He mumbled out a few incoherent words, praises and compliments, telling you how well you were doing and how his best friend had such a good mouth. He let slip out that he would’ve asked for this favour a while back if he knew your mouth was so hot and tight. 

“Moan fer me, let me feel ya.”

You moaned and mewl, letting the sound shake through your throat and mouth vibrating his whole cock, head sinking down on him and slick hands still pumping what you couldn’t fit, coaxing him to come down your throat. When he came, he thrust his hips up, forcing him much deeper as tangy cum spurted from his tip, painting your mouth and throat in thick, white seed. His body shuddered, head thrown back, back arched and limbs tense, holding you still while you swallowed down his cum. 

You gasped and panted when he pulled you off, eyes lidded and lips swollen from the stretch of his shaft. He whispered out praises, pulling you to his lap and peppered your face with doting kisses. He kissed your tears away, and he kissed your lips, his tongue pushing past your teeth and tasting himself in your mouth. Smiling softly at your fiery blush, he pressed his forehead against yours, gazing into your eyes with a cheeky expression that made you frown.

“Let me return the favour?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @rainbowsabre

[not-neverland06]

hi!! Given my obsession for Hugh jackman I am CRAVING for some Leopold X reader (from Kate & Leopold)! Maybe with some little angst but happy ending??

I love your blog!! Have a wonderful day 😽💐💓

Leopold Mountbatten x fem!reader a/n: I don’t know how controversial this is going to be and I don’t care. I could never finish the movie because I hated Meg Ryan in it so much. It’s so odd, I’ve loved her in everything else she’s been in but she made it such a hard watch. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of my grandma in the worst way lol, but I finished it for you anon sorry this was a little rushed Anyways, hope you enjoy lovelies Summary: Your neighbor went back in time and dragged someone back with him. He's irritatingly polite and far too interested in your way of life. What are you meant to do when you fall for a man who was never even supposed to meet you?

“Hello, madam, please I need your help!”

You’re used to crazies, it is New York after all. But they’re not usually shouting at you through your window. Especially not when you’re on the sixth floor. You look away from your coffee and glance towards the fire escape. 

There’s an oddly dressed man with red eyes waving at you through the dirty glass. You offer him a tentative wave back and he nods aggressively. “Yes, hello, I need your assistance.”

“Um,” you shake your head, “Sorry, I don’t have any drugs dude.”

“No,” he places his hands pathetically on the glass and shakes his head. “Please, I have been kidnapped.” Finally, you take a step closer to him. You can tell now that his eyes aren’t reddened from any medicinal fun, he probably got pepper sprayed. 

Your friend did it to you once when you tried to surprise her on her birthday and you’ll never forget just how awful you looked afterwards. You can see him a bit more clearly now. Whatever odd costume he’s got on, it looks good. Genuine and clean. 

Not like most of the street performers you see in Times Square. Besides, he doesn’t have that maddened look in his eye that makes you worry he’s going to come inside and kill you. Tentatively, you open the window. 

He’s leaping through in a second and you jump back with a yelp. He turns towards you and his eyes widen before he quickly turns away. “My good lady, where are your pants?”

“Uh,” you glance down at the oversized shirt you’re wearing and the tiny shorts underneath. Admittedly, it’s a little skimpy, but you’re not walking around naked. You’ve heard of committing to the bit, but this is a bit much. “On,” you tell him, walking around him and trying to stand close to the phone. 

“Ma’am-” He’s cut off as someone slams their fist on your front door. You keep a weary eye on the man while you unlock your door. 

“Hey,” Stuart smiles at you. His eyes drift slightly past your shoulder and he goes barging into your apartment. “Leopold! What did I say?”

You huff and glare at Stuart’s frantic back. “This is yours?” Stuart nods and rushes Leopold out the door. You don’t miss the pleading, while slightly scandalized, look he sends you. 

You slam the door closed behind them, shaking your head and going back to your morning paper. You doubt you’ll be seeing him around again. 

You know, it’s just your luck that your upstairs neighbor is a scientist, one who happens to dabble in the art of time travel. And it’s just your luck that he had to fall down a damn elevator shaft. 

Now, according to him, you have to care for someone from a different century so he can make it back to his time portal in, well, in time. This is fucking ridiculous. “I’m going to kill you, Stuart.”

“Look, they’re going to take my phone but he really cannot-”

It goes silent on the other end. You shout his name a few times but hear nothing in response. You assume the hospital staff has finally gotten sick of his shenanigans and has taken his phone. You slam your handset down with a huff and look towards the living room. Leopold hasn’t sat down since you walked in and it’s unsettling. 

“So,” you start and his attention snaps towards you. “1876, huh?”

He nods and you roll your eyes with a scoff. “Oh, this is insane. This is insane,” you mutter to yourself, walking towards Stuart’s door. Leopold gives you a concerned look before quickly following after you. There’s a part of you, and you hate that part, that actually believes some of this. 

Stuart is a brilliant, though flawed, scientist. You don’t doubt that he might have actually unlocked the secret to traveling back to the past, but it’s such an insane idea to try and wrap your head around. 

“Come on, we’re leaving.” You know that Stuart doesn’t want him out of the house. Tough. You’re not going to just stay inside and wait until he can supposedly go back to the past. You don’t give Leopold any time to process your answer, already out the door and heading towards the stairs. 

“You know,” he starts as he catches up to you. “You are quite rude.” Your first instinct is to snap back at him. But you take a breath and stop yourself. 

You’re desensitized, ridiculously used to just how awful New Yorkers can be to each other. And whether this man is truly from the past or not is up for debate. But he is polite and earnest, and you have no reason to be a bitch to him. 

“I’m,” the words are hard to come by but you force them out anyway, “I’m sorry.” He looks genuinely surprised by the apology and it only makes you feel worse. “This is just an insane idea to try and grasp.”

He chuckles softly, smiling as he glances down at his feet. “Yes, how do you think I feel?”

You’re sure it’s not his intention, but you only feel like more of an ass. If this is hard for you, whatever he's going through is a hundred times worse. You weren’t forcefully ripped out of your own time and shoved into another you don’t understand. He’s still trying to comprehend the television.

Though, you’re sure being a scientist has helped him in marginally understanding how all of this is possible. “How do you like the future?” It sounds awkward and stiff, but you haven’t had to talk to anyone in a really long time. 

Your interactions are pretty limited at the book shop considering no one ever comes in. They all order online nowadays and all you really have to worry about is organizing shelves. You’re embarrassingly rusty when it comes to conversing. 

And his propensity towards eloquence only makes you feel worse. “I must admit, some of your inventions have been quite fascinating. I’m especially fond of your showers.”

Your face scrunches slightly at the mention of hygiene and you nod, “I bet.” Before either of you can attempt to salvage this horrible attempt at conversation your phone starts ringing. “Hold on one second,” you tell him. You walk a few feet away from him but you can still feel his eyes boring into your back as you move away. 

“Hello?”

There’s a frantic shout of your name down the line and then the distinct jingling of keys. “I need you to cover the shop. Marcy just went into labor and I’ve got to go!” Paul doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he hangs up. 

Your jaw gapes and you stare down at your phone with shock. You know Paul and his wife had been expecting, but had it really already been nine months? Has your life become so monotonous and dull that nine months doesn’t even register for you?

It’s a depressing thought. One you’d rather not linger on. “What was that?”

You scream, though the people passing by don’t pay you any mind, and jump away from Leopold. “Jesus, where the hell did you come from?”

Leopold flinches away from you and his face is just as aghast as yours. “Good heavens, what is the matter with you? Do you respond to anything as a sensible woman might?”

“I resent that.” You tell him bitterly. Though, he does make a good point. You’ve been on edge constantly. You always seem to be more anxious than you are happy. It’s not a good state to perpetually exist in. “I need to go into work.”

You don’t want to outright say that he needs to go back to the apartment. It feels a little mean, but you’re hoping he’ll catch onto your tone of voice. 

His entire demeanor perks up and he smiles at you. “Wonderful, I am dreadfully curious as to what you do.”

You open your mouth to correct him, let him know he’s not coming. But he’s staring at you with such hopeful eyes that you cannot find it in yourself to turn him down. He seems so excited, you’re sure he won’t be when he gets to your cluttered little bookshop. You let out a weary sigh, “Fine. Okay.”

You walk towards the curb, hoping to hail a cab. But Leopold’s hand gently wraps around your elbow and tugs you in the opposite direction. Your eyes widen in response to his boldness. You thought touching a woman he wasn’t courting would cause someone like him to combust. Seems he didn’t mind breaking the rules sometimes. 

You make a mental note of that for later. You don’t know what you’re going to do with the information, but you find it intriguing. Maybe the modern world was rubbing off on him more than he’d like to admit. 

“We should take this,” he stops you in front of a horse-drawn carriage and you immediately begin to shake your head. 

“No, Leopold, these are just tourist traps-”

He doesn’t let you finish, opening the carriage’s door and gently nudging you inside. “Nonsense! This is far more enjoyable than those yellow monstrosities.”

“Taxi,” you correct. You turn towards the carriage driver and give him directions to your bookshop. “Ink and Tea on Fifth.” He nods and the carriage rolls forward with a lurch. You grip the cushioned seats and pray you don’t get motion sickness. 

“Ink and Tea?” Leopold inquires. “Are you a journalist?”

You smile and shake your head. “No, nothing so fancy. I just help take care of an old bookshop. They were supposed to extend the shop when it first opened. They were going to build a space for people to get pastries or drink tea, but it never happened and the owner was too lazy to change the name.”

It feels a little humiliating to be talking about your minimum-wage job to a renowned scientist. He’s invented or is going to, elevators. He doesn’t care about your stupid shop. But he doesn’t look particularly judgy of you. If anything he seems to be endeared to you the more you talk. 

Normally, you’re oblivious to these sorts of things. But it’s nearly impossible for him to hide. He’s not shy with his attraction, never taking his eyes off of you and hanging onto your every word. You’re not used to such outward attention. 

You look out of the carriage, pretending to take in views you’ve already seen a thousand times. “This city is incredible,” he wonders aloud. His awe is palpable. 

Your nose wrinkles and you shrug. “It’s dirty and the people are intolerable.”

“Must you always be so pessimistic?” You snap your mouth shut and feel embarrassment creeping around you. You’ve never had someone point out when you’re being negative, but he has a point. 

You used to view the city through the same rose-colored glasses. Something’s broken inside you in recent years that has just taken the joy out of life. Everything is grey to you now, until Leopold, nothing spectacular has ever really happened to you. 

The carriage comes to a stop outside the shop before you can respond to him. You want to deny what he says, but you can’t. Your attitude is almost always unnecessary. You think sometimes you might just be trying to see if everyone feels as miserable as you do or if there’s just something wrong with you. 

“Come on,” you tell him, getting out and paying the driver. He wanders towards the shop, eyeing the displays in the window curiously. 

“These are wonderful,” he tells you, pointing to the way you’d made the books look like they’re floating above the shelves. It was just some silly little thing you’d tried to get more people in the shop. It’d worked for about a month. 

“I did that,” you unlock the door to the shop and open it for him. But he doesn’t walk in immediately, instead, he lingers in the doorway. He offers you a soft smile and you can’t help but return it. 

“You’re more creative than you give yourself credit for.”

Your eyes widen as you watch him walk inside. He keeps making these oddly astute observations about you and it’s throwing you off your game. You barely know this man and you’ve always been good at keeping yourself aloof and vague. Yet, he seems to read you like you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve. 

“Feel free to…” he’s already made himself comfortable somewhere in the back and you trail off. “Look around,” you finish lamely. His form is lost somewhere in stacks of books and cluttered shelves. 

You know most of the classics and history books are kept towards the back. You wonder if he’s reminiscing or getting a headstart before he gets back to his time. You smile at the thought and walk behind the counter, sitting on the stool and preparing to finish off the rest of the day.

Leopold is still somewhere lost to you an hour later. Occasionally you’ll hear a page flip or the clatter of a book being reshelved, but there are no other signs of life. Not until the bell above the door rings. 

“Clark,” you smile, sitting up straighter as your friend walks through the door. “What’re you doing here?”

He gives you a crooked grin and shrugs. Just over his shoulder, you can see Leopold’s head pop over a shelf, he looks between you both, eyes narrowing with disdain. “Paul told me you’d be here, figured you might want some company.”

“Actually-” you start, but another voice cuts you off. 

“Leopold Mountbatten,” he comes around the corner, hand outstretched as he comes in between you and Clark. “And who might you be?”

Your brows furrow in confusion at the interaction. Leopold seems oddly hostile and Clark looks strangely caught off guard. “Um, Clark. Nice to meet you, man.” He shakes Leopold’s hand but his grip is weak and it only lasts for one awkward half-second. 

It’s uncomfortable to watch them try and interact and it only gets worse when they turn towards you. Clearly, they want you to tell them who the hell the other guy is. But you feel like that might just make the situation worse. 

Besides, you were pretty content with it just being you and Leopold, you don’t need Clark coming in here and riling things up. “You know, Clark, I’m set here. You can just go home.” Your tone leaves no room for argument but you know he wants to. 

“Alright, I’ll just call you later, I guess.” He throws one last skeptical look at Leopold before finally slinking back out of the shop. 

“Neither of you should be alone without a chaperone present.” Leopold bluntly scolds you without even waiting a second before Clark is gone. It catches you off guard and you scoff. 

You motion between the two of you, “We don’t have a chaperone.” 

Leopold shrugs, “Yes, well, I’m not courting you.” It shouldn’t, because he’s right, but that stings. He is attractive, surprisingly so. You have this odd belief that anyone from his century had to be at least a little ugly. But he’s near perfect. 

Hearing him tell you so bluntly that you’re not courting hurts a little. Though, you can’t blame him. You must be dramatically different than the women he’s used to. From your manners to how you dress, you’re practically an alien. 

You stand up from behind the counter and walk towards the cart of books that need to be shelved. “Clark is a friend. Nothing more.” You’ve never once been romantically interested in your friend. He’s attractive, but he’s not really your type.

Apparently, British men from the nineteenth century are. Which does not bode well for your romantic prospects once Leopold is back home. “It is plain for anyone to see how he wants you. Don’t let yourself be blinded by naivete.”

“Naivete?” you scoff and turn around to glare at him. “Don’t pretend to know anything about me, alright? I’m not some maiden in a frilly dress who needs a chaperone.” You can see that your words affect him. He looks a little taken aback by your anger and so are you. 

It’s misplaced. You’re not mad at him, just mad that you even like him. “Just go read or something, Leopold.” You dismiss him more rudely than necessary and hide yourself behind a few shelves. The rest of your workday is spent in a tense silence that makes your stomach churn. 

You’re nearly ready for bed when something slips under your door with a slight whoosh. You turn towards it, frowning when you see a little envelope with a wax seal on the ground. You pick it up and let your finger slip under the paper, opening it to find a letter with your name on it inside. 

The handwriting is impeccable, with a gracefulness to it that you’ve never seen before. You don’t have to read for very long to know who it's from. Leopold writes poetry about the color of your eyes and the way your lips curl when you smile. And then he ends it with a vague, nearly ominous, invitation to dinner. 

You can’t help but smile to yourself, changing out of your pajamas and slipping into something a little nicer. A few minutes later you’re climbing out your window and taking the stairs up the fire escape to the roof. 

You don’t believe your ears at first, thinking the music must be coming from another apartment. But when you make it up to the roof there’s a violin player there waiting for you. He smiles happily at you as you approach. 

You spin in a slow circle, taking in the sheer amount of flowers littered around the roof. You don’t know how he managed to afford all of this. He transformed the barren and empty rooftop into your own little paradise. Candles lit and a live musician playing for you. 

You’ve never had anyone do something like this for you, ever. It’s a little hard to accept that someone would be willing to put this much effort in for you. “I wasn’t entirely sure you would come.”

You turn around and Leopold is waiting behind you, that familiar smile playing on his lips. You aren’t aware of the grin forming on your face in response. You don’t have much control over that when you’re with him. 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He looks like he wants to respond but at the last moment thinks better of it. He instead pulls your chair out for you, helping you into your seat. “This is nice,” that feels too underwhelming a word for such an incredible gesture. 

You sigh and frown as you try and find the right words. You don’t notice him sitting down across from you. You only look up when you feel him placing his hand on your own. “It’s alright,” he assures you. 

It’s still so odd how he can know you so well after such little time. “This is incredible,” you tell him, undeterred by his attempts to soothe you. “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”

He looks like he takes personal offense to that and it makes you laugh. “You deserve far more than this. Sadly, it seems Stuart’s pockets do have limits and I’m afraid I would have put him into debt if I’d gone any further.”

You have the perfect mental image of Stuart coming back from the hospital only to find his science project has robbed him. It makes you laugh and you squeeze his hand once before drawing it back into your lap. He lets his touch linger on you for a long moment, seemingly reluctant to pull away. 

“No,” you tell him, “this is perfect.” 

You fall into a comfortable silence for a little while. Conversation mostly drifting toward what his life was like as a duke. You don’t have much to say about your own life. It’s been incredibly normal and you’re a little sad to find that you don’t have one good thing to share with him. 

Nothing comes to the front of your mind. 

Inevitably, you drift into the topic you’d both been so adamantly avoiding. “Has Stuart said when you’d need to return?”

Leopold’s grip on the fork tightens and for a moment he refuses to meet your eye. “Monday, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” your eyes widen and you feel something burning at the back of your throat. Monday, the same Monday that’s two days away. 

“Dance with me,” the suddenness of the demand catchers you so off guard that you forget the tears. He stands, holding out his hand to you. You almost say no, you can’t remember the last time you danced and you doubt it’s going to be pretty. 

But he whispers your name and something about his tone tells you to take the chance while you have it. You slip your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet and dance the night away. 

Instead, he holds you close and you sway together. Like moving even an inch away from each other would hurt. “You could come with me,” he tells you. And you know immediately what he’s talking about. 

You also know it could never happen. Going to the nineteenth century is insane. Even considering it should be enough to have you sent to a psych ward somewhere. Especially not for a man you’ve known for less than a month. 

You try and tell him that you can’t, but he stops you. “I know, a preposterous idea. I just wanted to think about it.” You look up at him and find that you can’t take that away from him. There’s nothing wrong with imagining what it could be like with him. Even when you know it can never happen. 

You dance like that for a little while longer, swaying against each other while the violin plays in the background. He whispers your name and when you gaze up at him this time, there’s a certain look in his eye that you know is reflected in your own. 

He dips down, lips caressing yours gently before he’s pushing more firmly against your own. The world stops. Cliche, you’re aware. For the first time in years, though, you’re alive. You feel something other than the dull monotony of life. You feel excited and terrified all at once. Because you know you can never have this feeling again. 

You will never meet another man like Leopold who ignites this spark of life and passion within you. Never has a man been able to make you doubt every decision you’ve ever made with just a kiss, but here he is. 

Your arms lift like you might try and draw him in closer. His hands come up, taking yours in his gentle hold and squeezing. He pulls away from you and reality comes crashing back down. You’re not in love, you can’t be. You’ve only just met him a few days ago. 

Yet, here you are, wondering if you might actually want to leave everything behind to be with him like the great romances authors write about. He smiles at you and there’s a bittersweetness to it, a final farewell that you know will break whatever is left of your heart. 

He lifts your knuckles to his lips, pressing his lips against them like he never wants to part. “Goodnight,” he whispers your name and backs away from you. You watch him go, watch him leave, unable to muster up any words for him. 

You can’t think of anything that would ease this gnawing ache inside of you. Nothing to soothe the pain for either of you. You let him go because you know if you asked him to stay he would. And how selfish of you would it be to let history unravel simply because you fell in love? 

Monday. It is Monday. You’ve been coming to terms with that all weekend. You don't want to think about the fact that Leopold will be gone tonight. Your time together was so brief but you feel like you’re never going to get over losing him. 

Before the night was over on Sunday, a note was slipped under your door. This handwriting was messy, it made you think someone other than Leopold had written it down, but you don’t know who it could have been. 

It was a date and time, jump off the Brooklyn Bridge at this time on Monday night. Only an idiot would jump off a bridge because of an ominous note slipped under her door. But you haven’t been able to take your eyes off of it, not since you first picked it up. 

Leopold had invited you to go with him. And while you might not have said no, the insinuation was clear. Your eyes dart to your clock. If you left now, you could still make it in time. What an absolutely ridiculous thought. 

So, why are you running out the door without locking it? Why do you not care who slips into your home now? There’s this sense of finality within you that lets you know you’re never going to see that place again and that’s okay. 

You never truly felt comfortable in your life. You always thought a part of yourself was missing. Or that you were always running late for something. You think you understand what you were feeling now. 

The thing you’ve been searching for your whole life wasn’t halfway across the world, a hundred thousand miles from you. He was on the wrong side of time, or you were, at least. 

You manage to snag a taxi to get to the bridge but there’s a traffic jam. You’re forced to jump out of the car and run through the different lanes of blocked traffic. People shout at you. Your cab driver screaming after you about your fare. You don’t care, the only thing you can think about is the note crumpled in your hands and the clock counting down how long you have to jump. 

You’ll either be on the news tomorrow as an unfortunate suicide. An idiot who accidentally threw herself off the wrong side of the bridge. Or, you’ll see Leopold again. 

You reach the ledge and you can’t hesitate. If you do, you won’t jump in time. You close your eyes, holding your breath like you’re jumping into your neighbor’s pool. Air rushes around you, whipping at your hair and skin violently. 

It’s not until you hear someone shouting down at you that you realize you’re not dead. You’re lying in the middle of a dirt road, a group of people staring down at you with concern in their eyes. 

You only have to take in the clothes they’re wearing to know you’ve made it. Before they can react you’re leaping to your feet and running off. You know you’re near the Brooklyn Bridge, or where it’s supposed to be at least. You know enough about the area to remember where Leopold’s house is supposed to be. 

You’re covered in sweat and red mud. The people you pass by in the streets hide behind their hands and whisper about you. You’re not making a good impression on your future neighbors, that’s for sure. But, honestly, all you care about is making it back to him. 

You see people congregating outside his uncle’s home. You know there’s a party inside, that he’s supposed to be announcing who his wife will be. You barrel through the people outside, shoving through the crowd and running up the steps of the house. 

You can hear Leopold’s voice as you run, “The woman I’m going to take as my wife is-”

There’s a loud gasp as you come panting into the room. You can’t catch your breath long enough to speak but it doesn’t matter. The crowd is parting around you and Leopold is smiling down at you. He says your name and there’s nothing else that matters about the world around you. Not when you finally found each other. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Kate & Leopold, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[slytherinshua]

FIRST KISS

genre. fluff. friends to lovers. mutual pining. they're both shy beans. warnings. kissing. pairing. bestfriend!anton x fem!reader. wc. 1.4k. request. no. a/n. hannie my favourite anton stan happy birthday and remember i love you so much!!

“I have a really bad predicament, and you don’t have to agree to help me, but I really need help and I don’t know who else to ask.” 

Anton looked up from his phone, raising an eyebrow at your anxious words. What could possibly be happening to get you this worked up?

“What is it?”

You sighed, “I’ve never had my first kiss.”

“What?” Anton was even more confused now. What did he, your best friend, have anything to do with this? 

“And my best friend set me up with a blind date but I’m scared he’s going to kiss me and I don’t want to have my first kiss with someone I’ve just met.” You spilled the rest, nerves building up in the pit of your stomach.

“Can’t you just say no if he asks to kiss you? Any decent guy should know that consent is key.” Anton tsked.

“I know, I know, but—” You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, unsure of how to word what you were trying to say.

“But?” 

“But I’m scared I won’t be able to say no.” You confessed, feeling more embarrassed than you ever had in your entire life. 

“Oh.” Anton was silent for a moment, “What does this have to do with me?”

“Well, I…” You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for what you were about to ask, “I was hoping you’d… be my first kiss.”

Anton looked like a deer caught in headlights. To say this was unexpected would’ve been a serious understatement. He would have more easily believed that the ocean was yellow than to think that you— his best friend (and crush)— would be asking him to be your first kiss. And for what? Because you were too scared of having it with your blind date?

“O…kay?”

“What? Really? You’re not… weirded out by it?” You asked cautiously. 

Anton shook his head, “No. But why me?” Because you’ve been my crush since I was 10.

“Because… I know I can trust you.” You reasoned. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the entire reason why you wanted to kiss him either. “And I know the likelihood of my first kiss being an amazing experience is low, but I at least don’t want it to be with someone I never wished I ever kissed.”

“And you don’t think that kissing me will be something you regret?” Anton asked skeptically.

“No.” You said honestly.

Your best friend nodded, “Okay. As long as you’re comfortable with it. I’m happy to help.” He smiled, and you could feel all of the nervousness dissipate from your body. 

“Have you kissed anyone before?” You asked, sitting down on the couch next to him. He shook his head no, that cute little smile playing on his lips as he looked at you. “Really? And you don’t mind if I’m your first kiss?”

He giggled, “No. I trust you with anything, including this.”

You both stared at each other for a while, the silent question of who is going to make the first move? hanging in the air, making your stomach flurry with nerves. Anton eventually seemed to get the hint that you were far too nervous to initiate the kiss, and tentatively placed his hand on your jaw, tilting your chin up to him gently. 

You couldn’t stop staring at him. Anton was beautiful, it was a well-known fact, especially to you. But you rarely had the chance to look at him this up close. Your brain shut down. You forgot how to blink or breathe or do anything but stare at him, watching as he leaned closer to you. Your eyes fluttered shut as you anticipated the contact of his lips against yours. Your hands gripped the cushion of the couch tightly, but as soon as you felt his lips first touch yours, your entire body relaxed.

You were sure this moment would live in your brain forever. 

Anton’s lips tasted like coffee, slightly sweet. They were soft and plush and moulded with yours as if it was always meant to be. You found yourself falling closer to him, trying to make the kiss last for as long as possible. 

You had known what to expect from this moment to a certain extent. The amount of rom-coms you had watched over the years could give anyone an idea of how to kiss someone. But you hadn’t expected it to feel this exhilarating. It was as if every nerve in your body was alight, and the only things your senses could take in was Anton. 

A surge of disappointment hit you when Anton pulled away. You knew the kiss couldn’t last forever, but you wished it had been longer. You would fall right back onto Anton’s lips immediately if you had the guts to, but you didn’t want to overstep. 1 kiss was all he promised you. Everything else would go back to normal now. You were back to being his best friend. Nothing els—

“I have a crush on you.”

Fuck.

You didn’t even want to open your eyes to see his reaction. You’d much rather the ground swallow you up whole immediately. You never wanted to show your face around him again. How could you let those words slip past your lips? Were you really that brainless?

“What?” 

You blinked your eyes open nervously, a very flushed Anton facing you. He looked just as confused as when you had first asked him to kiss you. You gulped, trying to think of anything to say that could possibly save you from this situation. 

“I… You know what, just forget it-” 

“I can’t just forget the girl I like telling me she has a crush on me too.” He said quickly, catching your arm before you could escape the room.

“What?” You blinked blankly. Your brain felt like TV static. 

“I like you too. I always have…” Anton repeated shyly, eyes darting to a random spot on the wall so he didn’t have to look at you.

“Oh.” 

You wished you could have thought of some smooth response to his confession, but your brain had already been struggling to function since this morning. It had almost completely shut down when you asked him to kiss you, and was in the process of logging off forever since you first felt his lips on yours. 

“Are you still going on the blind date?” 

“Should I?” You asked lamely. 

“No.”

Another silence fell over the room, swirling together with the million unanswered questions you had. Neither you nor Anton had the confidence to speak again, and you were left to sit in silence, exchanging eye contact discreetly for several minutes. When the silence felt like it was starting to swallow you whole, you finally found the courage to clear your throat and ask him another question.

“Then, can I kiss you again?” 

You expected some hesitation from Anton. You weren’t sure why, given that he had just confessed he liked you too, but some part of your brain was convincing enough to make you think that maybe he didn’t feel as eager as you did to continue the kiss. 

He was clearly just as eager as you were, though. You barely had time to gauge his reaction before he was pressing his lips to yours again. You felt him sigh in content, completely melting against you and your soft lips. In Anton’s mind, this was the definition of bliss. The girl he had liked for so long finally kissing him. When he pulled away, there was only 1 question that Anton had on his mind.

“Can I be your boyfriend?” He whispered, lips still close to yours, enough that you could feel his breath on your skin. The start of a smile formed on your lips.

“Yes.” 

The words barely left your mouth before Anton’s lips found their place on yours again. Now that he was yours, there was nothing he’d rather do than kiss you all day, memorising the feeling of the lips he had dreamed of tasting for years. 

He regretted not confessing to you sooner. If this was what he had been missing out on, he would have mustered up the courage to tell you when you were still in high school. But, regardless, he was proud that he was your first kiss. He had always wanted you to be the first person he kissed, which was why he always rejected any girl who confessed to him. His eyes had only ever been on you for years. Now that he found his place, lips intertwined with yours, he felt that the moment couldn’t have possibly been more perfect.

↳ riize taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @kangtaehyunzzz,, @weird-bookworm,, @haecien,, @seolboba,,

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@nicholasluvbot,, @cupidslovearrows

[whispersoftheton]

Anthony bridgerton x wife!reader. Maybe his wife has quite a childlike innocence that the women of the ton take to be weirdness and they tend to isolate her but she never knows why. Maybe they’re newly married and she decides to invite some of the ladies for tea but no one shows up and she’s upset because she’s confused and Anthony comforts her and joins her for tea instead to cheer her up.

Hey! Thank you so much for requesting this & for being so patient! This wasn't meant to be this long but it sort of took on a life of its own. I hope you enjoy it <3

Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: none just comfort :)

Word Count: 1.1K

Every square inch of Aubrey Hall's walls flourished with the season's most stunning flowers, the gardens lush as far as the eye could see. The breeze did little to cool you off from the summer heat as you sat under the tent, sipping your afternoon tea overlooking the meadow alongside Violet Bridgerton. It had been a tedious day of tending to various duties around the household, and you were expecting company from some ladies of society later that evening. It seemed your schedule had been considerably more than full since your wedding a few months ago. Rather frankly, you were just as exhausted as you were delighted in your new marriage to the Viscount. Keeping up with the Bridgertons all while being the latest lady of the house proved to be quite the task. Sure, your introverted preferences to stay within the walls of your home with a good book or spend quiet time in the gardens studying the plants were different than the interests of the ladies of the ton. However, you always tried your very best to keep everyone surrounding you in good spirits while performing your obligations, always looking toward Violet for approval, wanting to stay within your welcome. She was the Viscountess before you, after all. You could only dream of living up to her in your new position. Overseeing every small detail runs smoothly across your home, not to mention the impending weight on your shoulders due to the responsibility of Anthony's sisters coming out in the following seasons. You didn't know how long you could keep this facade up if you were being honest with yourself. But you had standards to upkeep, ways in which the Viscountess held her own beside her husband, and the last thing you ever wanted to do was let Anthony or his family down.

The sun blared upon the exquisitely green grass; surrounding the field on the outer edges were countless trees with blossoming flowers overflowing the gardens. Springtime at Aubrey Hall, indeed, was like no other. You turned your attention toward the Pall Mall game. Your husband stood before his siblings, mumbling something you were sure was some tease towards Eloise, making you smirk. Anthony turned toward the field and adjusted his grip on the mallet before making his final shot. A generous mix of disappointed grumbles and cheers erupted from the handful of Bridgertons as he made the final winning score. Half of them scrambled to debate the shot while the other half stood by, giggling toward them.

Anthony left his siblings to argue among themselves over the game he now reigned as champion over. Eloise was clearly bitter and left feeling she had been made a mockery over this loss after spending her spare time practicing for this very moment. Anthony placed his mallet on the stand alongside the others and approached you. He graciously extended his hand toward you, motioning you to go with him before the both of you bid goodbye to his mama and slipped out of sight and into the grand home.

"Eloise is taking quite hard, isn't she?" You said as he guided you through the doors. "She must have thought her practice would allow her to best you once and for all."

"Having hopes of besting her older yet clearly more skilled brother? Unlikely, my love." Anthony taunted, evidently still on a high from his victory. You stood in the main room while Anthony poured himself a drink, beckoning you to join him before you politely declined.

"I cannot. I am having the ladies over for tea shortly, and I cannot be anything less than perfection for their arrival." Anthony wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you in for a brief kiss. Enough to have you wrapping your arms around his neck and yearning for more as he pulled away just enough for your noses to brush tenderly against one another.

"No moment in time exists in which you are not perfection, my love." Anthony's smile warmed your heart as you relaxed against him. "They will love you as much as I do; I am sure of it." His validation and loving gaze melted any lingering stresses still dancing around in your head. All that was left was to check off some last-minute preparations, and the tea could commence.

The late afternoon sun cast dispersed shadows across the cobblestone path. Anthony strolled into his home since returning from a lengthy afternoon of business meetings and running several errands around town. Anthony had hoped to come home to you excitedly telling him of your afternoon tea with the ladies of the ton. Instead, he found the halls seemed eerily calm for this time of day. He entered the main room and caught you sitting quietly on one of the sofas in a far corner. You curled up beside the unlit fireplace, twirling your fingers anxiously in your lap when you felt Anthony take a seat beside you.

"Sweetheart." Anthony paused before placing his hand in your lap. You didn't know if it was for comfort or to stop you from fidgeting. His warmth was welcome either way. "Is something wrong?" He cautiously asked.

"No one came." The words strained from your throat. "I know your mama and sisters left this morning on a day's travel, but I hoped-." Your voice broke before resuming. "I hoped at least someone would have-." Tears brimmed your eyes, and scattered tears stained across the top of your dress, some still falling down your cheeks. Anthony's hand cupped your face, his thumb gently preventing the tears from their continued flow. He took your hands in his and placed a lingering kiss on your knuckles before standing before you and offering you his hand. Without another word, Anthony dragged you along the halls and out into the gardens. Various flowers bloomed around you, and he brought you to one of the rarer flowers now flourishing on the property.

"What are we doing here?" You questioned while admiring the intricate patterns in which the vine had taken, the beautiful springtime flora temporarily making you forget the catastrophe of this afternoon. Anthony stepped closer from behind, arms wrapping around you as he whispered in your ear.

"It is when I am gazing upon the most exquisitely beautiful flower in the garden that I think of you." Tears again swelled inside you, but for a different reason this time. "The day will come when the world will see the beauty I am fortunate enough to hold near every day. In the meantime, I get you all to myself, hm?" The warmth and comfort of his words and presence enveloped you, brushing away the day's worries and woes with an ease only he possessed. His voice was a soothing balm for your soul that always had a way of convincing you everything would be okay. Because when you were around Anthony, you knew it would be.

Mini Tag List: @bugnug @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @thethreeeyed-raven @ssprayberrythings @fatbottomedvirgo @fictional-hooman (let me know if you would like to added by leaving a comment here or dm me if you’d like to be added.removed)

I DO NOT HAVE WATTPAD. I do not consent to having my work reposted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. if anyone sees my work anywhere that is not ao3/tumblr or under any other username that is not whispersoftheton, it has been reposted without my permission

[mattatouilletkachuk]

Can you write for Quinn with the “Can I sleep with you?” Prompt pls

Oliver The Orca || Quinn Hughes

Part of The Hockey Babies AU

Prompt: 29. “Can I sleep with you?”

Warnings: anxiety, fear of the future

WC: 6.8k

A/N: This was meant to be short and sweet jfc lol. I decided because it’s so long that I’d make this the origin for them in my Hockey Babies Au.

Summary: Since moving to Michigan as a child, you’ve been annoyed by the eldest child that lived next door. Neither of your parents care and insist on a camping trip before every school year.

Camping trips were not for you. You were meant for the city or at least a relatively mid-sized town. Not trees, bugs, and a tent that you had to put together yourself. Well, that last part was only somewhat true because after failing to put your tent together three times and watching it collapse Quinn had come over to help you. By help, it meant that you stood back and made sure not to touch anything, per his request. 

It happens every year. With your parents being friends with Ellen and Jim Hughes there was always a Summer camping trip before school started. When you asked your mother why she insisted that you go she simply told you that as you grow up life moves by fast and that close friends you once had growing up may not be around when you get older. Hence, the camping trip. 

You didn’t know much about your mom before your family moved to Michigan. In your defense, how much was a six-year-old supposed to know about their parents? 

Even when you were young, your mom liked to talk about her childhood and the one thing and person that was always a constant in her stories was a woman named Ellen. According to your mom, she and Ellen had gone to high school and college together. When they parted ways after graduation their communication slowly died out that was until you moved into your brand new house in Michigan. 

As your dad drove the van down the suburban streets filled with large houses, you couldn’t help but think that Michigan didn’t seem all that much different from anywhere else you had lived in your short six years. Your younger brother was excited enough for both of you. You weren’t easily annoyed by your brother but his nonsensical 4-year-old ramblings about everything he saw made you roll your eyes. He didn’t get it. He wasn’t leaving behind any friends or starting at a new school. If your family stayed here this is all he would ever remember, not the home or neighborhood you lived in before. 

Your dad seemed to notice your sour mood and tried to point things out that would usually catch your attention. He talked about how there would be more room for you to play, and that there was a lake nearby where you could swim in the summer. Your mom even suggested that you could learn how to ice skate during the winter when the lake froze over. None of it interested you until your dad told you that you would finally have your own bedroom. 

That made you perk up. At some point, you were sure that you had to have had your own bedroom at some point. You didn’t remember it because for as long as you could remember you shared a bedroom with your brother. For the rest of the drive, you sat back in your booster seat, thinking about how you would decorate it and if you could somehow convince your parents to let you have your own television. When you started school you could have sleepovers whenever you wanted!

That sounded nice. You’ve been trying to tell them since the few months since your birthday that you were a big girl now and six-year-olds are too old to share a bedroom with their brothers, especially a snot-nosed tattle tale like your brother.

The rest of your family chatted merrily, talking about all the great things living in this neighborhood would have, and how your dad’s new job would be great for the family because he’d be around a lot more. Your parents didn’t try to pull you back into the conversation, knowing that a neutral mood from you would be better than a grumpy one. 

Finally, when you pulled up to what was to be your new house, you couldn’t help but let out a gasp. It was large and white and there was even a porch. It was like one of those houses you saw in movies or on the covers of the magazines your mom read while waiting in line to buy her groceries. 

You refused to let yourself feel too excited about it, though. Your parents had to know that you didn’t approve of this move and that you were still upset about leaving your friends behind and your old home, and the fact that you had to get rid of half of your stuffed animals to make room in the van for a move you didn’t even want! 

You flinched when suddenly you heard your mother shriek and nearly jump out of the car, even though your dad had yet to put it into park. You watched in confusion as your mother waved her arms about to get some other woman’s attention. It seemed to work because the other woman turned away from what you presumed were her three sons, who had to be around the same age as you and your brother and embraced your mother in a tight hug. 

Finally pulling into the driveway slowly and parking the car, your dad went over to unbuckle your brother from his seat and just like your mother he scrambled out of the car to meet the children who were standing behind the woman mom was talking animatedly to. You watch from your seat as your mom introduces your brother to this strange new woman - you wonder if it’s Ellen, the one whom your mom has pictures of from when they were young. She looks similar, taller than your mom, leaner, and with the build of an athlete, and her blonde hair is a stark contrast to your own mom’s darker shade.

Even her smile is the same. You were told you were moving to be closer to your dad’s new job but now you can’t help but wonder if your mom knew that she would somehow be neighbors with her old friend. 

When your dad comes around to help unbuckle your booster seat, you sit back and let him, now eyeing the three boys in roller skates and hockey sticks. It’s the middle one you think that your brother is mainly talking to. Mainly because the youngest, either still a toddler or just a little bit older is holding onto his mom’s leg as he takes in the new people. The other one has to be the oldest, you think, with the way his face is set into a serious mask, and is the only one that has seemed to notice you. 

You don’t like that he’s watching you. You don’t know him but at that same time, that’s why you don’t put up resistance to being unbuckled, where normally you would have. You didn’t want to seem like a loser so quickly after moving here. You haven’t even stepped foot into your new house yet. 

When your dad helps you clamber out of the car, you make sure to grab your favorite stuffed animal that you were allowed to bring on the trip. When your parents had brought you to Build-a-Bear, they probably thought you’d get a regular bear or an expensive dog but instead, you picked an orca. An orca that you named Oliver who never once left your side. 

“Do I have to meet them?” you pulled on your dad’s shirt so that you could be face-to-face with him. You could see that he was trying to hold back a laugh but a light smile still found its way onto his lips. He wasn’t fooling you, though. With as much seriousness as you could muster on your small round face, you continued, “Can’t we see the house first and see these people tomorrow?”

Your dad sighed and replied, “Your mom and brother are already over there. Your mom is catching up with an old friend and your brother, it looks like is making a new friend himself.”

You grumbled something under your breath but your dad ignored it.

“We won’t stay out here for long and it’s nice to get to know you’re neighbors.” He added. “If you get too nervous or you want to leave squeeze your stuffed animal or hand him to me and I’ll get the message that it’s time to go.”

“Oliver,” you muttered. “His name is Oliver.”

He patted down your hair which had gotten more messy as the day went on and hummed apologetically, “I’m sorry, will you tell Oliver that?”

You nodded and with Oliver tucked under one arm, you grabbed your dad’s hand with the other and walked over to the others. You dropped his hand but remained close by, even when he moved closer to your mom and threw his arm around her.

When your mom finally noticed you she introduced you to everyone, “This is my daughter,” your mom announced. 

After telling them all your names, the other woman laughed. It was bright and kind. “You always did say if you had a daughter one day, that’s what you would name her.”

They shared one more laugh before your mom continued, “Darling, this is Luke,” he was still holding onto his mom’s leg and you noticed his hair was the brightest. Up close you realized that your original guess of four was wrong. He was barely three years old. You waved shyly at the younger boy and smiled, “This is Jack, he claims to like hockey more than his brothers,” which made the tallest one huff a breathy laugh. “He’s the same age as your brother, isn’t that nice?”

You weren’t sure what to say to that so you just nodded.

“This one, right here,” your mom said with a smile and a twinkle in her eyes that you couldn’t decipher, “is Quinn. He’s the oldest and just so happens to be around your age.”

You took him all in now that you were only standing a few feet away. His hair was much darker and his complexion was pale, you couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like in the winter. He didn’t smile but his eyes weren’t unkind. 

He broke the silence well by holding up his hand for you to shake.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he politely said. You replied, saying the same thing and holding Oliver closer to you. 

You wouldn’t consider yourself a shy child but it was the way that everyone was so engrossed in the conversation the adults were having while Quinn kept his eyes on you the whole time. You couldn’t pinpoint how it made you feel. You were annoyed that you were singled out but at the same time, a warm buzzing feeling hummed through you as you were the sole focus of someone’s attention. 

It all felt like too much, though, and eventually, you handed your stuffed animal to your dad. He was a man of his word and in less than five minutes your mom was wrapping up her conversation with Ellen.

You thought the interaction was over but as you had turned to walk away Ellen shouted one last thing that made your mom’s ears perk up. She turned around and Ellen said, “Every summer before school begins we go on a camping trip. We go for about three days. We leave in a week, I’d love it if you could all come.”  

Without looking at your brother or you, or your father for that matter, your mother agreed happily. You know that meant that before you were even unpacked she would drag everyone to the store to buy camping gear. 

This time you truly thought you were done because now your parents had started to walk out of earshot and Ellen had started to help Luke take off his roller skates. 

However, loud enough for you to hear but quiet enough for everyone else not to, you heard Quinn utter the words, “Don’t forget to bring your orca on the trip.”

You didn’t stop, exactly. You tripped on an uneven part of the sidewalk and managed to catch yourself before falling flat on your face. You looked back at the oldest Hughes and saw that he was gone. 

You weren’t a drama queen, no matter how many relatives tried to tell you you were. You were picky and you knew what you liked but you never expected others to understand, that would have been rude. However, how had Quinn known that Oliver was an Orca? Nobody knew, especially children your age. You only knew because one day your dad fell asleep watching a documentary about sea life. Every time someone would guess what your stuffed animal was they often guess a whale, which was a common misconception. One time you heard someone call it a narwhal. You were offended on Oliver’s behalf but secretly found it a little funny. 

You stopped letting it bother you but the surprise and shock you felt when someone knew what Oliver was made you radiate happiness. It probably seemed ridiculous to most people but Oliver was important to you. All the grumpiness in the car from earlier had disappeared. That didn’t mean you actually liked the eldest of the three brothers. He was quiet and seemed sort of grumpy and acted like he wanted nothing to do with you. 

Your first family camping trip was filled with highs and lows. Jim Hughes taught you how to fish, and you soon realized that you hated it but he seemed to enjoy it so you went along with it. You taught Luke how to make a flower crown. Your mom and Ellen gossiped about their time in school and all the time in between that they missed. 

Quinn on the other hand, barely spoke to you. It wasn’t subtle either, everyone was aware and thought the two of you would work it out by the end of the trip. It’s not like you were avoiding him. Maybe a little but not as much as he was trying to avoid you. 

All of it made any little spark inside you that wanted to be his friend die. So you vowed for the rest of the trip to ignore him. It felt better to be the one doing the ignoring and not the one being ignored. 

When school started you were put into different classes so thankfully the only time you had to see Quinn was lunch time and even then the two of you would sit across the cafeteria to sit with your friends.

For years it had worked. You were cordial as neighbors and put on pleasant smiles for your parents when they decided to have a dinner night with both families. At school you didn’t talk, sometimes you would catch him glancing over at you but you never brought it up. If he had a staring problem that would have to be something he would have to deal with on his own.

The camping trips usually went smoothly. At least up until this last year. There was always so much to do that it was easy to shrug off any attempts anyone made for you to hang out with Quinn. You were nineteen and he was turning the same age in a month. 

This could very well be the last camping trip you spent with everyone and sometimes, late at night, the feeling of not seeing Quinn again hurt but then you remembered his judgemental stares and how pretty, skinny, blonde girls would fawn over him once he became a hockey player in the NHL.

Your own thoughts startle you. What do you care if a bunch of girls threw themselves at Quinn while you were away? You especially didn’t care if he took an interest in any of them. He already went to and played hockey at the University of Michigan. You couldn’t think of one instance where he didn’t have several different options for who he spent the night with. When he goes to play for the NHL, nothing will have changed. 

(Other than everything. In Michigan, you knew you would see him again. When he moved he wouldn’t be there when you came to visit.)

This was one of the reasons you couldn’t stand Quinn most of the time. He jumbled up your thoughts and you didn’t know what to do with them. With Jack and Luke, it was different,

they had become like a second set of brothers with how often they were over at your house. Quinn, even though the offer was extended to him by every one of your family members, he still never came over. 

From the get-go, it was clear that ignoring Quinn for the entire trip wasn’t going to happen.

On the first night, you followed the routine that you had developed over the several years of camping. There was one problem, though, and that was since your first camping trip to now, you had never gotten the hang of putting your tent together. You tried! But someone would always have to help you in the end. You looked around for your brother or your dad but when you turned back to the pile of what was meant to be your tent on the ground, Quinn had come over and silently helped to put it together.

Few words were exchanged, such as, “Can you stand over there?”“Don’t touch that.” and “Hold onto that for a second.”

When your tent was all propped up and ready for you, you went to say ‘thank you’ but Quinn was already walking off to help your dad unload bags from his car. 

By the time you had everything all laid out, your sleeping bag, an extra blanket, a flashlight, and of course Oliver the Orca, the sun had begun to set. Jim called for everyone to come gather around the campfire. You pulled a hoodie over your t-shirt and claimed a spot on the log near the fire. You weren’t the last to arrive, as you waited for Jack, your brother, and Quinn to arrive you stared into the crackling campfire. 

The camping trip had been pushed back this year so now it was late September and there was a little chill in the air and the warmth from the fire was enough to warm you up. 

Luckily for you, in a week you would be heading back to school for your second year at the University of Oregon. It wasn’t your first choice and you knew it would get cold there too, but when you toured the school before your first year, you fell in love with the area. It was lush and green and had everything you wanted. 

Quinn gave you what had to have been a sarcastic smile when he finally plopped down on the log on the other side of the fire. You made a show of rolling your eyes at him in return. The little grin that wanted to come up was swallowed back down when you realized that you would miss this. The playfulness that snuck in between both of your two soured your mood.

Looking at Quinn brought back another thought that you’ve recently been thinking about. It was something that would nag at you as you packed up your room and took late-night walks around the neighborhood. You were afraid of getting homesick. You got homesick the first year you went away to college but you were expecting that. It was different, though, you were aching for some type of freedom. You loved your friends and family, and for the first time in your life, you would be free to do whatever you wanted without someone hovering over you. 

This year felt different. Your friends from home had started to settle in the cities and towns that they chose to move to. Your little brother was looking at colleges on the East Coast and even Jack was going into the NHL draft this year. With Quinn going to Vancouver to play for the Canucks, he would be the one that you would be the closest to but Vancouver was still a distance from Eugene, Oregon. There was no chance that you would ever just accidentally cross paths with him. 

For a second, you felt of pang of sadness. You’ve known Quinn since you were six and it won’t be like last year when you left for school and you would FaceTime or Skype your friends and family and Quinn would be in the background. Quinn was such a fixture in your life and now he was going to be gone too. Quinn loved Michigan, so you would probably see him in the Summers but what if after you graduate you get a job somewhere else? Somewhere where you know no one. 

You're jolted out of your spiraling emotions when Jack and your brother plop down on the log next to you, fighting over a bag of unopened marshmallows. You could thank the heavens for their timing because it feels like you’ve been having more and more thoughts about Quinn, your future, and Quinn being a part of your future.

The bag that Jack and your brother were fighting over tears in half, just like anyone could have predicted. The marshmallows go flying everywhere. Some land in the fire and melt quickly but mostly they land amongst the forest floor.

What you weren’t expecting was Jack jumping up from the log and hopping around screaming in a pitch that could rival a little girl’s. 

“Oh shit! Oh shit! OH SHI-!”

No one can hold back their laughter as they watch him frantically move about. Your brother nearly falls off of his log in a fit of laughter and you think you hear Quinn snort. 

“Jack Rowden Hughes!” Ellen scolds but when you look at her you can see the laughter she was trying her hardest to suppress. 

“Sorry, mom,” Jack mumbles but still doesn’t stop hopping around looking for the marshmallows.

“What the hell are you even doing?” Quinn asks, and unlike his mother, he’s not trying to hide his amusement. 

When he laughs you feel your chest get tight. You look briefly at him when he speaks and see that he’s already looking at you. He’s not smirking or glaring. No, he’s just smiling at you. There doesn’t seem to be any hidden meaning or mocking in his eyes. He’s happy and you’re the one he’s showing it to unabashedly. 

“Don’t you read?” Jack snaps, his hands overflowing with the marshmallows he’s grabbed from the floor, your mom kindly hands him a bag of garbage for him to throw away the dirt-covered sticky treat.  “Bears love Marshmallows!”

“Wasn’t that a SpongeBob episode?” You inquire with a laugh, shortly followed by Luke and Quinn. 

“Dear, we’ve been camping here for thirteen years.” Your mom tries to soothe Jack but everyone, including her, knows it’s futile. “No one has ever seen a bear around here.”

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t lurking around waiting to pounce,” Jack argues but he slowly calms down. Well, as calm as Jack can manage. 

“What does “waiting to pounce” even mean? Do you think Winnie The Pooh is hiding behind that tree over there?”

“Shut up, Quinn,” Jack grumbles and is shoved down to sit back on the log by his dad.

After everyone is calmed or close enough to calm your dad pulls out another bag of marshmallows and chocolate from a bag while Ellen grabs graham crackers. Jim finds the sticks for you all to toast the s’mores with all while your mom sits back in her chair, drinking out of a thermal cup, and by her lazy smile and pink cheeks, you’re starting to think that perhaps it’s not coffee or hot chocolate. 

Everyone quickly falls into the easy chatter that only forms after years of knowing one another. You hold your s’more over the fire as you sit quietly, listening to all the conversations happening around you. 

You're pretty sure that whatever is in your mom’s mug she shared with Ellen because the two of them are quietly giggling after every other word. Jim and your dad are talking to Jack about his future and what the draft might be like when it comes around soon. You feel bad for the kid. You’ve heard almost every adult close to Jack give him the same speech. It’s not like he won’t have a future. You’ve seen him play hockey, both for fun and for competition, and know that he’s better than good. Every team is looking at him right now and with his charisma and the way he moves on the ice, he’s guaranteed to become a star almost immediately after being drafted. 

Luke and your brother have given up on eating the s’mores altogether and are taking turns throwing marshmallows back and forth to see who can catch the most with only their mouths. After a minute of watching, you can safely say they’re both terrible and that ‘the bear’ coming out to eat the marshmallows is more likely than one of them catching one of them in their mouths.

You stayed quiet, not feeling like participating in any of the conversations. It wouldn’t raise any suspicions, since this annual trip began you were always worn out by the end of the day. Not talking to anyone, eating whatever your dad decides to barbecue, and falling asleep on your mom’s lap. So no one questioned you as you tried to not set your campfire snack on fire and thought about how everything was about to change after you all left the camping grounds and how you weren’t ready for it. 

You were so wrapped up in your thoughts that you hadn’t even noticed that Quinn was quiet himself. Not staring down his burnt marshmallow like you put sneaking curious glances your way and silently hoping you would catch him. 

With a loud slap on his knee and a groan that only fathers seemed to know how to make your dad stood from his lawn chair. 

“It’s been a long day, I think I’ll try to get some sleep so I can wake up early to catch some fish.”

Jim nodded enthusiastically at the prospect of fishing in the morning and stood up as well. Both of the men helped their wives up from their seats, you smiled as they made it difficult for their husbands to walk them to their tents. The swaying a giggling never died down, even when they were inside and the tent was zipped. 

You were never one for fishing and why people liked to do it so early in the day perplexed you. You had attempted fishing twice in your life, once with your dad and brother which resulted in you being pushed into the lake by your brother and the other time was on a camping trip where Jim was convinced he could change your mind about fishing. It didn’t work. So now your plans for tomorrow are to lay down a beach blanket near the water and read one of the books you brought with you. 

The next ones to stray towards their tents for the night were Luke and your brother. You knew they were going to be next. They enjoyed fishing and spending time with their respective dads. 

“Maybe I’ll even catch dinner for us tomorrow!” your brother exclaimed. 

You wanted to gag at the idea but you saw the excited look on his face and decided against it. Instead, you gave him a thumbs up and mustered up a, “I’ll wish you luck!”

Jack didn’t say goodnight to anyone but you all saw him run behind one of the trees to vomit all of the sugar he consumed. By now he was most likely in his tent groaning or trying to get a signal on his phone. Probably both. 

It didn’t take long for Quinn to stand and bid you goodnight after the other boys left. Your eyes followed him as he walked with his head down to his tent. He had no real reason for leaving. You had watched him sporadically throughout the night and he didn’t seem tired. Perhaps he just didn’t want to stay out here alone with you. You murmur a quiet goodnight back, not sure if he heard it or not but not wanting to say it again. 

You weren’t ready for sleep yet. Your mind was still racing and when your thoughts came back to coming home for the holidays and everyone not being there a knot formed in your throat. You had made friends in Oregon and this upcoming year you would likely start networking, which meant meeting new people, and even though you haven’t met them yet, you knew they weren’t going to be better than the people sleeping in the tents less than ten feet away from you. 

If it hadn’t been for the chilly early September breeze you probably wouldn’t have noticed the tears on your cheeks. You wiped them away quickly. Everyone had already gone to sleep so you could cry as much as you wanted to and no one would know. No one but you, and you didn’t want to deal with all of those emotions right now. You were only feeling like this because it had been a long day and what you needed was a good night's rest. 

You watched the fire die down and when it was only embers left you sprinkled some sand on it to make sure it wouldn’t set the forest ablaze as you all slept. When you were done with that you crawled into your tent and tried to get comfortable in your sleeping bag. 

It was futile. The extra blanket didn’t warm you up and the sleeping bag was old and had small holes in it that you didn’t notice when you had packed it. Not even pulling Oliver close to your chest made you feel better. 

The tent was cold and hard and despite the rustling leaves and wind outside, it felt silent. You weren’t built to be alone and with your recurring thoughts of everyone leaving and not coming back once school starts up again, you couldn’t find it in yourself to stay in your tent tonight. 

You grabbed your extra blanket and Oliver and paused when you were outside. Who could you share a tent with without them making a big deal of it? Your brother and Jack were immediately scratched off that list. They had the biggest mouths known to man. You could seek out the comfort of your parents, similar to when you were little and afraid and you would crawl into their much bigger bed and cuddle between the two of them. They would worry if you did that now and you didn’t want to worry them on the first night of the trip they had come to love.

There was nothing wrong with going to Luke but your body itched to turn the other way and go to Quinn’s tent. He wouldn’t tell anyone and even if he wasn’t sharing the same thoughts out loud, perhaps he was thinking them silently, after all, he was in the same predicament.

Before you could stop yourself you tapped gently on the tent and whispered his name. 

Nothing happened, so you continued just a little louder and perhaps with a slight whine. “Quinn! Quinn, open your tent. Quinn, are you asleep?”

Finally, the zipper was tugged down and a disheveled Quinn appeared. Despite his look of annoyance, you could tell that he wasn’t really upset with you. If he was he would have told you to go away by now or never opened the tent.

“What’s wrong?” His words slurred from sleep but his tone was serious. 

With a weak smile, you replied, “I think there’s a bear outside my tent that thinks I’m a marshmallow. Can I sleep with you?”

To your surprise, Quinn shuffled to the side of his sleeping bag to make room for you. When you continued to look at him dumbstruck he sighed and waved at the tent flap and said, “Can you come in here already? Also make sure you zip that up. I’m pretty sure that any bear with a sweet tooth will be dissuaded by a zipper.” 

You did as he asked and once you did you climbed into the sleeping bag with him. He grunted when you accidentally elbowed him in the stomach and when you kept trying to readjust in the small sleeping area that was only really meant for one Quinn grabbed your waist and rolled you so that your back was against his front. You felt breathless being so close to Quinn, no that wasn’t it, being held so close to him. The two of you grew up together so it didn’t feel strange to sleep in the same area. Sometimes you had to share a bed because your brother and Jack wanted to share one instead. One time when you were sharing an air mattress, it popped and you both had to sleep on the floor after that. You still held firm that the popping was Quinn’s fault. 

This was different, though. Out of all the times you had to sleep near Quinn, he never seemed like a cuddler and yet, here you were with his arm slung tightly around you, with his forehead pressed against your neck. Slowly and without saying anything you grabbed his hand that was on your waist, holding you to him, and intertwined your fingers. It felt grounding. How could you spiral when he was so solidly here? 

“So are you sticking with the bear story or are you actually going to tell me why you're in my tent?” Quinn said into the quiet darkness. 

You didn’t want to answer his question. You wanted to lay here and be held and take up all of his warmth and fall asleep. You also knew that if you didn’t vocalize your fears they would only get bigger and bigger until one day you would simply combust and find yourself living in a cardboard box outside of your childhood home.

You squeezed Oliver with the hand that wasn’t holding Quinn’s and whispered shyly, “I’m afraid of what happens after this. I’m afraid that once I go back to school everything will change and I’ll come home and nothing will be how it was.”

You let out a breath of relief. Even though you couldn’t help but still fret over everything it still felt nice to get all of that off of your chest. 

Quinn had remained quiet the whole time and for a moment you thought he was falling asleep until he squeezed your hand and moved his arm under your head to grab Oliver. Quinn wasn’t taking him from you but he held him gently. Almost stroking the worn fuzz on the stuffed orca.

“Things are gonna change,” he finally said. “All of our parents will still be in Michigan and so will your brother and when he goes to college I’m sure he’ll call to annoy you every day.”

You smiled sadly, it was true. Your little brother was like you. He aches for space but needs to know that the people he loves will still be there. 

“Doesn’t it scare you?” It’s a whisper, you can barely hear yourself over the pounding of your heart and the blood rushing in your ears. 

You didn’t know why you felt scared right now, this was Quinn, the same boy you’ve known nearly all your life. On the other side, though, this is Quinn, the same guy that annoys you more often than not. Who on most days you think he might hate you and you might hate him. Your thumb rubs circles on the hand that’s holding yours. What was it that your mom always said? There’s a thin line between love and hate.

It takes a minute and then two before you think he might not answer. Had his lips not been so close to your neck you wouldn’t have heard him. His words would have been lost with the wind outside. 

“Of course I’m scared.” He finally says and before you can cut in he continues. “I’m scared that I won’t be as good as people are hoping I will be when I finally get to play. I’m afraid to be so far away from my family.” He paused again but kept quiet, there was a tension in the air and you knew he wanted to say more. “I know my family will always be there, though. I also know that my friends will be too. I just don’t know about you.”

You went to turn around so that you could see his face and hear his words when he says them. His arms around your waist stop you, though.

“Whether or not I like it, you know everything about me.” You reply, the next part you look at your stuffed Orca so it feels like you're talking to it rather than him. “I think you might be the only person who knows everything about me. You’re always paying attention.”

“Of course, I’ve been paying attention.” 

You don’t hesitate and you don’t let yourself think before saying what you want to.

“Why?”

Quinn sighs your name and it sounds like a prayer. It sounds like he’s begging you to just know. Quinn is a man of few words and you want him to say it. 

“When I was six a stubborn girl with a stuffed Orca moved in next door to me. You watched me, you saw me, first before you finally looked at my family. For as long as I can remember I’ve been an afterthought to everybody.” Quinn says and his words make you hurt. “I did things to annoy you just so you would notice me because I wanted /your/ attention.”

“That’s very playground of you.” You say lightly, trying to ease the suffocating air in the tent. 

Quinn laughs lightly and it tickles your neck. “Then, and here’s the kicker, I get drafted to the Vancouver Canucks, and team far away from everything I know and then I remember that this girl that I’ve been annoying on purpose for years has what can only be described as an emotional support Orca. People have stuffed bears, ducks, or literally anything else. I’ve never seen someone with an Orca and for the first time everything I had and everything I’ve ever wanted became so clear.”

“And what is it that you want?” 

He lets go of your hand and sits up on his elbows just so he can look at you when says, “You. Since you got out of that car gripping that stuffed animal in one hand and your dad’s hand in the other all while giving the meanest glare I think I’ve ever seen from a kindergartner.”

“I thought you hated me.”  

“I thought you hated me.”

A small smile tugs at the side of your lip, “I thought I did too. If I’m being honest, though, I don’t think I could ever actually hate you.”

The kiss is a surprise. It’s not on your lips or your neck, Quinn simply leans down and places his lips to your forehead. After that, he lays back down behind you and wraps his arm around your torso. You waste no time grabbing his hand and sinking into his embrace. 

He’s solid and warm and for the first time in months, your mind doesn’t feel like it’s running a mile a minute. 

“Do you believe in fate?” 

The question catches you off guard. Fate? Quinn was so practical it seemed like a weird thing for him to ask. Did you believe in it though? If you were asked ten years ago, you would have said yes. If you were asked four years ago you would have said no, but lying in Quinn’s tent and in his arms, you can’t but wonder if maybe you do?

“I don’t know.” You say honestly. “Do you?” 

Quinn is quick to answer, “Oh yeah, how else can I explain that the girl I fell for at six would have a favorite stuffed animal that is an Orca, while I’m about to play for Vancouver whose mascot is an orca?” 

You smile at that. It did seem rather fate-like if you thought about it like that. 

“Well, when you put it like that,” you laugh, as does Quinn. “When you’re off being a hotshot hockey player in Canada you have to promise me something.”

“Hmm, depends on what it is that I have to promise.”

You bit your lip and let your eyes slide down to Oliver. You hoped that Quinn would hear the true meaning of your words when you said them because you doubted you could say them out loud yet. “Just remember that Oliver is your favorite Orca when you’re out there.”

You waited with bated breath. Quinn’s breathing had slowed and for a moment you wondered if he had fallen asleep. 

That was until he pulled you closer to himnand said directly in your ear, “Oliver will always be my favorite no matter where I go.”

[thewulf]

Through the Years || Aaron Hotchner

Summary: Request - Aaron Hotchner x reader, It will be like 2 moments in different years... like the first time little Jack is comfortable enough around reader to call her mom... and the other one teen Jack not taking her grounding while Aaron is away and screamimg at her something like "You are not my mom"... Read Rest Here

A/N: This was tough to write. But overall very sweet. We love a good teenage melton.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader, Jack Hotchner x Stepmom Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

TW: Yelling, intentional hurt, Jack being mean lol

Year Six: Jack’s Question

The gentle hum of the air conditioner filled the cozy living room as you and Jack sat together on the couch, surrounded by an array of colorful crafting supplies scattered across the coffee table. Glue sticks, markers, and construction paper formed a creative mess as the two of you worked on a project together, a rare moment of tranquility in the chaotic life of an FBI agent's family.

As you guided Jack through the steps of creating a handmade card for his grandmother's birthday, you couldn't help but notice the way he looked up at you with a mixture of admiration and affection. His small hands moved with determination, mirroring your own movements as you carefully cut out paper hearts and glued them onto the card letting him guide how he wanted the card to turn out.

"Y/N?" Jack's voice broke through the soft hum of conversation, tentative and uncertain. He shifted back and forth on the couch letting whatever was on his mind eat away at him for the time being.

As Jack's voice broke through the soft hum of the television on, you turned your attention back to him. He looked so nervous that you could only put the supplies down and focus solely on him. "Yeah, Jack?" you replied, your voice soft and encouraging.

Jack shifted nervously beside you, his brow furrowing as he wrestled with his words. You could see the uncertainty flickering in his eyes, the weight of his question heavy on his young shoulders.

"Can I... can I call you Mom?" His voice was barely above a whisper, filled with hesitation and longing.

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, your heart soaring with joy and disbelief. It was a moment you had dreamed of, hoped for, but never dared to expect. Not so soon anyway. You and Aaron had been seeing each other for just over a year. And yet, here it was, unfolding before you in the most unexpected of moments.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you gazed at Jack, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion welling up inside you. You wanted to gather him into your arms, to hold him close and never let him go, to shower him with all the love and affection he deserved. But you also knew that this moment was about him, about his courage in voicing his feelings, his desire to forge a deeper connection with you. And so, you swallowed past the lump in your throat, your smile widening with genuine warmth and love.

"Of course, you can, sweetheart," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. "I would be honored."

As the words left your lips, a weight seemed to lift from Jack's shoulders, his face breaking into a radiant smile that mirrored your own. In that moment, surrounded by the remnants of your crafting adventure, you felt a profound connection form between you, one that transcended blood ties and was forged by love and mutual respect.

Jack let out a sigh of relief, his smile widening as he leaned into your embrace. "Good, Daddy said I could," he explained, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and validation.

Your heart swelled with warmth at his words, grateful for Aaron's support and understanding. It meant the world to you that he had encouraged Jack to express his feelings, to embrace the bond that had grown between you. "Your daddy is a smart man," you replied, your voice tinged with affection as you ruffled Jack's hair affectionately. "And he's right. You can call me mom whenever you want. You can also call me Y/N. Whatever you want kiddo."

Jack beamed up at you, his eyes sparkling with happiness as he settled back into his seat, a sense of contentment settling over him like a comforting blanket. In that moment, it felt as though the world had shifted, the connection between you and Jack deepening with each passing second. And as you returned to your crafting project, your hearts overflowing with love and gratitude, you knew that this was just the beginning of a beautiful journey together.

Year Fifteen: Teenage Turmoil

The soft glow of the lamp illuminated Aaron Hotchner's cluttered desk as he typed away on his laptop, the faint clicking of keys the only sound in the otherwise quiet house. It was Friday night, the end of a long week, but for Aaron, the work was far from over. His eyes flickered to the clock, noting the late hour. Jack should have been home by now, safely tucked into bed. Anxiety gnawed at him as he tried Jack's number once more, only to be met with the unwelcome sound of voicemail. He would give it until 12:30 then he was going to be calling Penelope to locate his young son. He didn’t want to be overbearing but he couldn’t help it. Not with what he’s seen, what he’s had to deal with.

In the living room, you paced back and forth, your heart pounding with worry. Each passing minute felt like an eternity. With every unanswered call, your concern grew tenfold. The clock on the wall mocked you, its hands moving relentlessly towards midnight. You too knew how dangerous it was out there. But you couldn’t lock the kid in. He’d resent the both of you for the rest of his days if you did that.

Finally, the creak of the front door announced Jack's return. Relief flooded through you, quickly replaced by a surge of frustration as you caught sight of his nonchalant expression. "Jack, do you have any idea what time it is?" you exclaimed, unable to keep the edge from your voice.

Jack's eyes flickered to you, irritation flashing in their depths before he masked it with a careless shrug. "Relax, I lost track of time," he retorted, tossing his jacket aside without any regard for how stressed both you and his father were.

Your temper flared. "You were supposed to be home over an hour ago! Do you have any idea how worried we were?" As Aaron remained in his office, you and Jack were left to confront each other alone, the tension between you palpable.

He shrugged again before attempting to make a break for his room.

"Jack, please," you implored, your voice trembling with concern. "We need to talk about what happened tonight. It's not just about breaking curfew; it's about communication and respect."

Jack's eyes narrowed, his arms crossing defensively over his chest. "I don't need a lecture, Y/N. I'm not a kid anymore."

Your heart sank at his dismissive tone, but you refused to back down. "I know you're growing up, but that doesn't mean you can disregard the rules we've set. They're there for a reason, Jack. We worry about you when you're out late, especially when we can't reach you."

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You worry too much. I can take care of myself."

Your frustration bubbled to the surface. Your voice tinged with emotion. "It's not just about taking care of yourself, Jack. There are awful people out there and…”

Jack's demeanor shifted, his expression hardening with defiance. "You're not my mom, Y/N. You don't get to tell me what to do."

His words cut deep, a pang of hurt flashing across your features. "I know I'm not your biological mother, but I love you like you're my own," you admitted, your voice wavering with emotion certainly not expecting the conversation to take such a turn so quickly.

Jack's jaw clenched, his anger simmering beneath the surface. "Yeah, right. You're just trying to control me like everyone else. Well, news flash, it's not gonna work."

Your heart shattered at his harsh words, the weight of his rejection crushing you. "I'm not trying to control you, Jack. I just want what's best for you," you pleaded, tears welling in your eyes despite your best efforts to push them away.

But Jack's frustration boiled over, his voice rising with each word. "Stop pretending like you know what's best for me! You're not my freaking mom! You can't tell me what to do!"

As Jack's explosive words hung in the air, a heavy silence descended upon the room, filling the space with tension and uncertainty. Your heart felt as though it had been squeezed tight in your chest, the sting of Jack's rejection still raw.

A gasp came from your mouth as you tried to form any sort of coherent sentence. "Oh, I'm... I..." you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to find the right words. But your mind was a whirlwind of emotions, and you found yourself at a loss.

Jack's eyes widened, a flicker of realization crossing his features as he took in the impact of his own words. For a moment, he seemed unsure, caught between his anger and the weight of what he had just said. And then, as if sensing the weight of the moment, Aaron appeared in the doorway. His expression a mix of concern and disappointment. His presence seemed to ground the room, his steady gaze sweeping over you and Jack.

"What's going on here?" Aaron's voice was calm but firm, his eyes never leaving yours. He saw the watery tears that threatened to spill over at any second. He heard the tail end of the conversation and knew exactly why you were so devastated. You saw Jack as your own child and for him to say something so deeply hurtful left you reeling.

You struggled to compose yourself, the turmoil of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. "Jack... he... I don’t… I need to go," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. Without waiting for a response, you turned and fled towards the kitchen, unable to even look at your stepson or Aaron in that moment. You felt utterly embarrassed. Like you hadn’t been loving that child for the last ten years of his life. Did he really feel like that or was he just lashing out?

In the living room, Aaron's expression darkened, his jaw clenched with restrained anger as he watched you leave. The weight of Jack's hurtful words hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over their father-son relationship.

Jack shifted uncomfortably; his eyes fixed on the ground as guilt gnawed at him. "Dad, I didn't mean..."

But Aaron's patience had worn thin with his moody son. "Not now, Jack," he interrupted, his tone stern. "Right now, I need you to think about what you said and why it was completely unacceptable."

Jack swallowed hard, the gravity of his actions sinking in as he met his father's unwavering gaze. "I know, Dad. I messed up," he admitted, his voice tinged with remorse.

Aaron's frustration boiled over, his voice taking on the commanding tone he used when interrogating suspects. "You think you can just say whatever you want and there won't be consequences? You hurt her, Jack. You hurt someone who cares about you deeply, and I won't stand for it."

Jack's eyes widened, the full weight of his actions crashing down on him as he met his father's intense gaze. "I-I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to..."

But Aaron cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Apologies won't cut it this time, Jack. You need to understand the gravity of your words and the impact they have on people." As Aaron continued to reprimand his son, he couldn't shake the worry gnawing at him. He knew he had to find you, to make sure you were alright. With a final stern look at Jack, he turned on his heel and headed towards the kitchen, his footsteps heavy with concern.

As he entered the kitchen, his heart sank at the sight before him. There you were, hunched over on the floor, your shoulders shaking with sobs. Without hesitation, Aaron crossed the room and knelt beside you, gathering you into his arms.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he murmured softly, his voice a soothing balm against the storm raging within you. "You're alright, I've got you." Aaron felt a pang of anguish as he held you, his heart breaking at the depth of your pain. Gently, he lifted your chin, guiding your tear-filled eyes to meet his own.

"Honey," he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. "Listen to me. You may not be Jack's biological mother, but you are his mom in every sense of the word."

You shook your head weakly, unable to comprehend his words through the haze of your despair. "But I-I..."

"No buts," Aaron interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. "Every day, in every action, every moment of love and care you've shown him, you've proven yourself to be his mother. You've been there for him, supported him, loved him unconditionally. That's what a mom does. That’s what you are, sweetheart.”

Tears welled in your eyes as his words washed over you, a glimmer of hope piercing through the darkness of your despair. "But Jack said..."

Aaron's expression softened, his thumb gently wiping away your tears. "Jack was angry and confused. He didn't mean what he said. And even if he did, it doesn't change the truth. You are his mother, my love, in every way that matters."

As his words sank in, a sense of warmth enveloped you, the weight of your anguish easing with each beat of your heart. In Aaron's arms, you found solace, reassurance, and a renewed sense of purpose. You leaned against Aaron's chest, letting the last of your tears fall, a sense of peace washed over you. His comforting presence wrapped you up in his warm embrace, grounding you in the certainty that together you’d be just fine. “Thank you.” You whispered as he held you in his embrace.

Aaron held you close, his hold on you a silent promise of unwavering support and love. "Anytime, honey," he murmured, his voice a soothing melody in the midst of chaos. "We'll get through this together."

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed in the kitchen, and you looked up to see Jack standing in the doorway, tears glistening in his eyes. His expression was wrought with guilt and remorse as he hesitated, unsure of how to approach you.

"Y/N," he began, his voice choked with emotion. "I-I'm so sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I just wanted to hurt you, but I didn't mean it. I didn’t mean it at all, I promise. I need you! You are my mom! Please don't leave me." His words came out quickly as he wiped away his own tears.

Your heart shattered at Jack's raw confession, the depth of his pain washing over you like a tidal wave. Without hesitation, you opened your arms, inviting him into the embrace. Aaron backed off letting the situation between the two most important people in his life play out.

Jack rushed over and threw his larger frame right into your arms You wrapped him up tightly as he let his own cries out. The weight of his own words crashing down on him in the instant he saw how much he had hurt you. He was just a kid, of course you could forgive him. "It's okay, Jack," you whispered, your voice breaking with emotion. "I know you didn't mean it. I love you so much. I'm not going anywhere."

“I can’t lose you too.” He let out a whimpered cry breaking your heart even further.

Tears streamed down your own cheeks as you held Jack close, the weight of his words settling over you. "You’ll never lose me, Jackie," you reassured him, using his old nickname, a sign of the deep love you two shared for each other.  "I'm here for you, always. Always and forever kiddo."

Jack's sobs began to subside as he clung to you, finding exactly what he needed in your embrace. "I love you. I’m so sorry." he whispered again. His voice filled with sincerity.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you gently pulled away to look into his eyes. "I love you too, Jack. It’s okay. I forgive you." You said again, reassuring him.

He nodded, relief flooding his features as he buried his face in your arms once more, the weight of guilt slowly lifting from his shoulders. "You are one of the best things that's ever happened to me," you continued, your voice filled with warmth and affection. "Other than your father," you added with a playful grin, feeling Jack's chuckle rumble against your side. He gave you one more squeeze before pulling away. The remorse still heavy on his face. Carefully, you brushed the stray tears away from his face showing him the love that the both of you needed.

As Aaron joined you both in the kitchen, his presence a reassuring anchor, you shared a smile, knowing that no matter what life threw your way, you would be okay. For truly these two were the best things that had ever happened to you.

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[cuubism]

more physical therapy au

--

Dream comes to his next physical therapy appointment marginally--marginally--less apprehensive than before. When he'd first gone, he'd expected to be told he was being melodramatic. That he should just be grateful that the surgery was successful and he has some functioning. That he should just give up on his art, that it didn't matter, that it was hopeless.

He doesn't know why he thought that. It's been hard to have a charitable view of people, lately.

But Hob wasn't like what he feared. Hob was... kind. To him.

So he goes back.

He has, in fact, been doing the exercises that Hob gave him. It is not as though he has much else to do with his time. Other than setting up his new flat, where he now lives after fleeing what had once been his home. Even a few months later, the place is fairly... minimalist. Which is not Dream's style. But he'd left with little more than his art portfolio and the clothes he was wearing, deciding that it wasn't worth going back, and he hasn't had the energy to replace anything since.

Or the two functioning arms required to move things.

His flat is depressing enough that even the physical therapy office feels warm and welcoming by comparison. Hob gives him a big smile as he comes in. It's pathetic that it makes his heart flutter.

He goes over to Hob, setting the folder he brought on the table.

"You look cheerful," Hob notes. Dream highly, highly doubts that. But he is perhaps slightly less morose than last time. Nevertheless, he finds Hob's optimism... somewhat cheering. Normally, he would find such a thing annoying. But there is something very steady and reassuring about Hob. Not much in Dream's life has felt steady in some time.

"I have tried finger painting," Dream tells him. He takes the piece out of the folder and shows it to Hob.

It had been interesting, at least. Distracted him for a moment. Made him think about the way children make art, before becoming mired in theory and technique.

He had considered bringing one of his usual pieces to demonstrate to Hob what he's meant to be able to do, in case that would be helpful, but it's still painful to look at them.

Hob takes the painting and stares at it with wide eyes. "How is this actually good?"

Dream should probably be offended by his incredulity but instead he just finds it amusing. "I had lots of time to spend."

He has, once again, painted a bunch of cats, all different colors, cluttering the page. It's simple, and lets him avoid thinking about his more conceptual pieces he hasn't been able to work on.

"Wow," Hob says, propping the painting carefully against the wall by his computer. "Okay. Good work going above and beyond on the instructions, Dream."

That praise alone shouldn't make something in his chest start glowing. But it does.

"It did not hurt... much," he says tentatively, before Hob can ask. "However, with a brush..."

It is incredibly frustrating. It's like his body continually wishes to betray him. He's lost his home and everything he owns and now he cannot even have his art.

"Give it some time," Hob says, reasonably. He is much more patient, and optimistic, than Dream.

He makes Dream draw and write again. It's... perhaps marginally easier after the exercises Hob had given him. Still, he finds himself getting frustrated by the weakness of his grip. And the more frustrated he gets, the tighter he grips the pencil. He knows he shouldn't. But.

"Lighter," Hob tells him, and Dream glares at him. Hob raises his hands. "Not telling you how to do your art. Just telling you how not to hurt your hand."

Dream bites down on his annoyance, but loosens his grip.

He doesn't see very much progress, but Hob seems satisfied. He makes Dream run through some other strengthening exercises, which... don't hurt as much as Dream was expecting them to. He'd expected that this whole process would be nothing but gritting his teeth through agonizing pain, to minimal results. Perhaps Death is right, and he should be less pessimistic.

In any case, Hob seems proud of him at the end. Even if Dream doesn't think he's done anything to be proud of.

But he does leave, perhaps, slightly more hopeful than he entered. And he wants to come back. At least to see Hob again.

~~

Hob doesn't know if it's patronizing to be proud of Dream, but he is. Over the last few sessions, his grip has improved a lot. Dream doesn't seem to see it, but that's alright. Hob does. He's been keeping all of Dream's drawings. They are getting better.

Hob is pretty good at optimism. But even so, it somehow hadn't occurred to him that quiet and morose wasn't Dream's natural state. That is until he sees the joy that lights up in him the first time he's able to draw a cat without his hand shaking. Dream smiles so wide, like he isn't even aware Hob is still watching him, and Hob realizes that there is lightness to him. It's just been buried down.

The time after that, Dream even brings some of his old art to show. Hob's been dying to see it for ages, but hasn't pressed. And Dream's art is gorgeous. Hob can understand, now, why he'd been dissatisfied with those first cats he'd drawn, no matter how charming Hob had found them. His big pieces are so finely detailed, so precise. It's... possibly going to take a bit more time to get him back to that than Hob had thought. But he's determined.

But Dream seems happy to be sharing his art, doesn't fold in on himself this time just to mention it. He talks with enthusiasm about his process, the most words Hob's heard him say in... well, ever. Hob tells him that he's made enough progress to pick up painting--with brush, not fingers--again if he wants, but not to beat himself up if it doesn't look the same as his old ones. And for once, it seems like Dream actually accepts the instruction not to berate himself.

All of this is, most certainly, the reason Hob does the insane thing he does next.

He's organizing his records, having already walked Dream out, when he hears raised voices from out on the walkway. The front door is still open a crack, he realizes, so the sound carries.

"Come on, you're overreacting," says an unfamiliar, male voice. "I said I won't do it again, didn't I?"

"Do not," Dream replies, voice anxious, but determined, "follow me."

"Well if you'd just pick up your phone--"

Hob steps outside. An unfamiliar man--the ex-boyfriend, Hob assumes, he doesn't know his name, hasn't asked, doesn't care--has Dream cornered in the doorway. His posture doesn't immediately scream rage or aggression, which is more unnerving rather than less, considering this is the same person who'd snapped and broken Dream's hand.

And Dream looks scared. Under the mask of stoicism he likes to wear. Any cheer or hope he'd gained from today's session has evaporated, and he looks like he did before, when he'd first come to Hob's office, curled in on himself. It breaks Hob's heart. And makes him angry.

"Stop being selfish and just--" the ex-boyfriend continues. Hob means to cut in and diffuse the situation. Tell him to leave in a reasonably professional manner.

Instead he punches him in the face.

Ex-boyfriend's nose goes crunch in an extremely satisfying way, and he reels back with a shriek, hands going to his face. Dream startles back, hands clutched around his art portfolio.

"What the FUCK!" yells ex-boyfriend, voice nasally from the blood running down his face. "You can't just-- this is assault! I'll call the cops!"

Oh he wants to go there, does he? "You wanna talk about assault?" Hob says, voice rising in volume. Dream edges behind him, though Hob's not sure he's fully aware he's doing so. "You want to get police involved, that's really what you want?"

Ex-boyfriend looks from Hob to Dream and back, hesitating. That's fucking right, Hob thinks. Not so easy to kick someone around when there's consequences, huh?

It helps that Hob is visibly stronger than Dream, and spends all day physically moving people around. If ex-boyfriend tries anything he's going to get put on the ground.

Finally he retreats, though with a look of rage towards Hob. Once he's gone, Dream finally seems to relax, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

"You did not need to," he murmurs.

Hob shakes his head. "No one gets to come and threaten you here. Particularly not that dickhead."

Dream huffs a small laugh. Then he picks up Hob's hand, studying it. Hob winces. It's certainly going to bruise.

"Now you will need physical therapy," Dream says, lips twitching. Hob's glad for the humor in his voice.

Hob laughs. "Worth it."

"No one has..." Dream starts, slowly, "done something like that. For me."

It hurts, to think that no one's stood up for him. Or even let him know that someone should stand up for him.

"If he comes back I'll do it again," Hob says, and gets a tentative smile from Dream.

Then asks, "Does he know where you live?"

Dream frowns. "I do not think so."

"Want me to walk you home?"

He doubts Dream's ex-boyfriend will come back to the office now that he knows Hob's willing to deck him, but that doesn't mean he won't try to corner Dream elsewhere.

Dream deliberates, then says, "Would you?"

"'Course, love. Just let me lock the place up."

He doesn't realize what he's said until he's already turned back to lock the door. Shit. Today has already gone so far beyond what he's supposed to do as Dream's physical therapist, and now...

In the end, Dream doesn't call him out on it. But he does stick close to Hob's side as they walk, and occasionally when Hob looks over at him, he catches a tiny smile on his face.

[wakeup01]

hi i would love if you could transform me into your stupid foot slave.

Clean Slate

“What do you want to be in life?” I ask you as we relax at my place at the end of our date. You give a rather non committal shrug as I peel off my socks and rest my feet on the living room table.

“Huh. No career ambitions? Artist, scientist…cleaner?” I smile at you as you approach and sit across from me, scrunching your nose slightly while the scent of my feet wafts over to you.

“N—no. I guess not.” You reply sheepishly, your eyes leaving mine as they lower to my large feet.

“I’m sure we can find your place in life. You probably have lots to give. Talented at many things. Such as…cleaning.” I sway my feet back and forth on the table as I watch your eyes follow them. “Just keep watching.”

“Huh?” Distracted, you don’t even look away. My feet and their movements were utterly fascinating. “I—I don’t…”

“Cleaning.” I repeat bluntly. “I bet you’re good at cleaning.” Your back bends as you naturally feel yourself lean forward, your head lowering slightly as my feet take up more of your vision. I hear you take a tentative sniff, your eyes glazing over.

Cleaning.

“Cl—cleeaning.” You slur as a bit of drool slides from your mouth. I give a little snicker as I witness you lick your lips. Your head begins to sway along with my hypnotic sweaty feet. Mirroring it’s motion. The smell at this point was incredibly overpowering, burning away your feeble inhibitions. My feet are fucking your mind, my toes pushing to the back of your skull. Reshaping your soft brain like playdoh. Back and forth. Back and forth…

“See, I’m not so much looking for a ‘boyfriend’. Too much maintenance. But I’m sure we can find a use for you. Cleaning clothes perhaps? Maybe bathroom cleaning? No. Cleaning…feet.” I look down and validate you with a smirk.

Cleaning. Feet.

“Foot cleaning. Yes, yes I think that’s your place in life. A mindless foot cleaner. Cleaning my rank feet. You’re very skilled at it.” I assert, placing my hand on your head and guiding you closer. “It’s okay. Some of us are meant to improve the world, some of us are meant to be productive members of society. And some of us, some of us are meant to lick the space between men’s toes.”

“I…no. Please.” You plead as your face enters my feet’s gravitational pull. The musk flowing up your nose and swimming around your emptied, foot fucked mind. They smelled just as you suspected they would, of feet. Your attention is captivated by a bead of sweat on my sole. It didn’t belong there, there on my perfect feet. You feel an impulse growing. A need. You needed to…needed to…

“Clean.” I answer for you. Making everything suddenly fall into place. It just made sense. “Clean my stinky feet.”

You shudder, any hint of resistance fading in an instant. Your mouth obediently opens and your tongue glides down the length of my sole, picking up all the sweat and grime that gathered from our long walk. The taste is sour and foul but for some shameful reason, that stirs your cock. You didn’t want this, but not wanting it made you so unbelievably hard. My feet had successfully hypnotised your mind, conditioning you to kneel at the mere sight of them. Seeing my sole was the only trigger needed for your mouth to water, for your thoughts to dissipate. For you to become no more than a rag to wipe my feet clean.

“Always glad to see someone enjoy their job so immensely.” I bend forward and pin a little badge to your shirt. The two words printed on it in basic typeface describe your entire existence ‘Foot Cleaner’. Now no one, including you would be confused about your role in life.

“Cweeann siiir.” You moan with a mouth full of my flavourful foot cheese.

I laugh above you, flexing my arms as you perform your job. “Good boy. Good foot cleaner. Lick every inch until they’re glistening with your saliva. Aren’t you happy I helped you find the height of your aspirations at the bottom of my feet. Dumb idiot.”

“Yusss, thank you sir.” You wanted to be a good obedient boy for master.

“Shut up and work.” I shove my feet into you, rubbing them across your face. “I expect my feet to be spotless slave. You will be here every evening from now on to fulfil your duty. And then you will pay me for the privilege like the pathetic foot slut that you are.”

Do I make myself clear?

[yuquinzel]

— stay with me.

feat. itoshi sae. fluff. short drabble. sae just wants you to stay a little longer.

sae can feel the words repeating in his mind like untamed thoughts, burning his lips with a sort of urgency that’s almost scary.

you’re standing by the door of his apartment, trying to wear your shoes. he wishes he put them inside the cabinet so you’d have taken longer to wear them— then scrunches his nose at the thought.

and then you grab your keys, for a second — sae can’t help but to think it would’ve been nice if you had dropped your keys somewhere on your way so you’d have to stay here longer.

this is not like him, not at all. he’s not really proud of these thoughts either, but the second your hand’s on the doorknob— he really thinks he should’ve done something, anything, to cause you to stay longer than due.

then he stops midthoughts when you get on your tiptoes to be able to kiss him— he’s still too tall for you. he smiles and lets you tug him down with his face in your hands as you pull him in for a kiss.

sweet and warm and tentative, you’re too much and not enough at the same time. it’s then he thinks that — fuck it, he doesn’t want you to leave.

“stay with me.” he plays with the words, lets them free to echo throughout his apartment.

you smile at him, “i need to go sae, i have my lessons tomorrow.”

“i don’t care. stay with me.” he says again, firm and bold. he knows he’s being way too selfish with the sudden request, but he can’t help it when it comes to you.

“for the night? no way, sleeping next to you is a trap. you won’t let me get up.” you roll your eyes.

“no, for the rest of our lives.”

for the rest of our lives— he says it more casually then he’d ever expected to, the words rolling off his tongue before can stop himself. and once he does, he thinks of how the time could ever exist when he decided against it. it sounds like something he should’ve said a long time ago. like it’s something meant to be said by him and to be heard by you.

“like, right now?” your voice trembles ever so slightly.

“yeah, like, right now.” sae laughs a little, closing the distance between you both in one long stride.

“i don’t understand—” you breathe.

“marry me.” he says, pressing his lips to your forehead, “i want all your tomorrows.”

he briefly imagines it, like he’s done countless times before. a life with you, improvised and laced with the ache of home. something to call ours — not his or yours. something much like your heartbeats, as though they’ve collided and synchronised as one, sae can’t tell if it’s his or yours. so he calls it our heartbeats instead.

the silence that follows nulls his prior thoughts. he’s not particularly scared of what your answer is to be. in this moment— the pattern of your breathing being nothing but a comforting reminder that he’s not alone— sae thinks this is where he belongs. this is how it should be.

“okay,” you laugh, arms going to wrap around his waist as you look up at him again, “they’re all yours.”

your answer does not catch him off guard — nothing about you ever does and maybe that is why you’ve been able to slowly chip away his exterior, a carefully guarded wall so gently crumbled down until he did not realise it himself— you were always there, it was always you. he has never been more sure of it than now.

he feels a smile tugging at his lips, but then again, it’s not really intentional. you bring it out of him without even trying.

when he kisses you again, the fervent clash of your lips followed by a smile making its way between it — you know what it means. it’s a thank you in all its meanings. “ours,” he corrects you, “they’re all ours.”

© yuquinzel2023 [ plagiarism is a violation of moral rights ! ]

what ??

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: not gonna even acknowledge the time break between chappies... all i'm gonna say happy cassian chappie ! <3! i hope u all enjoy it mwah thank u for reading

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: Adjusting to life in Velaris means learning to train with new, friendly faces. A tentative friendship forms. Azriel keeps his distance.

CHAPTER NINE :: FRIENDS (IN OTHER PLACES)

Whoosh.

Training staff gripped tightly in your calloused hands, you swing with a muscle memory built over decades, the stick whistling as it cuts through the air with deadly precision. Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard.

You're going through the motions. A simple warm-up, running a drill that you've done enough times you could probably do it in your sleep. The movements are familiar, easy. Routine.

If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine you're still in Exordor.

Except... there's no familiar wind current to perform its melody in the early morning, dancing through the mountainside trees. No frozen chill to the air around you. No crunch of snow beneath your feet to throw your balance. No bound chest to chafe your skin.

No looking over your shoulder in pure panic at every unexpected noise.

Well, not quite that last one. It's a habit you're dedicated to breaking for the sake of your shot nerves — but evidently failing, considering how you straighten up and whip around when the door leading out to the training ring shudders open.

You hold your breath on instinct and clutch the training staff tighter.

Stepping out into the early morning air, the dawn still unbroken, is another Illyrian warrior.

Mother, how many of them were there around here?

You hadn't got to meet anyone else after that encounter on the balcony, almost exactly one week ago. Hadn't exactly wanted to either.

You hadn't even wanted to see Azriel again so soon after the churning, sickening twist of emotions you had barely managed to stumble through after your severe reawakening.

He hadn't come to see you.

You hadn't asked.

Besides Madja, Rhysand was the only new face you had come to know. He had taken to coming by your room a couple times over the week, checking on the progress of your healing, particularly sympathetic on the state of your wings. Revealed his own with a polite flourish.

He was... different than you were expecting. Perhaps you were learning that rumours are not everything — certainly it's clear that there is more to Rhysand than what first appears.

As Highlord, he had to discuss your potential living situations once you were healed enough to leave the infirmary.

I meant what I said. He had said, violet eyes kind as he hovered at the end of your bed. You're no prisoner here. You'll be free to go wherever you wish, even back to Exordor if that's what you decide.

And if I don't? You had whispered, your gaze fixed on the fine sheets of the bed. If I decide that... I have no home there anymore?

Then you'll have a home here. For as long as you would like.

And though it overrode every single instinct you had learned to trust, everything that had kept you alive this long, you chose to take his word for it.

Rhys said no harm would befall you in Velaris and you would be welcome here for as long as wanted.

But... that didn't mean you were exactly looking to make new friends.

Staring the newcomer that enters the balcony with much less grace than that of usual Illyrians, you watch him closely, not quite daring to take a breath.

At a first glance, you had thought it might be Azriel—heart leaping up your throat—but that was quickly washed away. Something in you knew from the hair standing up on the nape of your neck, before you even saw him properly, that this male was utterly unfamiliar to you.

He's taller, you realise. His hair is a longer and he doesn't quite move with the grace of the Shadowsinger — though, perhaps you are just so unused to seeing a male so relaxed. So caught off guard, in fact, that when he turns he gives a little yelp in surprise.

"Fuck!" He says, one of his large hands jumping out and clenching into a fist —his whole body switching to a fighting stance, you realise— before he relaxes again. His fist uncurls into a less threatening open palm.

"I- sorry, just didn't realise anyone else was out here." His fighting stance melts away, open palm still extended. He gives what you think might be a friendly smile.

You don't respond, only gripping the training staff a little tighter. Every hackle is raised, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, and your entire body winding itself up to prepare to fight, if it comes down to it.

The male seems to realise this as his next move is to raise both hands, palms out, the universal signal for surrender. They're large, tanned, and void of the scars you've come to know on Azriel.

However, where there are usually shimmering cobalt blue siphons, this newcomer has dazzling ruby red ones instead. You count each of his. Seven.

Your throat tightens — like all of Illyria, you've heard of this warrior too. The Lord of Bloodshed.

He doesn't exactly look so fearsome at the moment, his expression easy-going, even friendly, from behind his raised hands.

He seems to be waiting for you to make a move or to speak but after a moment, he realises neither are going to happen.

"Rhys said there might be another Illyrian around." He says, taking a tentative step forward, in the direction of the training ring, letting his hands drop to his side. You notice how he tucks his wings in a little more, like he might be trying to be respectable. Polite.

He's watching you closely. "Didn't mention you were a female, though."

Instinct makes you want to sneer in response — the only time Illyrian males bother bring up the differences in sex is to make some nasty comment about the biological weakness of females.

Not born to be warriors. They spit. Fragility is bred into them from the moment they're conceived. Breakable. Less than. A female in the training ring has as much place does as a male does in the kitchen.

But this male... says female in a way you've never quite heard before. As though he's somewhere closer to awe.

"My name is Cassian," The male introduces himself, his tentative steps becoming more of a stroll as he wanders across to the weapons stand. He eyes them halfheartedly, his focus still on you.

He turns lightly, tucking in one of his wings to peer back at you. "And yours is...?"

You still haven't moved, only tracking his movements with a slight shift of your eyes. Part of you wonders if he already knows your name and he's simply being polite.

Cassian nods as though you've spoken, despite the fact you haven't made a sound.

"Okay, not a big talker, I get it." He dips his head in a little nod, giving you an easy smile, then a quick wink. "Promise I don't bite."

No reaction. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a joke or not.

Either way, Cassian turns and focuses on his selection, pulling one of the training staffs off the weapons rack into his strong, sure grip.

Despite Rhysand's promise, your heart begins to rabbit wildly.

You wonder if this is some sickening game of cat and mouse—if he's perhaps going to tire you out before he selects his true weapon. If he wants you to know he can best you, even without a blade at his disposal.

You're a decent fighter—hell, a great one even—but you know better than to expect to come out on top against the Lord of Bloodshed.

You finally force yourself to move; shifting your feet to face him, you sink into a fighting stance, staff poised to face him, prepared to bare your teeth.

Cassian blinks. It takes another moment for him to realise that none of his friendliness is working to thaw your iciness. He quickly sets the training staff back down with a clatter, raising his hands once more.

"Woah," He says, giving a small shake of his head. "Not looking to fight. Unless you and I are in that ring—" He gestures to the training ring behind him. "I will never try to fight you. And... I hope you can say the same for me."

You don't even realise you've released your breath until you deflate a little, relief coming in small, incremental waves.

He doesn't want to fight. There's no proving yourself, at least not today.

Maybe some day in the near future, he'll demand you get in the ring to earn your space here—because that was the first thing you ever learned as an Illyrian warrior. But not today.

Reluctant and relieved all at once, you lower your training staff.

Your hesitance or silence doesn't seem to hinder Cassian. In fact, he smiles at the motion.

He's quite handsome, you note. In that rugged way, not quite so classically handsome as Azriel. The unexpected thought makes you flush. You shake it away with a shiver.

"You have your reasons for your unease I bet," Cassian continues, his hands drifting back to his sides. His wings have begun to spread out a little more, as if relaxing.

"And if you want me to piss off, I certainly will. My goal is not to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. But... well, I do have just one question."

He pauses, as if waiting for something. Permission, you realise faintly, which surprises you enough that you give a rather jerky nod, permitting him to ask his question.

A brilliant smile spreads across Cassian's face. "Did you really stab Azriel with a fork?"

The question takes you by utter surprise, fresh bewilderment rippling across your features. You shift back almost awkwardly, stepping out of your fighting stance. The memory from months ago rises up inside, the first meeting in your lonely shelter.

How did he know that? He could he know that?

"I—" You trip over the words, not entirely sure how to answer the question. You can't quite tell why he's asking—is he assessing you as a threat? Your voice is tentative and guarded as you murmur out, "...yes?"

You don't think it would've mattered how you answered truly, as the moment you confirm it, Cassian roars in laughter, his head thrown back and his hand clutching his belly. He laughs loudly for a moment, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"Holy shit, I thought Rhys was kidding! Cauldron, what I would've given to see that." His hazel eyes glitter brightly, as though he's excited. "Was he surprised? I bet he was. Where did you stab him?"

His easy tone, like he's talking to an old friend, takes you back. You find yourself responding with an unexpected ease. Looking back on it now, it is a little funny.

"He was," You nod, nearly smiling at Cassian's enthusiasm. Your lips twitch and you gesture to your neck, somewhat awkwardly, miming the motion. "In the neck."

Cassian laughs again. "Oh, and I bet he'd deny the whole thing if it ever came up."

You don't know quite what to say to that—Azriel hadn't ever brought it up and you certainly weren't going to remind him of it. You tilt your head to the side a bit, an unknown feeling making itself known in the pit of your stomach. An anxiety of an entirely different kind.

The male before you is not an enemy. He's not an ally either... and you can't understand what he gains from talking to you.

You can't even fathom the idea that he might just want to be your friend.

So, you turn. Tighten your grip and resume the exercise that had been interrupted. Muscles groan as you work through their achiness, slowly becoming warmer as the hot blood pumps around your body.

Despite what Madja had said a week ago on that balcony, today was actually the first morning you were allowed to train.

For the last seven days, the exercise you were restricted to was mere stretches; only enough to ensure each of your wings could extend fully and that your limbs could move without serious cause for concern.

It had driven you stir crazy.

The only time you ever skipped so many days without training was during your cycle—something you had mercifully missed the end of this time around, hidden away in your unconsciousness.

So, at the first opportunity, when you rose from your bed this morning and Madja hadn't given you that pointed stare and instead gave you directions, you had found the training area. Began with old routines, if only for the fact you don't know who you are when you're not training.

Inhaling now, the wood of the training staff creaks beneath your iron grip. You're trying desperately to use it as a tether, to some semblance of normal for yourself. It's difficult when there's so many changes lurking.

The solid stone makes you sturdier than before. There's no snow beneath your feet to sink your boots into, to find your balance on. But your injuries aren't entirely healed either.

The pain is not fresh but it's still hindering enough to be a nuisance. Your left ear still twinges from time to time—sometimes it seems to hum so loudly you can't hear clearly, others it dulls altogether. Neither are particularly pleasant to experience.

Pain, however, you have plenty of experience in. Gritting your teeth and pushing through it is practically standard for the Illyrian way; especially when you know your body. You know how much it can take. You know it's been through worse.

But the pesky problem with your ear keeps you off balance, just enough that it shows in your motions.

You keep stumbling around like a goddamn fledgling with every new attempt, footing clumsy, which makes you burn in humiliation because that's what you learn first. It's impossible not to feel unendingly frustrated as decades of training all get shifted slightly to the left.

It doesn't help either that there's still those holes in the edges of your wings.

Fae healing is incredibly advanced but even so, there is only so much magic can do.

Lacerations can be healed, stabs and slices stitched up with ease — but a hole, torn forcibly in and through the delicate flesh of Illyrian wings? You know that you should be thanking the Mother that they even still work in their complete capacity.

The skin around where the stakes had been forced is puckered and stiff, whitened by the scar tissue and trauma. It had been sickening the first time you had curled them close around you and realised with a faint horror that you could technically see through them — a irregular circular gash preserved in either wing of how you'd been pinned down.

The air passes through them as you shift, causing an uneasy shiver. They don't catch on the wind quite the same as they did before.

You haven't taken to the skies yet. You're torn between your eagerness to fly again, to prove to yourself that they can still, and the sinking fear that that's something new you'll have to relearn as well.

So, instead, you run through the training drill for the nth time, trying to get back in sync with your own body. Trying to push past where it seems to falter and trying and failing to not care that your wavering movements now have an audience.

Watching him subtly out the corner of your eye, Cassian appears to be running drills of his own, a gentle warmup. He stretches his toned arms above his head, the motions limber and easy. Briefly, your mind wanders to Azriel's own morning training —never mind that you did have experience training with him over many mornings — and the most peculiar fluster flows through you.

You bite your cheek and rein in your drifting thoughts, gripping the staff tighter.

Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard. Your left eardrum squeals, jumping abruptly in volume at the motions, and though you manage to contain yourself to a wince, your twist goes off kilter.

Your wings stretch out to counterbalance but they don't catch the wind as well as you're used to. Your feet stumble to realign and all you can think is how fucking easy it would be decimate you in a fight in that second.

Something awful starts to grow in your throat and it takes a full moment to realise its the urge to cry, clawing up your throat.

You inhale shakily, eyes fixed on the stone beneath you, and will them away. You weren't a crier — but then again, never had you ever felt quite so utterly hopeless as you were right now.

You've always had this—always had the fight from within your bones, always had your body, always relied on your dexterity to push you forward.

Shadow covers the stone before you. Your head shoots ups, that same panic you can't shake jolting in your chest.

"Hi." Cassian says, giving a little two-fingered salute. He smiles kindly. "Cassian. We met maybe, uh, 5 minutes ago? Remember that?"

You blink at him, not even noticing how the distraction sends away the urge to cry. Swallowing thickly, you give a tentative nod.

"Fantastic. Great memory." His smile melts into a grin and though it sounds like he's teasing, you don't exactly feel like it you who's being made fun of. "I— I have no doubt you're an excellent fighter, especially considering you managed to land a hit on a warrior such as Azriel."

Cassian seems to hear his words only after he's said them and gives a minuscule frown. "Wait, don't tell him I said that. He'll never let me live it down."

When you don't react in amusement as he was aiming for, Cassian changes his tone again, more serious this time.

"Look, I might not be exactly sure what happened that meant you ended up here. I know it might not seem like a welcome change of pace but— well- and what I mean to say is— I can see your missteps."

The admittance of your failings makes humiliation swell up within you. You avert your eyes. Cassian, aware of his awful blunder, barrels on.

"But I can see you're getting your feet again." He adds, softer than before. "After whatever happened to you and your wings, I can tell you're already doing better than most Illyrians would. I also know that everything is easier with a little support."

Your gaze tugs back to Cassian's face as his sentence ends, the offer within it leaving you momentarily dazed. He wants... to help you?

You open your mouth to say just that—but instead, say, "They... didn't tell you?"

Something foreign yanks on your heartstrings. You can't say you had expected privacy, not when Rhysand was already generously providing you with both medical aid and a place to lay low and recover. You were in no position to ask for more.

Suddenly, you become hyper aware of your wings and their gaping, obvious scars to pair with the thin white lines of the lashes adorned across them. You rein them back self-consciously, keeping them tucked close against your back. There's relief in that simple motion alone.

"It is not their story to tell." Cassian nods, grave and serious. "And, just as important, sharing it is not a requirement to be allow yourself a little support."

You don't have to tell him, if you don't want to.

Before you, an Illyrian male, like so many that you've detested all your miserable life, and he doesn't know a thing about you. He doesn't get to know what happened unless you decide to tell him.

You taste his words, mulling them over in your mind as you try to figure out what he means. In the heart of it, you can't understand what he truly stands to gain from this offer of support.

"What... kind of support?" You question warily.

Unthinkingly, your grip tightens on the training staff once more—a knee-jerk reaction to the idea of baring your vulnerabilities. It had been well-trained out of you. Connections of any kind risked exposure... and well, the one time in your life you had given it a go, it had only been proven true.

"Whatever you wish." Cassian grins, as if pleased you had asked that exact question. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and rattles off his list easily, with a slight shrug of his armoured shoulders. "Friendship? Training? Someone to listen when you need it or to drink your sorrows with? I've had plentiful practice with all."

He sends you another wink, teasing and easy like everything else about him. It's disarming actually, just how different he is from what you had been expecting from only the rumours around Exordor. Lord of Bloodshed. He's so...casual.

After another beat of silence, Cassian clears his throat when it becomes clear you aren't exactly jumping onto any of his initial offers. The caginess you exude is palpable and something ragged in Cassian's chest tears wider at whatever his mind conjures up about what might be lurking your past.

True to his word, Rhys hadn't delved into your story or how you came to end up here at the House of Wind.

All Cassian knew for sure is that Azriel had talked of training with a bastard some months ago and now, you were here. A female warrior from Exordor.

Cassian thinks that Azriel likely would've mentioned it if the bastard he was working with was female—but he hadn't. There's much more to your story, he can tell, and it seems to ripple from the edges of your wary, dangerous form at just a glance. Almost a full picture for him to realise, to see clearly.

But... these things were earned.

If Cassian wanted to be your friend, to know your story, he would do it the honourable and hard way.

He would become someone that you could trust in this new, unfamiliar place and he knew it was possible because what Cassian knew lay within him was reflected in you. The one clear part of the picture.

A warrior who knows themselves best when they're fighting.

"Train with me. Please." Cassian tries once more, ready to relent if it was too much, too soon. "There is a lot we can teach each other, I'm sure."

That seems to catch you by surprise, your brows jumping a fraction up your face. You school the expression away quickly but not before Cassian catches it. He nods.

"What do you say?" Cassian grins again, holding out his hand, palm up. Nonthreatening as can be. "Friends? Allies? Reluctant rooftop sharers? I'll take any happily."

You eye his hand, that still cautious air in your gaze, but Cassian can see as something settles within you. Tentatively, you reach forward and put your hand in his, giving it an awkward, stilted shake.

"I'll take allies for now," You say, somewhat demurely. It's taking a mountain load of trust for you to do so, Cassian knows. He does not take that trust lightly.

Cassian grins. "Allies it is."

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