#they bake it fresh every day they’re open

[dreaming-medium]

Stray Kids Kinktober Day 9

Stray Kids Kinktober Masterlist

A/B/O - Lee Know

Word Count: 11.1 K

Summary: It’s not your fault the Orange Needle Lily only grows in a protected part of the forest. While trying to gather ingredients, you’re confronted by a pack desperate for a healer to aid their injured pack member.

—————————————————————————

Running, you were running. Sweat is pouring down your back and the sides of your face. But, there’s no time to stop and wipe it off. 

Trees whipped past you with every step, branches caught on your clothes and tore small rips in the fabric, some leaving small slices in your skin. 

But that was the least of your worries right now. 

You knew you shouldn’t have been here. You knew.

How else were you going to get the ingredients you need? The Orange Needle Lily only grew in a remote area of the Enchanted Forest. 

A very well protected area of the Enchanted Forest. 

Normally, when you made these trips, you were able to sneak in, pick a large bundle of lilies and then slip out unnoticed. 

But from the rain yesterday, the ground was still damp, so you slipped and fell and made one of the loudest noises of your life. 

Every single nerve in your body lit up with fear the second it happened. Growls and howls sounded in the distance. 

So, you took off. 

The snarls have only gotten louder the farther you run from the original area. 

Everyone in the Kingdom knew to stay away from that area of the Enchanted Forest. The wolf pack that lives there has made their mark very clearly. Do not enter their land. 

And you fucked up.

Loud, heavy, galloping thuds gain on you. 

Your eyes scan the woods wildly to search for any sign of familiarity. Are you even running the right way back to your village?

A log is in your way so you hurdle over the top of it. 

You need to keep going. 

Run, run, run. Keep running. Don’t look back. If you look back for even a second you’re dead meat. 

A bone chilling bark comes from right behind you, two over snarls respond to it. 

Your village is so close, you can smell the fresh bread being baked. 

A dark figure jumps out in front of you and cuts off your path. 

You scream and backpedal to get away from its gleaming yellow eyes. 

When you turn around you see another dark figure already behind you. 

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, pleas for your life are stuck in your mouth. 

When the dark figures get closer, you realize they’re two enormous wolves. Of course the pack was chasing you. Of fucking course. 

Faster and faster your heart begins to beat. You gulp, hands clutching at your skirts to keep them hiked up. 

There’s two wolves encroaching closer and closer. Didn’t you hear three seats of snarls?

“Please,” you beg, your throat getting tighter and tighter with unshed tears of fear. “I was only trying to collect Orange Needle Lilies, look.”

To prove your point, you turn to reach into the pouch that’s hanging around your body. 

The wolf in front of you lets out a bone chilling bark. You yelp in response, hands flying up away from your body to show you mean no harm. 

“I am so sorry,” you plead, closing your eyes in fear and shrinking in on yourself. “I am a healer!”

With shaky knees, you take a step backwards and the wolf behind you growls. 

There’s a long series of snaps and a whoosh to your left. Your head snaps over to look but the wolves keep their eyes on you like prey. 

“You are a healer?” A male voice asks from behind a tree. 

“Yes! I am from Beckinsale. Please, I mean you no harm.” Tears form in the corners of your eyes. “Orange Needle Lilies only grow within your lands. Please, I mean you no harm. I need them for a tonic.”

From behind a tree, a man with jet black hair and fair skin steps out. He’s only wearing tattered shorts on his muscular body. Dark brown eyes study you carefully. 

“How high is your skill?” He asks with a raised brow. 

“Very,” you answer quickly. “I am the village healer. All ailments are brought to me.”

He thinks for a moment, keeping his eyes trained on you. “Can you cure infections?”

“Yes, if I have the proper ingredients.”

Why is he asking?

Suddenly, the larger of the two wolves barks at the man and growls after. 

“Easy, Changbin,” the man says. “She can heal Minho.”

The other wolf huffs, rolling its amber eyes. 

“You have an injury among you?” Your hands grab at the strap of your pouch nervously. 

“Aye, we believe it to be an infection.” He shuffles a bit. “Do you think you could take a look?”

A loud huff comes from behind you.

“What other option do we have?” The man grits out between his teeth to the wolf. 

The wolf snorts once more.

The man stares directly into your eyes, “You are coming with us. And you’re going to heal our packmate.”

Chills rip down your body, danger is licking at the back of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch together and you swallow nervously.

“Are you going to kill me?” you whisper meagerly. 

The man laughs, “We will see once our friend is healed, won’t we, Omega?”

Your jaw clenches with fear at the mention of your secondary gender. 

Orange Needle Lilies were used for a specific purpose: scent blockers. Just this morning you had run out of your tonic without realizing your supply of the flower had run out. 

The trip was necessary if you had hoped to block your scent at all. 

But with the small amount of the blocker tonic and the sheer volume of sweat dripping down your body, there was no way you were going to be able to block your scent. Especially not from a wolf pack. 

Lycans’ sense of smell were more powerful than humans. It’s most likely that even if you had put on the full amount of blocker, they would still be able to pick up on your scent.

“Come on, then,” the man says to you and there’s a sharp nudge at your back. One of the wolves was pushing you forward with his snout.

------------------------------------------

The man, who you now know is named Seungmin, walks on your left. The wolf known as Changbin is on your right, and Seungmin told you that the other wolf’s name is Hyunjin.

Neither of you have said a word since then, he just continues to lead you through the Enchanted Forest away from your village.

“You must have a death wish. An omega prancing into a pack’s known territory all by herself.” Seungmin breaks the silence.

“I told you it is the only place the Orange Needle Lily grows,” you murmur, clutching your satchel closer to your body.

“And it is worth your life?”

You answer without hesitating. “Aye.” The next sentence comes out quieter. “A scent blocking tonic saves the life of an unmarked omega.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the three sets of eyes shift to side-eye you. You keep your eyes forward and keep walking. 

Eventually, you make it to a small clearing in the woods. Four different hut-like houses sat in a semi-circle. There was a garden off to the side with fresh fruits and vegetables, tables and a spit for cooking over.

“Seungmin!” A voice called over. It sent chills down your spine. Nervously, you look over to see a larger man stalking towards you.

Golden eyes trained on you with an overprotective glint to them. The wind carries past him and his scent wraps around your mind.

Pine and bergamot floods your system. Alpha . He is a pure-blood alpha. 

You can’t hold his eye contact, you immediately look down at your shoes in the dirt. Instincts take over and you curl in on yourself in his overbearing presence.

“Who is this?” He growls when he gets closer to you.

“A healer.”

“You brought a stranger into our den?”

“I brought a healer to heal Minho.”

So many scents of different wolves wrap around your brain and overwhelm your senses. Alphas and betas, all of them, but no omegas. At least, none that you’re able to smell.

“She is not getting near Minho.”

“Chan, he is going to die if we do not have him healed!” Seungmin barks back at his alpha.

The pheromones that pour out of them make your skin crawl. Seungmin is only a beta, and yet he is standing up to his alpha so confidently.

He stands nose to nose with Chan, keeping his eye contact. Chan bares his teeth.

The same crackling and whooshing noise comes from behind you.

“Chan, someone needs to heal him. Our remedies are not working.” Changbin says to him.

Chan doesn’t break eye contact with Seungmin, but Seungmin doesn’t back down either.

“He will pull through, we do not need a healer.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and keep your eyes on the dirt. Your voice comes out weak. “What are you using on his wound?”

Chan’s head snaps over to you. “It does not matter to you.”

“Your protective nature will be the death of him!” Seungmin hisses. “Let her heal him before we all lose him.”

Chan bristles and snarls at Seungmin, but he doesn’t flinch away, he stands firm in his stance.

“We are crushing up Snow Weed and laying the paste on the wound.” Hyunjin answers you finally. 

You look up at the beta with alarmed eyes. “That will only create a cover over the wound, you are trapping the infection inside his system with no exit!”

Alarmed, you look over at Chan, who is eyeing you closely. “If there truly is an infection, your packmate is in dire need of care. Please, let me heal him. I mean you all no harm.”

The alpha stares at you. Ignoring your instincts, you hold his searing eye contact.

“Chan,” Seungmin draws his attention. Chan doesn’t look away from you but turns his chin slightly towards Seungmin to show he’s listening. “It is our only option.”

The alpha thinks for a long moment before he speaks. “You will heal him, then you will leave.”

“Aye, as you wish.”

“If you harm a hair on my packmate’s head, we will kill you, understood?”

You gulp. “Aye, understood.”

He eyes you closely for four more heartbeats. “Come then, omega.”

------------------------------------------

You could smell the infection before you saw it; you were also able to hear the sound of shallow, wheeze-like breathing the moment you stepped foot inside the hut.

A man lay on a bed in the back of the hut, a blanket covering him. A damp towel sat on his forehead to try and keep him cool. His eyes were squinted shut in pain, mouth open to intake each pathetic pant and gasp for air.

A thick layer of sweat covered his flushed face.

When you rounded the corner and took another step towards him, another person stepped in front of you with bared teeth. A beta– and a protective one at that. 

“She is here to heal Minho, Jisung. Back off.” Seungmin called out quickly.  

Jisung’s jaw clenches and he hesitates for a moment before taking a step away from you. 

Quickly, you walk over to the edge of the bed. You go to reach for the blankets, but you stop your hands over the top. 

You turn around and look at Chan, at the Alpha of the pack. “May I?”

His gaze softens for a moment at your sign of respect. Chan nods and you turn back, slowly peeling back the covers. 

Minho’s eyes squint tighter and he winces in pain. 

The gauze wrapped around his stomach is already soaked through with pus and blood. 

Your heart drops to your gut and you place your satchel of healing ingredients on the bed next to him. 

“I’m going to cut the gauze off,” you say out loud to the room before picking up a small dagger. 

The air thickens in the room as your fingers curl around the weapon. Gingerly, you reach forward and slice through the soaked bandages. 

Minho groans in pain and squirms a bit, he’s awake, but obviously feverish. Placing your hand on his cheek, it’s like you put your hands over a fire, he’s burning up. 

Once the gauze is off a gasp catches in your throat. Yes, the wound is covered in crushed Snow Weed, but the infection is leaking out all around it. 

The skin surrounding the wound is purple and angry. How has he survived this long?

“What happened to make him this way?” You asked, inspecting the wound. 

“Arrow wound,” Jisung answers quickly. “He told no one about it until he suddenly collapsed in pain days later. The infection had already taken root by that time.”

You look up at his face, twisted in pain. So, he’s a stubborn bastard. 

“I am going to need a fresh pale of water and a clean rag. Do any of you know of the Dusk Tulip?”

When you receive no response, you turn around and look over your shoulder. Five lycans stare back at you blankly. 

“Do any of you know what a Tulip looks like?”

Hyunjin nods. You zero in on him. “It is a Tulip that grows at the base of Maple trees. Dark purple in color. I need as many as you can get me.”

Hyunjin nods and immediately turns around to sprint out of the shack. 

Jisung moves quickly as well, gathering fresh water and a rag for you. 

You move briskly, dipping the rag in the cold water and ringing out the excess. 

“Hail, Minho,” you say to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know he can hear you. “My name is Y/N, I am the village healer for Beckinsale. And I apologize, this is not going to feel pleasant at all.”

Taking a deep breath, you bring the cloth down to wipe away the Snow Weed coating and the infection that’s seeping out. 

Minho grunts and tenses up. 

With great care, you clean his wound. The coolness of the water brings a slight bit of relief to his feverish skin. 

“Jisung,” you say without looking over at him. “Can you fetch a second pail of water, please?”

Wordlessly, he walks away to grab it. 

Chan has not left the corner of the room, he watches you work on Minho wordlessly. His amber gaze scrutinizes every single move you make. 

With the wound cleaned off, you watch as the outside edges go from purple to a deep red. You’re giving the wound a few moments to breathe before taking the next step. 

The pail of fresh water is placed next to you. You thank Jisung and dip the new, clean rag into it. 

You take the sweat covered rag off Minho’s forehead and begin to dab away at his flushed skin. His breathing is extremely labored and hot against your bare arm. 

You let your eyes roam over his face. Even pulled in pain, he’s absolutely gorgeous.

The rag with cold water runs all over his face. He keens and leans into it, eyes still closed. Your fingers push his hair off his forehead. 

“Chan,” you address the alpha. “You may need to hold him down as I draw the infection out.”

“It will hurt?”

You bite your lip and look down at Minho’s pained face. “Aye, very much so.”

Chan’s boots thud against the wooden floor as he approaches the bed.

“Apologies, Minho. Please know my intentions are not ill.”

Reluctantly, you move away from Minho’s side after placing the fresh, water soaked rag on his forehead. 

Chan stands over Minho, hands hovering over his shoulders, ready to grab him. 

You move your palms to slightly waver over the wound. Slowly, your eyes shut and you concentrate on the energy within you. 

Your hands begin to heat up and emanate a soft, yellow glow. 

Within a few seconds, Minho begins to groan in pain. Since your eyes are shut, you’re not able to look at his face and see the way he writhes in anguish. 

Chan grabs his shoulders tightly and keeps him down on the bed. 

The heat from your palm draws out the infection slowly. With each passing second, Minho’s grunts and growls grow louder and deeper. 

“How long will this take?” Chan asks through gritted teeth. 

“Only a few more moments, apologies. The infection was in his system for days.”

Since Minho is so lost in the throes of his mind, he doesn’t fight back nearly as much as you thought he would. Either that, or his pain tolerance is something out of this world. 

Sweat drips down your face from concentration. 

Once you’re sure the entire infection is clear from his system, you drop the spell and take a deep breath. Your eyes open and you look down at the wound. 

It looks entirely clean. 

Hyunjin comes barreling through the door before you can say anything. 

Both you and Chan’s heads whip around.

“Are these correct?” He holds out a bushel full of Dusk Tulips. 

“Aye,” you say, relieved, and take them from him. “Perfect. I just need to stitch the wound closed first before I can use these. Thank you.”

Pulling out a needle and thread, you get everything ready to suture the wound shut. 

“We did not shut the wound previously because we thought the Snow Weed took away infection,” Seungmin says from behind you. 

“Snow Weed creates an impenetrable covering for wounds. You should use it for when large chunks of skin are missing and cannot be sewn shut.” The thread goes through the eye of the needle. “It is still a smart move to put Snow Weed over a wound, do not misinterpret my words.

“In the case of infection, you need to let it come out of the wound, you were mistakenly keeping it in.”

Chan huffs and takes a few steps away from the bed now that he doesn’t need to hold Minho down. 

Minho’s face seems to have relaxed considerably. His eyebrows are no longer pinched together, lips parted in a sleeping manner. 

“Just a few more moments, Minho. This will not hurt.” You whisper down to him before making the first stitch. 

He doesn’t even flinch. But you were also known for being extremely gentle when it came to sutures. 

You stick a hand full of Dusk Tulip petals in your mouth and start grinding them between your teeth. Spitting the mass in your hand, you start to press the paste down on the now-closed wound. 

“Do you have any fresh bandages?” You turn to Jisung to ask. He nods and rummages through a drawer and gives you the roll. 

“I can assist and sit him up.” Seungmin comes closer to the bed. He gently sits Minho up whose muscles are so limp he may as well be a ragdoll. 

With the bandage secure around his stomach, Minho is laid back down on the bed. 

You grab the rag and dip it in water once more, dabbing any excess sweat from his beautiful skin. You run the rag over his cheeks, down his neck and around the top of his chest. 

After swiping over his scent gland, the smell hits you like a ton of bricks. 

A fresh citrus and woodsy aroma wraps around you like a python. All of your senses light up like a flame. 

Every muscle in your body seizes. 

Mate. Mate. Mate.

No way. He’s your…

Quickly, you place the wet rag on his forehead once more and start gathering up your equipment. 

“He should wake up in a few hours. Allow him to get plenty of rest. You can change his gauze twice a day. Apply more crushed Dusk Tulips to the wound if the infection persists, but it should be completely gone from his system.”

Your voice wavers and everything falls out quickly. Clearing your throat, you throw everything back into your satchel. 

Minho shifts around on the bed, his nose twitching. 

“ M…Mate… ”

You cough loudly and turn around to face the other lycans. 

“May I please return to my village now?”

Chan eyes you closely, then Minho, then back to you. With each moment, you can feel your heart rate increasing. He’s deadpan for a second and then nods.

“Aye, we will have someone accompany you back to Beckinsale.”

“No need,” you blurt out quickly and walk briskly towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you all.”

Before they can respond, you’re out the door, and back into the Enchanted Forest. 

Back in the hut, Jisung walks back to Minho’s side and sits on the stool next to the bed. 

“Thank the Gods we crossed paths with her,” he says, adjusting the blanket around Minho. 

“I have a feeling it will not be the last time we see her,” Hyunjin says cockily, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“What do you mean?” Jisung turns to him. 

“You will find out soon enough.” 

------------------------------------------

Minho was floating in a pool of pain for so long. His mind kept coming in and out to the sound of his pack member’s voices. 

They were talking to him, trying to get him to open his eyes. He just couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried. 

The infection took him by the heart and had him in its evil grip. 

For days he went in and out, he had no idea how much time had passed since he was shot with that arrow. 

All Minho knew was that he was going to be dead soon. That much was certain. 

Until the door to the hut opened and it was like he walked into a Holiday Bakery; cinnamon, apples, and vanilla twisted around his soul and sped up his slowing heart rate. 

What was that beautiful smell?

“She is here to heal Minho, Jisung. Back off.”

Who? Who was here to heal him? They brought a healer in? Chan allowed them to bring a healer to their den? 

The scent gets stronger and stronger. It’s almost enough motivation for Minho to pry his eyes open. 

“May I?” 

Oh, that sweet, melodic voice. Angels are jealous of that sound, Minho is certain of that. 

Your touch is so ginger, he could cry. Minho’s almost forgotten all about the wound drawing his very soul down to the Underworld. 

“Hail, Minho.”  

Every nerve in his body sings at the sound of his name tumbling from your mouth. He’s not even sure what you look like, but he knows you’re gorgeous. An angel, you have to look like an angel. If he was able to open his eyes, you would have a halo above your head. 

“My name is Y/N, I am the village healer for Beckinsale. And I apologize, this is not going to feel pleasant at all.”

Beckinsale? Are you sure you’re not a being of the afterlife here to hold him and keep him safe?

Y/N from Beckinsale who smells like the sweetest pastry he could ever hope to sink his sharp teeth into. 

A rag is dipped into water and the cool bite brings relief over his feverish skin. A sigh of relief comes from his nose. 

He falls into the feeling of you surrounding him. The way your scent wafts through his body and soothes his very soul. 

The pain of his wound is long forgotten about. 

“Apologies, Minho. Please know my intentions are not ill.”

Whatever you say, Angel. 

Minho is vaguely aware of the pain that grips his stomach, it’s searing, like it’s being cauterized. 

But your scent, your beautiful, angelic scent keeps his mind distracted and in the clouds. 

Second by second, the pain gets less and less. The weight that’s been sitting in his chest begins to lift. Heat still hovers over his body, but it only feels like he sat a bit too close to a campfire. 

Then, for the first time since his injury, Minho begins to drift off to a peaceful sleep. Not one where he’s riddled with fever dreams and infection induced nightmares. No, a dreamless sleep surrounded by cinnamon, apples, and vanilla. 

Will you still be here when he wakes up? 

He needs you there. 

He hasn’t even seen your face! You’re his fated other half! 

Minho tries with all his might to wake up, but the comfort of sleep finally wins when you run your beautifully soft fingers through his sweaty hair. 

There’s a slight spike in your scent. 

You pull away from him quickly. 

No, no, no.

Come back. No, please. 

“M… Mate.”

You don’t hear him, you mustn’t have. You’re still leaving, please don’t go. No, please. 

Your scent gets weaker and weaker. It no longer sits in the room with you. 

Minho gives up and falls asleep on the sweat covered bed. 

Y/N from Beckinsale. 

It definitely won’t be the last time he’s in a room with you.

------------------------------------------

“Now,” you put your hands on your hips after tying the tiniest bandage around a little boy’s knee. “What did we learn about running in the alley?”

“Not to…” he sniffles and wipes the snot leaking from his nose. 

You laugh and reach forward, wiping the tears from his eyes gently. 

“Exactly, now go on back home for dinner.” You laugh and ruffle his hair. “There’s a basket full of sweets by the door, make sure you grab one. I read in a book somewhere that they make wounds heal faster.”

His eyes light up and he hops off the table, running towards the door and grabbing an entire handful of sweets. 

“Thank you, Y/N!” he yells as he runs outside. 

Another laugh falls from your lips and you clean up the patient table he was sitting on. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see an almost empty tonic bottle sitting on your workbench. 

It’s been three weeks since you healed Minho in the middle of the Enchanted Forest. It’s been three weeks since you had access to Orange Needle Lilies

And it’s been three weeks since you’ve found your mate. 

You need more flowers for your own safety. But if you venture back into their land, would they let you leave this time?

Biting your lip nervously, you pace around the floor. 

You should’ve asked. You should’ve said that was your one condition for healing him. But were you really in the position to be making demands? 

“Shit,” you mutter, still staring at the bottle. 

Not having the scent blocker is not a chance you’re willing to take. Especially since there’s an alpha in your village that has been eyeing you up like fresh meat for months now. 

You need those flowers. 

If you run into the pack, maybe they’ll spare you. You did save Minho’s life after all.

Within a few moments, you have your travel boots laced up and your satchel across your body. A dagger sits comfortably in your pocket. 

You’re out the door and walking into the enchanted forest before you can think twice about it. 

The air gets thicker the deeper you get into the woods, that’s something you always noticed. It gets heavier and inflates your lungs differently. 

A hum rings low through the trees. 

Get in, pick the flowers, get out. Get in, pick the flowers, get out. 

Your usual area is a clearing in the trees by a babbling brook. The sound of the water flowing over the rocks is usually enough to help conceal your presence to the wolf pack. 

You will not slip and fall again. 

With a racing heart, you lean down and start clipping the Lilies out of the ground. All of your senses on high alert to your surroundings. 

After only about 4 flowers, a twig snaps behind you. 

All of your muscles freeze, your blood runs cold. 

Slowly, you stand up and look around. Maybe it was just an animal that ran by. Could’ve been a rabbit, or a squirrel. 

“You have a lot of nerve coming back here, I will give you that.”

Or a wolf. 

“Seungmin,” you gulp and look at the ground nervously. “I apologize, I truly mean no disrespect, I just need these-“

“Flowers, yes, I understand.”

He walks closer to you, face completely unreadable. You look up from the ground at the beta. 

Tattered shorts and a mostly ripped shirt adorn his body. 

“You cannot keep coming here, Y/N.”

“Please, you do not understand I-“

“Y/N.”

His tone is somewhat begging. 

“Seungmin, they do not grow anywhere else.”

“You will have to find an alternative.”

Your jaw clenches and your heart squeezes. An alternative to a scent blocker? 

“I do not see the harm in my being here. I only require flowers.”

Your own bravery surprises you. 

“If we let you galavant all over our land, we would have to let everyone do so.”

“Galavant? I am picking flowers!” You sputter and frown, an angry look begins pulling at your face. You take a few steps closer to Seungmin. 

The beta bristles outwardly at your confrontation but holds his ground. 

“Do you forget that I saved your packmate’s life? I am only asking to come pick flowers. Flowers that will save my life.”

His eyebrows furrow in confusion. 

“Your life?”

“I am unmarked, Seungmin. If he catches a whiff I-“

You cut yourself off. Looking down at the ground, you sigh, throat constricting with frustrated tears. 

“Just forget it. I will not bother your pack anymore.”

Both of you stand in silence for a long moment before you gather yourself and brush past Seungmin. 

You bump your shoulder into his. 

It’s petty, but you do it. 

“By the way,” you start without looking back. “I can tell by the redness of your eyes you are beginning to fall ill with a seasonal sickness. Chew on onion stems to help keep the symptoms at bay.”

And with that, you walk away from the clearing. Only four Lilies in your satchel. 

------------------------------------------

“I am fully healed and you know it, you should have let me go with Seungmin.” Minho’s voice has a sharp bite to it. 

Chan continues walking away, not giving Minho the time of day. But the younger wolf walks after him. 

“Seungmin can handle one person by himself,” Chan responds, picking up the ax to cut firewood. 

“I am aware of that, but you will not let me leave the den. Why am I some sort of prisoner now?”

“Drop it, Minho.”

He splits a log in half with a mighty swing. 

“One measly little injury and suddenly you imprison me!”

“Minho.”

Another swing. 

“It has been weeks and every time I try to go anywhere you look down upon me.”

“You almost died!” Chan whips around at him, fire in his eyes. “And if it were not for that human you would be dead.” He spits at him. 

The way he sneers when he mentions you has Minho’s blood boiling. Anger creeps up under his collar and into his mind. 

“Do not speak of her as if she is scum,” Minho growls. 

Chan’s eyebrows furrow further in anger. “I never said she was scum, you made that jump yourself.”

Both lycans stare each other in the eye, neither wanting to be the one that breaks the intense eye contact. 

“You do not even know her, Minho.”

“I do not need to!”

A whoosh followed by snapping comes from the edge of the woods. 

“Another pissing contest?” Seungmin sighs as he walks closer to the two brooding Alphas. 

Chan glares at Minho for a moment longer before looking at Seungmin, who was chewing on an onion stem. 

“Did you take care of the problem?”

“Aye, it was only-“

“Good.” Chan interrupts him and turns to walk away. He only just started chopping wood; why was he leaving already? And why did he cut Seungmin off?

“Who was it?” Minho presses, lips pursing in confusion. 

Seungmin’s eyes flicker from Minho, to Chan, then back to Minho before shaking his head. 

“A stray beggar. I took care of the problem.”

He shifts from foot to foot and then walks past Minho. The wind kicks up at that moment.

That’s when Minho smells it. 

Cinnamon, apples, and vanilla. 

Acting on instinct, Minho’s hand flies out and grabs Seungmin’s tattered shirt in a death-like grip. 

He yanks him to be nose to nose.

“It was her,” he grits out between his teeth. “Y/N was there.”

Surprise flickers through Seungmin’s eyes. His hand comes up and grabs Minho’s to try and get him to release his collar. 

Chan stops mid step and turns to look at them. 

“My mate was here. That’s why you would not allow me to go with Seungmin. Not because you were concerned about my health.”

Minho grips Seungmin even tighter. 

“What did you do to her?” He barks. “Did you hurt her? If you even laid a hand on her, I swear to the Gods, I will-“

Seungmin shoves his shoulder roughly. “You will do what? Nothing, now back off. I did not even touch her, she pushed into me as she was leaving.”

“Why was she here?” Minho presses.

“Drop it, Minho.” Chan growls.

He ignores him, “Why does she keep coming here?”

“Flowers.” Seungmin snaps at him, walking away from the two bristling lycans. “She comes here for Orange Needle Lilies, she uses them as a scent blocker.”

“A scent blocker?” Minho asks. Chan doesn’t respond. He stares him down, his alpha gaze does nothing to unnerve his packmate.

A feeling of dread begins to crawl up his spine and settles at the back of his neck.

Minho turns on his heel, his mind made up.

There’s a rough yank on the back of his collar. Involuntarily, Minho growls and turns, teeth bared at whoever grabbed him.

Chan looks down at him with an equally challenging look. 

“Where do you think you are going?” Chan barks.

“To Beckinsale,” Minho answers dangerously.

“No, you are not.’

“You are not my father. I am going to see my mate.” Minho shoves away from him.

“I am your pack leader and I am saying no , Minho.”

“To Hell with you, Chan.”

With one last push against his shoulders, Minho frees himself from Chan. They both stare at each other for a long moment, neither wolf saying anything, and neither want to give up. 

Eventually, Minho bares his teeth and rolls his eyes before walking away back into the hut.

That nagging, anxious feeling continuously pricks at the back of his neck, making all of his hair stand up on the end. 

Something is happening, something is wrong, he just knows it. 

------------------------------------------

The last of your scent blocking salve was used three days ago. 

Since then you’ve rarely left your home and if you did, you wore a high necked blouse or scarf. You made yourself scarce around the village. 

You’re going to have to return to normal life soon, and you will. But not now. 

Not when your heat is only a day or so away. It could hit any second now, you can feel the beginning stages thrumming within you. Your skin crawls with tiny pin pricks. 

This will be your first heat without scent blockers. And the thought of it is making you a humming ball of anxiety. 

There was only one problem– you needed food to make it through the next few days, and that meant leaving your home. Any other alpha or beta will be able to smell you from miles away. As soon as you step outside your door, you’re surely done for.

You bite your thumbnail and pace right by your front door. A tight, high-collared sweater adorned with a thick knit scarf on top rests on your body.

Why didn’t you go out earlier? 

Staring down out the window, you find your courage– you need food to get through this, there’s no way you’ll make it through without proper nutrition. 

Without another moment to hesitate, you open the door and make your way down to the local market. You wrap the scarf even tighter around your neck and keep your head down.

The sun set about twenty minutes ago, darkness creeping through the sky. 

You decide to take back alleys and less populated streets to the market– at the time, it seemed like the best idea.

It wasn’t until you passed by someone and a low growl came from their throat that you realized that it was, in fact, the worst decision you could’ve ever made. 

The growl was followed by a deep inhale.

Gulping, you try to walk faster to the market, the end of the alleyway was only about fifteen meters away. 

‘Shit, shit, shit.’ You think to yourself.

“Mmm,” the male hums from the back of his throat. “If it isn’t the village healer.”

Your blood runs cold. Out of all the people in Beckinsale, it had to be him. The Blacksmith’s son who had been eyeing you for months, maybe even years– preaching around the village about he was going to lay claim to you one day. 

Deciding to ignore him and keep walking, you pick up the pace, your legs carrying you faster down the alleyway. 

“Do not be daft, girl, I know you heard me.”

Fear creeps up the back of your neck and into your hair. Just keep walking, Y/N. Get into a more populated area. 

A strong, vice grip snatches your wrist and yanks you backwards.

Before you could scream, a hand clamps over your mouth and your body is slammed backwards into the alleyway wall. The stone connects with the back of your skull with a crack.

Rotten, nasty smells surround your nose and your body physically recoils away from it. The Blacksmith’s son was a huge, stocky man whose outward appearance accurately reflected his strength. The hand over your mouth was about as big as your face.

“Is that a heat I smell, little omega?” He leans down further, crowding your space. His greasy hair hangs in front of his eyes.

Alpha eyes getting darker and darker as the smell of your heat seeps through the collar of your shirt and scarf. 

His other hand comes up and rips the scarf away from your neck.

You squeal behind his hand and reach up, trying your hardest to pry it off your mouth to scream for help. Your nails scratch at his leathery skin, your entire body writhes around against the stone. 

Please, anybody come into the alley, please.

His head ducks down and goes right into the crook of your neck and takes a deep inhale. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when you hear the dark growl rumble in his chest.

You shove as hard as you can against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. All those years working as a blacksmith has left him built like a brick wall.

“Holy fuck you smell so good,” he moans into your ear taking in your scent. You’re sure you couldn’t smell that good, not with the fear you’re feeling coursing through your veins and souring the scent. 

He leans back, eyes completely black. The tears in your eyes spill down your cheeks.

“Cannot wait to claim you as my omega.” 

Thick fingers reach up to the top of your shirt and in one sharp movement, he tears open the front, all of the buttons pop open and fly out onto the stone.

Another cry is muffled by his hand. 

Your scent seeps through the alley, filling the cracks in the pavement. 

Sobs wrack your chest.

“Good little omega…” His disgusting fingers trail down your neck.

Right as they’re about to touch your scent gland, one of the deepest, darkest, strongest growls shoots down the alley.

Both of you jolt.

Your eyes frantically look over at the source; scream after scream being muffled by the Blacksmith’s hand.

Bright, amber eyes glare down the alleyway with murderous intent. 

The very sight of them fills you with an unreal level of relief. 

“Get your vile hands off my mate .”

His voice is like a balm over your fear. You’ve never felt such instant relief to your emotions in your life. It’s like putting a safety blanket over your shoulders. A haze falls over your mind at the melody.

Mate, alpha, mate, safe, mate.

“Get the fuck outta here, she is unclaimed,” your captor snarls back.

Another snarl comes from the other man. 

He begins to take step after step towards the two of you, each one faster than the other. 

Once his face is visible, your heart leaps in your chest. 

Minho. 

Your mate came to save you.

His eyes lock with yours, they soften considerably as they gaze upon your fear twisted face, the tears still stream down your cheeks. 

It’s the first time he’s seeing your face. His entire world seems to stop. 

You try to whimper his name but it’s still muffled. 

Minho’s eyes flicker back to your captor, darkening once more. 

“I am giving you one last opportunity to let her go before I tear your throat out.” Minho snarls, still striding towards you. His boots click on the stone. 

“I would love to see you try–” The Blacksmith is cut off when Minho punches a sharp right hook into his nose. He stumbles and falls to the ground, clutching at his face. Blood oozes through his fingers. 

You’re able to breathe through your mouth finally. 

“Alpha.” Is the only word you’re able to utter at Minho, chest rising and falling with heavy pants. Your mate’s eyes snap to yours.

He takes in your form carefully, sweeping over each of your features lovingly. Your eyebrows pull together, your skin begins burning with a need to be touching him. You need him to hold you, touch you, kiss you– anything.

“Alpha, please,” you hiss.

He steps closer to you, taking his cloak off from around his shoulders. He wraps it around you carefully, closing the front.

Fresh citrus and woods envelopes you and you could cry even more from the relief his scent brings you. A gentle kiss is pressed to your forehead. 

“Just one moment, dear.”

Minho steps away from you, face immediately morphing into one of murderous intent as he looks at the Blacksmith.

The pathetic man looks up at him with a frightened yelp. “Get away from me!” He cries out.

Minho’s scent invades your senses, wrapping around you and putting you in a protective bubble. You’re vaguely aware of the sounds of Minho beating the living daylights out of the Blacksmith but you couldn’t care less.

Your heat decided to hit you like a brick wall the moment Minho stepped into your senses. Suddenly, he’s the only thing your brain knows. 

You sink down onto the ground, shrinking in on yourself inside Minho’s warm cloak.

Muffled screams and muted punches ring out in the background. But you can only mewl softly, curling further and further into the fabric. 

You don’t even register when the fighting stops. Two warm hands are grabbing you gently, bringing your chin up to meet dazzling brown eyes. 

Minho looks over every inch of your face, his thumbs come up and wipe the tear streaks off your cheeks. 

“Did he hurt you?” Everything about his voice is so tender; its a complete one-eighty from the way he was speaking to the Blacksmith. 

You shake your head, unable to tear your eyes away from his. Your lids droop, chest still heaving with pants. 

It’s like an unscratchable itch settles in your smalls. 

The longer you surround yourself in Minho’s scent, the wetter and wetter your slick gets the fabric.

“Alpha,” you murmur again, leaning into his touch. 

His jaw clenches and he cups you closely, his thumb swipes back and forth over the soft skin of your cheek. Every ounce of his self restraint is being tested. 

Minho’s cock jumps in his pants at the sight of you desperate before him.

His resolve on following Chan’s wishes broke about two hours ago when his wolf kept screaming at him to find you, that something was wrong. 

Chan be damned, his instincts kept you safe.

“Let’s get you home, Y/N.” He reaches forward and scoops you up into his arms.

As the fabric of his cloak shifts around, your scent mixed with his puffs out and into his nose. An audible moan pulls from his throat and he has to shut his eyes and focus on staying calm lest he wanted to take you against the alleyway wall.

The way your warm, homey smells blends together seamlessly with this outdoorsy ones sends Minho’s brain into a frenzy.

Mate, claim, mate, mark, mate. HIs wolf howls at him.

He takes a deep, shaky breath and stands up with you in his arms. You whimper and curl into him further.

Your head falls into the crook of his neck, your nose nudging at his scent gland.

It’s driving him insane.

“Y/N,” he strains out. “Where– Which way?” He asks.

You moan into his neck, rubbing your head all over him, further blending your scents. His knees almost give out right then and there. 

“Need you, Alpha.” Your hand comes out of the cloak and grabs at his shirt.

“I am right here, my little omega.” Minho presses his lips to your forehead. “Please,” he whispers into your skin. “Let me get you home and I will do whatever you need, Y/N. Your alpha will take good care of you.”

Releasing his shirt, you point in one direction down the alley. 

Minho doesn’t hesitate, he briskly walks in that direction, keeping you close to his chest. Throughout the entire walk, you motion in vague directions while nosing at his neck, leaving small pecks that make his legs turn to jelly.

You coo softly against him, squirming around every few seconds as your heat takes a hold of your body.

The timer on his self control is ticking down by the second. 

He’s been dreaming about you ever since you took care of him like some angel from the afterlife, and now that he finally has you in his arms, he never wants to let go.

Finally, you point to a small cottage tucked away in the corner of the village.

Minho heaves a sigh of relief and almost sprints up to the door, opening it and stepping inside so fast you would think someone was chasing him. 

The entire cottage smells like you in the best way. 

After spending night after night trying to recall just how sweet you smell, being inside your cottage feels like a dip in a hot bath. 

He makes his way through the house and into a room that holds a large bed in the middle. 

How can a cottage he’s never set foot in feel so familiar ?

With great care, he lays you down on your bed. When he goes to stand up, your arms lock around his neck. 

“No, Alpha, please,” you whine into his neck. “Need you so bad. I need my alpha.”

Minho audibly groans, he has to place a hand on the bed to stop his body from crumpling. 

“I will be right back, my dove. I only need to check the locks on the door.”

He buried his own face in your neck, inhaling your gorgeous scent. You keen and coo at his attention. 

“You will come right back?” You ask.

“Aye, I will. You will not even know I left the room.”

You press one long, last kiss to the crook of his neck before slowly unwinding your arms from around his neck. 

Minho peels himself away from you and goes back to the front door, checking each and every lock on the door and windows. 

He should take more time to really inspect each one, but his inner wolf is absolutely clawing at his self control. 

Mate. Mark. Claim. Mate. Mine. 

Sweat drips down the back of his neck, his hands shaking. 

But as much as his wolf wanted to claim you, he also wanted to protect you and never let a single thing ever happen to you again. He would make sure that you were never put into harm's way. 

The last lock is inspected and secure. 

Minho turns on his heel and practically runs back to your room. 

The smell of your arousal permeates the air thicker and thicker the closer he gets to your room. You smell so sickeningly sweet, he can’t wait to sink his teeth into you. 

Tiny whimpers invade his ears and each one sends a shot of arousal to his cock. 

He knocks on your door before entering. 

His mouth goes dry, his inner wolf howls. 

In the time that it took for him to check the locks, you pushed pillows and blankets into a nest, his cloak right under your head. 

You also stripped yourself of all your clothes. Your beautiful nude form right in the middle of the bed. 

Fingers buried deep into your cunt. 

Slick drips down your folds and onto the sheets. 

Your fingers seem to be doing nothing to help your hazy state. There was only one thing that could help. 

“Minho,” you moan out, turning your head to look at him. A thin sheen of sweat covers your body. “ Please. ” 

His instincts decide to push him into the passenger’s seat. 

He’s striding to you as fast as his legs would take him, his hands already working on ripping his own shirt off. 

A growl tears from his throat as he climbs on the bed, stalking up your body with predator-like eyes. 

“Did you make a pretty nest for us, little one?”

You nod with a scarlet haze over the bridge of your nose and up your cheeks to your ears. 

Minho wastes no time smashing your lips together. He licks and sucks your mouth like it’s candy.

He cages you down on the mattress with his strong arms. Your free hand threads into his hair and keeps him as close as possible. 

It’s sloppy and disgusting, spit leaks out down your chin. Your tongues dance with one another, he licks around your mouth while you whimper and suck on his tongue. 

Neither of you can control the noises you’re making. 

Your walls clench down on your own fingers. 

“Been dreaming of you every single night, omega.” He growls against your lips before capturing them again. “Your scent has been driving me wild.”

Mewing, you bite his lower lip and pull back for it to snap back against his teeth. 

Slowly, Minho can feel the itch of his own rut beginning to tickle at the base of his spine. Your heat must be triggering it. 

“I have never smelled anything as good as you do.” Minho trails his wet kisses down your neck to lick all over your skin. He stops at your scent gland, his tongue raking over it in slow, long, wet, strokes. 

He’s taking his time like he would with a dessert. 

Every single lick makes you moan and keen into his touch. Your fingers start thrusting in and out of yourself faster and faster. But it doesn’t help, it only makes you burn even more. 

“Minho,” you pant, pulling on his hair. He fights against your pull, not wanting to be parted from your scent gland. “Minho!” You try again, whining. 

He growls low in his throat, one of his hands coming down to glide down the side of your body to your hip. His large palm rests against your red hot skin. 

The licks and sucks are sending you wild. 

“Alpha!” You cry out, his body jolts a bit and he finally lifts his head. Blacked out, hazy eyes watch you closely. “Need you to touch me please. ”

Minho smirks and keeps eye contact with you while kissing down your body. He bites your collarbones, kisses the skin between them, then underneath them.

When he gets down to your breast, he envelopes an entire nipple in his mouth and sucks hard .

You cry out, your head tilting back to arch off the bed. 

Minho has none of that, this alpha wants eye contact, he wants submission to him. He fists a hand in your hair and yanks your head so that you look at him. 

“Eyes on me, Omega.” He licks around your pebbled bud again, sucking harshly. “Perfect,” he says around your nipple. “Perfect for our pups to suckle on.”

Pride rips through you at your alpha’s words. Your heat has you in its clutches, the only thing your body wants is to make pups, breed, fuck, get pregnant. 

Minho switches to the other nipple, keeping his eyes on you. Your hand still in his hair cards through gently, pushing the strands off his forehead. 

After a harsh bite, you grab a fistful with a moan. 

Meanwhile, your slick is dripping down your fingers and staining the sheets underneath you. Every flick of his tongue makes you clench around your fingers. 

You start to thrust in and out in time with his licks. 

It’s still not enough. 

Your eyebrows knit together and you whine, trying to curl your own fingers to make you feel good. 

Minho notices your struggle and smirks. “Do you need your alpha to touch you?”

“Yes!” you cry out, frustration creeping down your collar. “I need my alpha so bad!”

Minho hums and runs his hand down your body to grab your wrist. He sits up after leaving one more mark on your chest. 

Carefully, he pulls your fingers out of your cunt with a wet squelch. 

“Fuck,” he groans under his breath as he watches your slick drip down your folds. The smell is absolutely intoxicating. 

Minho brings your hand up to his mouth, he licks all the way up your forearm, up your hand, to take your fingers into his mouth. 

His hips jolt forward at your taste. 

If he thought your scent was amazing, then your taste was otherworldly. 

His eyes close and he loses himself in your taste, suckling on your lithe fingers, tongue swirling around the digits. 

You’re panting while watching him. Wherever he touches you is the only place that stops burning with need and desire. 

“Minho…” you coo and your hips wiggle around impatiently. 

Bringing your hand out of his mouth, he stares directly at your glistening folds. 

“Need to taste you more.”

He practically dives in, tongue licking a long strip from bottom to the top, circling your clit to lap back down at your hole. 

Your entire body arcs and you scream out in pleasure. One hand flies down to pull at his hair again, your hips grind into his face. 

It feels so good .

Minho grabs your hips, thumbs pressing down on the bone to keep you still. 

He’s losing himself second by second in your juices. It’s like he’s drinking a honeyed ale, he’s getting absolutely drunk on you. 

The entire world could collapse around the two of you right now and he wouldn’t stop. 

His rut seems to have taken full control of his body. 

Mate, mark, claim, taste, fuck, breed. 

His cock is so fucking hard in his trousers but he doesn’t want to take his mouth away from you, not for a second. 

Over and over again he laps at your clit, each time you moan and pull his hair. 

Incoherent babbles fall from your lips telling him how good he’s making you feel, how much you need him. 

“Close, close, close,” you repeat like a prayer, a rubber band pulling tighter and tighter inside you. 

One of his hands moves from your hip to thrust two fingers into your pulsing hole. Minho’s eyes roll back in his head at how soft and velvety you feel around his fingers. 

His wolf howls at him to fuck you already, to sink his cock inside you and cum over and over again until it takes hold. 

But the man wants— no, needs— you to cum in his mouth. 

His tongue flicks over your clit at the same time he curls his fingers up to hit a spot within you and your body tenses. 

Instead of crying out, your mouth stretches open and no sound comes out. 

Your walls clamp down on his fingers and pulse as your orgasm rips through you. The grip on his hair tightens so much. 

As your juices leak out around his fingers, he laps it up greedily. 

Once the main waves of your orgasm pass, you finally let out a strained grunt, chest heaving with pants and moans. 

His name falls from you like a mantra. 

The itch within you was scratched, but just for a split second. The moment you come down from your orgasm, that burning begins once more. 

He knows it. He knows the only thing that’ll make it go away is his knot. 

His fingers slide out of you and he crawls over you to hover over your panting form. 

Your hair is frizzy and messy, eyes hazy and fucked out, swollen lips parted. Minho desperately wants this image of you to stay burned into his memory.

“Minho,” you moan to him. 

“Taste how delicious you are.” Gently, he pushes his fingers past your lips. 

Immediately, your tongue licks around his digits. The feeling causes him to buck his hips forward into yours. His clothed cock ruts into your soaking cunt. 

Both of you moan together. 

You suck on his fingers and taste whatever you can. 

He can only take it for a few seconds before he pulls them away and replaces them with his tongue. 

The taste of your juices is swapped between your tongues. 

“Need you,” you moan between kisses. “Need my alpha.” Kiss. “Need your knot.”

Once more he bucks into you involuntarily. He needs you just as bad as you need him.

“I will give you what you want.” He bites your lip. “My little omega.”

He pulls away from you. “Flip over for me, little one.” 

Immediately, you do what he says. 

Minho stands up from the bed to shuck off his trousers and heavy boots. His cock springs free and he strokes himself a few times, eyes following how you arch your back on your hands and knees, presenting yourself for him. 

His tongue licks his lips and then it pulls between his teeth. 

You’re so fucking gorgeous. 

“Alpha, please ,” you whine and look back over your shoulders. 

He crawls back onto the mattress and gives your ass cheek a sharp slap. 

“Be patient.”

Minho lines up behind you, fisting the base of his cock. He rubs it up and down your slick. 

The two of you moan out in unison. 

Mewling, you push your hips backwards to try and spear yourself on him. Minho is quick to slap your asscheek again. 

“Omegas who do not behave do not get their alpha’s knots.” His hand rubs over where he slapped. 

You whine and bury your face into his cloak still bunched underneath you. Your back arches more and you can’t keep still. 

Your hips twitch, hole clenching around nothing the more he rubs his cock head in your slick. 

“Minho!” You whine, the frustration is killing you. 

He clicks his tongue at your impatience. “Fine, then. I will give you what you want.”

His tone is dark and he shoves into you without further notice. 

Your walls stretch around him deliciously. He’s so big you think you can feel him in your throat. The pleasure shoots right into your thighs. 

Minho’s eyes roll back in his head at the feeling of your wetness surrounding him. 

He doesn’t even try to take it slow. His wolf holds the reins tightly and begins slamming into you over and over again. 

He’s thrusting so hard, his hips slap into your ass with each stroke. 

More babbling comes from your mouth. 

Minho reaches forward and grabs a fistful of your hair, lifting your head up from the cloak. 

Your tongue lulls out of your mouth. 

“Fucking look at that,” he moans in awe. “Only inside you for a minute and you are already cock drunk.”

Your eyes glaze over and you lose yourself in the feeling of him abusing your little hole. 

“Feel so fucking good wrapped around me. You were made for me, little omega.”

The only sound you are able to muster is a tiny ‘ mhmm! ’

“So fucking good for me, good for your alpha.”

“Only for you, Alpha!”

A sharp smack lands on your ass again, you cry out. 

“That’s right. Just for me. Just for your alpha. No one else. This cunt right here is all mine. ”

He looks down at where he can see his cock disappearing inside you to come back out coated in your delicious slick. It makes him feel insane. 

Minho can’t control himself anymore, not that he would want to.

It’s animalistic, the way he wants to devour you. 

He tugs on your hair and brings you up so your back is flush with his chest. The hand in your hair moves around to grab your throat. His other hand splays out on your lower stomach. 

“Can fucking feel my cock fucking you right here.” He presses down on your stomach and your head falls back against his shoulder. 

The moans you’re making are so involuntary. 

“Going to stuff you so full of pups. You’ll look so fucking good pregnant, carrying our children. So swollen and full.” 

At the base of his cock, Minho can feel his knot begin to form, it prods and catches on your entrance more every stroke. 

“Please, please, please,” you cry like a mantra. 

“You want that, little girl? You want to carry my pups? You want me to fuck a baby into you?”

“Yes! Please! Please, Minho! It feels so good!”

His inner wolf howls at your pleasure. It’s all he wants. 

“Close, Alpha. Please, mark me, please, please.”

Minho’s hips stutter at your words, but when his tempo comes back, it’s rough . Every stroke is unforgiving, he’s racing towards the finish line as fast and hard as he can.

Fuck, he wants to claim you so bad. It’s all he’s wanted for weeks since you first set foot in the hut. 

“My omega wants my mark? She wants me to claim her as mine?”

You nod in his grasp, he feels you gulp. “Yes! I need it. Need everyone to know I’m yours.”

Minho growls, his nose buries into the crook of your neck right at your scent gland. 

The idea of you wearing his mark proudly makes him feral: you in low collared shirts to purposefully parade your mating mark, you nursing your pups with that bite inches away. 

He needs it like he needs air to breathe. How can one person make him feel this way? 

His hand squeezes a bit on your throat. 

“I’ll give you my mark, Omega. I’ll claim you. You’ll be mine forever.”

He feels you clench down more. The knot at the base of his cock inflates more and more.

His orgasm is dangling in front of him teasingly. But he needs you to cum again, he needs to feel you clench down around him. 

The muscles in his abdomen are painfully tight. 

The hand on your hip moves to rub circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. 

“‘M close, Minho, please. Bite me, please. My mate, please. ”

His mind whites out. 

Sharp canines sink into your flesh around your scent gland. 

One of the loudest cries of pleasure ever comes from deep within your chest. Your eyes squeeze shut and your walls clench around him as your second orgasm tears through you like a train. 

Minho’s knot shoves inside you as his own pleasure peaks and hits him like a ton of bricks. The sweet metallic taste of your blood flooding his mouth, your scent keeping his brain on Earth. 

Cum shoots from his cock and floods your walls for what feels like forever. 

Neither of you have ever felt something so heavenly before. Two souls merge into one. 

Slowly, you both start coming down to earth. Minho’s hand around your neck starts massaging at the sensitive skin. 

You whine when he removes his teeth from your skin. 

He coos and laps up at the blood streaming down your body. Small kisses pepper the outside of the mark. 

Sweet nothings tumble from his lips. “Beautiful, beautiful mate. All mine. So sweet, so beautiful.”

Carefully, he maneuvers the two of you to lay down on your sides, his knot still buried within you. He has a feeling it will be there for a while.

He brings the blankets up over your exhausted bodies. 

Your skin is no longer burning with need, instead you’re in a content, happy bubble, your mate’s arms wrapped around you safely. 

Never in your life have you felt such comfort. You’re floating on a cloud.

His woodsy smell acts like a second blanket. 

Small hums leave you as you snuggle back into his chest more. 

Minho chuckles and kisses your bare shoulder. 

Your brain comes out of your heat-induced fog. But, instead of panicking, you find yourself happier than ever. 

One of your hands comes up to play with the fingers of the hand that’s by your head. His arm acting like a pillow. 

“I would have gotten shot with an arrow sooner if it meant I would find you.” He jokes, breaking the silence. 

You giggle. It’s music to his ears. 

He continues. “Your voice broke through the delirium of the infection.” Another kiss to your shoulder. “I remember thinking you were an Angel here to bring me into the afterlife.”

You flush, embarrassed at his sweet words. 

“And I remember thinking you were the most handsome man I have ever seen, even laying on your deathbed.”

He hums happily and leans up on his elbow. You turn around as much as you can to look up at him with a happy smile. 

“It is nice to officially meet you, Minho.”

Your fingers come up to brush over his cheek gently.

His heart swells, eyes shine in the candlelight of your room. 

“My beautiful mate.” He leans down and kisses you softly. “Thank you for saving my life.”

You’re hardly able to continue the kiss, you’re smiling too much. “And thank you for saving mine.”

His nose rubs against your cheek in a display of affection. 

“No one will ever harm you again, my dove.”

You laugh and brush your fingers through his hair. Kiss after kiss lands on your bare skin. He focuses more on your mating mark. 

It makes you feel giddy. 

“Well,” you giggle. “I think you may need to protect me from your pack leader.”

Minho chuckles. “He will get over it. I would like to see him try and keep us apart now.”

He leans down and presses your lips together. “My beautiful omega.”

“My handsome alpha.”

[sanctum-of-ramshackle]

Egg Waffles, anyone?

[TWST AU]: MC/Yuu sells waffles (and other desserts) to get by.

[Synopsis]: In this timeline, what if MC/Yuu starts selling the Hong Kong-styled Waffles and other delicious snacks from their home world? That way it can provide enough Madol for both Grim and themselves than whatever allowance Crowley has given them. (Cheapskate bastard-)

[Gender Neutral MC/Yuu]

[TW]: Little bit of Ace slander

[(A/N)]: I actually work at my mom’s dessert bar and we make fresh waffles with ice cream + toppings or just plain with the option of adding sugar powder. Another note is if you don’t know what it looks like. It’s something like this:

[Original Image Source]: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.cnn.com/travel/amp/hong-kong-bubble-waffles/index.html

[(A/N)]: There’s also a recipe I found that maybe anyone can try out.

[Egg Waffle recipe]: https://youtu.be/VNDvNUpT-f8

Ever since falling into Twisted Wonderland, MC/Yuu and Grim were the only ones staying at the abandoned building widely known as the Ramshackle Dorm at Night Raven College.

With money being tight and Crowley who probably is a stingy crow, the two need to find a solution for their financial troubles.

Then MC/Yuu remembers something: The Egg Waffles.

MC/Yuu: Wait! I have an idea to earn more Madols!

Grim: Really?! What?

MC/Yuu: Egg Waffles!

Grim: *Confused* What waffles?

MC/Yuu: They’re waffles that were sold back in my home world. They’re delicious. It’s like mini edible pockets: crispy on the outside, fluffy in the inside. I don’t think anyone around here thought of this. Come on. Let’s experiment.

For the next week, the Ramshackle Dorm is filled with the scent of freshly made waffles.

The smell even attracted some troublemakers: The ADeuce Duo.

You see, Ace and Deuce only want to visit their friends as someone wanted answers for Professor Trein’s history assignment. (Looking at you, Ace. You jerk /j.)

Deuce only came along to try talking Ace out of cheating- Taking advantage- purposefully finding answers without effort.

*Sighs* Who am I kidding? He will and always find shortcuts to everything- Little Bastard Boy…

Anyway, the two Heartslabyul students are heading to the ol’ dorm and when they arrived, the fresh smell of Hong Kong style-Waffles hits their olfaction receptors.

Ace: Prefect, we need your-

MC/Yuu: Ace, Deuce! Thank god you’re here. Quick, try these samples. *Shoves some waffles in their mouths*

Deuce: *Muffles* Mm! These are…delicious!

Ace: *KOFF!* *KOFF!* What was that for?!

MC/Yuu: Sorry. I needed honest reviews for these waffles. I’m planning to sell some so Grim and I won’t suffer in money troubles.

Deuce: They tasted amazing. What kind of waffles are they?

MC/Yuu: They’re called Egg Waffles that originated from a country back in my world. Traditionally eaten as plain, but they are trendy with ice cream and other toppings added inside. Anyway, there’s work to be done before it’s ready for everyone.

Ace: Wait. Before you continue these experiments, you did the assignment for Professor Trein’s class, right?

MC/Yuu: …Do you want another waffle shoved up your a-?

Anyway, the ADeuce duo left, with some waffles.

The following week, MC/Yuu asked Crowley if they can open a small business within their dorm so they won’t pester him every time for allowances.

Surprisingly he let them. (Not for their sake, but he also heard rumors within the school that the Ramshackle Dorm is scented of baked goods. He wanted to try them.)

Now, business is open!

[Waffle Joys Official Opening!]

MC/Yuu: I can’t believe this isn’t a dream. We’re gonna be okay, Grim.

Grim: You said it! Can’t wait for limitless tuna… *Salivating from the thoughts of tuna cans*

[Doorbell jingles, revealing the First Years as the first customers.]

MC/Yuu: Welcome to Waffle Joys!

Ace: Yo, MC/Yuu!

Deuce: We came by to congratulate you on opening day.

MC/Yuu: Aww thanks guys.

Sebek: What are the specials? I must know as I heard you can make some with ice cream inside. Not because of me, but for Waka-sama.

Epel: Yeah! I want one before Etiquette class.

Jack: Small snack after practice.

MC/Yuu: Coming right up! They’re based on familiar desserts.

[🧇THIS WEEK’S WAFFLE SPECIALS!!!🧇]

Cherry Pie Waffle

Purin Waffle

Cinnamon Apple Waffle

Sweetened Pear Waffle

Macaron Delight Waffle

[After waiting for their orders, they got their respective desserts and thanked their friend before heading out back to their usual routines.]

MC/Yuu: *Counting the money* You think this will start a successful business one day?

Grim: I think so? Whatever. As long as I get tuna.

MC/Yuu: *Sighs* You and your tuna.

[DING! DING! DING!]

MC/Yuu: Welcome to Waffle Joys! Wait, Azul?

Azul: Charmed to see me, Prefect~?

Jade: It’s a pleasure seeing you again, Prefect~

Floyd: Hey, Koebi-chan!

MC/Yuu: Azul, I’m not falling for another deal after what happened back then. What is the real reason why to came to Ramshackle?

Azul: Oh, how harsh of you to assume I would drag you into another deal.

MC/Yuu: Just spit out what you want.

Azul: I want your business to collaborate with the establishment of the Monstro Lounge.

MC/Yuu: *Wields up their waffle iron* Absolutely not. First of all, I started this business because Grim and I aren’t getting enough support from Crowley and second, how do I know I’m not trapping myself into another unfortunate end because of you?

Azul: I’m not making you a deal. I only decided to come by because, well…

MC/Yuu: *Realization hits them* I’m stealing your customers, aren’t I.

Azul: *Grasps on their shoulders* How did you do it?

MC/Yuu: Easy. I just remember something nostalgic and whipped them up with modern takes.

Azul: *Lets go* I need you at Monstro Lounge. Now.

MC/Yuu: No way. If you want your “precious regulars” back, how about advertising both our respective eateries and with a fair price on our ends. Is that fine with you?

Azul: Hmm…If it attracts more customers, then it’s a deal.

MC/Yuu: *Slams an unsigned contract in front of Azul* By my contract, not your Unique Magic.

Azul: *Taken aback* How long were you holding this?

MC/Yuu: Since I first experimented, I knew you’ll come around.

[DING! DING! DING!]

MC/Yuu: Welcome to Waffle Joys!

Crowley: Greetings, Prefect!

MC/Yuu: Crowley, this is surprising to see you as you’ll only come because of “favors.”

Crowley: Oh no no! I only came to try this Egg Waffle because some students were posting pictures on MagiCam and it’s trending.

MC/Yuu: Well, I did ask permission and you given in the idea. So what waffle would you like to order?

[10 minutes later]

MC/Yuu: Here’s your waffle, Headmaster Crowley! Enjoy your order!

[He ordered a Charcoal Black waffle with Black sesame ice cream and sliced toasted almonds, sprinkled with powdered sugar. On top of that is drizzled with condensed milk.]

[Now Crowley joined the Waffle Frenzy.]

Now I’m imagining that if an Overblot breaks out, MC/Yuu would pull out their waffle iron.

Then, “WHAM!!!”

Knocks over the person in despair, coughing out a Blot stone (Which they caught before Grim could eat it).

The Overblot victim comes back to their normal state, and MC/Yuu gives them a waffle as an apology since they “didn’t know their own strength.”

✨[Reblogging helps creators and creates more content.]💫

[darlingkirstein]

Hi, Mar! I saw you're taking prompts. What about bored 1950s housewife Mikasa and Milkman Eren? 🫢

Housewife Mikasa/Milkman Eren (1950s AU)

wc: 4.8k / nsfw / cheating thank you for the request! hope you enjoy :) i’ll probably be posting this to ao3 as well!

Her husband kisses her cheek — a kiss lacking any desired affection, more a routine obligation than anything else — as she hovers over the countertop, flattening the pie crust over the pan. She’s been requested (instructed, more precisely) to make one of her “famous” blueberry pies for a little gathering between the neighbors. They’re her husband’s favorite — and he jokes that he’ll be a real wet rag if he doesn’t get a taste.

“Off to work,” He grumbles, his glance lazily lingering on her fingers as she works the crust around the delicate edges. “Smells good.”

There’s no smell. I haven’t even started baking.

Still, Mikasa forces a pleasant smile — flashing her prettiest doe eyes up at him.

“Just for you, dear. It’ll be ready for the party.”

“You’re a doll.” He pats her waist, simpering. For a moment, there’s a return to the man Mikasa married years ago — the loving, fun, sweet man who courted her with trips to the cinema.

Mikasa allows foolish hope get the best of her.

“If it makes you happy—”

He squashes her hankering before it can properly take root. “You know what would make me happy? If you wore that gorgeous red dress. You know, that one that I can’t get enough of?”

It takes great strain to prevent her smile from floundering. She doesn’t want to displease him — even if he hardly sees her as anything more valuable than a manifestation of his most casually-depraved fantasies. A piece of meat, worth nothing more than to gawk at instead of compliment, fondle instead of pleasure.

Mikasa nods. “I’ll do that. Run along now.”

He’s out the door quick. Across the street, the neighbor’s yappy little mutt barks up a storm; children laugh as they play games. The summer heat provides such a wonderful atmosphere for frivolity, good restful fun, but none of that luxury is afforded to Mikasa. She knows she’ll spend her day tending to the chores. Baking, so much baking — and dusting every last crevice in their home. It’ll need to be spotless for the party. All the other wives judge her handiwork, Mikasa knows this, even if they’re too gentle to tell. They’ll judge her cooking, too. Comparing recipes and weighing the benefit of certain seasonings is far more competitive than she’d like it to be.

She gets to work. Toiling and toiling. The minutes drain quickly, never enough time in the day to accomplish everything she wishes. With one task completed, Mikasa remembers three more to take its place — an endless, most tedious cycle.

The days bleed together. Chores, making meals, and dull conversations with her husband — nothing to set them apart, nothing to deem it a life worth living for the decades to come. As she cleans, she wonders if things will ever go back to the way they were before — or if some miracle can swoop in to offer a fresh new existence.

A knock on the door interrupts her dusting.

She’s happy for any moment of respite. Opening the door, Mikasa is greeted by a handsome man — a very handsome man, indeed — who holds a basket filled with jars of fresh milk. He’s new; their precious milkman was a crotchety middle-aged gentleman who— well, wasn’t much of a gentleman, lacking any way with pleasantries.

This one’s much easier on the eyes.

He took off his hat and tipped it her direction. “Morning, miss. I’ve got a delivery for you.”

Mikasa notices his smile first, his pretty teeth — but it’s impossible to ignore the rest of him, hair so reminiscent of James Dean, an actor she harbors private affections for, hidden from her husband. Under the sunlight, the green in his eyes truly shimmers. He looks like something right out of a Vogue cover — and Mikasa’s smitten. Somehow, this man manages to make the milkman uniform look dignified, alluring even.

She flattens her dress, embarrassed by the flour stains coating the front and all the wrinkles ruining the elegance of the fabric.

“Good morning.” The beam on her lips is uncontrollable; she can’t remember the last time her husband made her smile like this. “I very much appreciate you, sir. You’re kind to knock.”

“This hot sun could spoil the milk.” His eyes find the stains on her dress, as she fears. “You look like a busy lady. I sure am sorry if I’m intruding.”

She steps outside, not thinking clearly. “No, no! You haven’t done a thing. It’s quite nice to have a visitor. It gets lonely around here sometimes.”

He grins. Mikasa tucks her hands behind her back, trying to conceal her wedding ring.

“Lonely? Don’t you have a husband, ma’am?”

She blushes. Caught. Mikasa’s heart beats faster than she’d like — full of shame. What would the other wives think if they saw her? The last thing she needs is to be called filthy names, accused of terrible, terrible crimes. That doesn’t stop her from swooning as the milkman smiles.

“Ah— I do. He just works so long. I have the house all to myself. The record player’s dull company.”

“No children?”

Mikasa shakes her head — another point of shame. All the other women already started their families; some had another child on the way. Her husband showed little interest in love-making. Whenever he returned home from work, he complained about being too tired — only seeking a warm meal in his belly and a funny show on the television to fall asleep to. When the fancy did strike him, it was a quick affair, far more beneficial for his pleasure than hers — almost animalistic. He whispers no tender phrases nor any amorous praises into her ear when he’s inside her — only hardened grunts, none too appealing for Mikasa.

“No, sir. Just the two of us here.”

Just as he opens his mouth to answer, the oven inside alerts her to the pie finishing its baking. Her head swings in the sound’s direction — dreading the result the noise might have on the pleasant conversation being shared.

“That’s my pie. I better check on it.”

He unsheathes a jar from the basket and presents it to her. “Well, you’ll see me again tomorrow, ma’am. Could you save me a slice of that pie?”

Mikasa’s fingers wrap around the jar, though her eyes don’t stray from his. She smiles her prettiest smile — this one authentic, nothing forced about it in the slightest — and nods. If her mornings consisted of this man at her doorstep, that’s a routine she favors getting acclimated to.

“Are you sure you don’t want something fresh?”

“No, ma’am. Wouldn’t want to impose.”

Hugging the jar to her chest, Mikasa flushes. She wonders how obvious the scarlet appears across her cheeks. “You’re a rather thoughtful man.”

“Well, ma’am — forgive me for saying this, but you’re a rather pretty lady. My momma taught me that pretty ladies deserve good manners.”

Mikasa has to drag her gaze away, turning her face to conceal the enjoyment in her features. Her stomach twists into little tangles; this is what she’s been missing ever since getting married. How long has it been since her husband made her feel like a woman worthy of love, worthy of some grandiose affection? Far too long, those fleeting moments all but forgotten. Mikasa toys with the chance, whatever minuscule chance exists, that the gorgeous milkman can grant her the attention she yearns to so richly acquire.

“You’re a handsome man yourself.” She cannot — doesn’t want to — control her words, forbidden and sinful as they are. A quick glance informs her he’s a bachelor, no ring wrapped around his finger, no woman waiting for him back home.

For a moment, Mikasa thinks something might happen, but the man only accepts her compliment with a fond twitch of a grin.

“I best be off to the next house. You take care, ma’am. Don’t work yourself too hard, now.”

Too flustered to conjure a proper response, all Mikasa manages is a little wave of her fingers before he’s heading down the driveway.

One thing comes to her, however.

She calls after him. “Mister! What’s your name?”

He turns, adjusting his hat back atop his hair. “Eren. Do I get the treat of knowing yours?”

“Mikasa.” She gives it up fervently, not-so-secretly yearning to hear her name from his lips.

“You’ve got a gorgeous name, miss. Seems everything about you is something special.”

He’s back on his merry way in a flash, off to deliver milk to the Thompsons. Eren, she repeats to herself over and over. Already, Mikasa counts down to the following day — when she’ll get the satisfaction of watching him sample her pie.

As routine demands, Eren returns to Mikasa’s house right on schedule the day after.

He raps on her door and waits patiently — that patience swiftly rewarded with the sight of Mikasa, even more beautiful than yesterday. Her hair, curled above her shoulders, frames her lovely face charmingly. The red lipstick coating her mouth draws Eren in without hesitation. Today, no flour coats her clothes — her chosen dress, spotless and practically wrinkle-free, gives her such a delightful appearance. Eren grins.

“You look like you’re in good spirits today.”

“Much better,” she admits. “My husband phoned me just now. He’ll be staying late at the office.”

One eyebrow cocks. “That’s why you’re happy?”

“Oh, no — I wouldn’t be a very good wife if I didn’t like having my husband around, would I?”

Eren stifles a grin — clever, clever girl. He takes a step closer to the door, closer to Mikasa.

“I think any man could count himself lucky to have someone like you for a wife, Mikasa.”

Watching her attempt to hide the thrill his words provided her gives Eren an equal thrill of his own — he chides himself for not taking this job sooner, for missing out on the gem of Mikasa’s flirtatious gazes for months and months.

“I saved you some pie, like you asked.” She pauses, looking back. Eren’s heart quickens, his expectations growing. “Would you like to come inside for a sample? I’d cherish your opinion.”

“It wouldn’t be very polite of me to refuse a girl’s invitation, don’t you think? I’ll happily get a taste.”

Already, Eren’s favorite part of Mikasa is how easily she flusters, her pale skin revealing all too simply her internal feelings so poorly hidden. His words, so intentionally veering toward something less-then-chaste, strike her deep — Eren watches Mikasa fidget with her fingers before guiding him inside their home — another man’s home.

“Here.” She gestures to the kitchen island, to a slice of pie and a fork to accompany it. “I made a plate just for you — hid it from my husband.”

The milk deliveries for the day are abandoned beside just inside the home’s entrance — he hopes nobody complains of his tardiness, but more pressing matters require his attention. Offered a seat at the island, Eren takes it gladly.

“This is very generous of you, Mikasa. Are you such an angel to every stranger at your door?”

“No,” she tells him, fetching a new milk jar from his basket and unstoppering it to fill a glass for him. “Just the ones I like. The handsome ones that say all the sweetest things to me.”

Grinning, Eren severs a tiny piece from the pie and pops it in his mouth — instantly hit with the blueberry flavor and the savory crust. Mikasa, half distracted as she wipes away some crumbs from the countertops, glances back.

“Well? Do you like it? I tried something different with the filling this time. Do you think it’s okay?”

He swallows, instantly returning for another bite.

“It’s perfect, Mikasa. You’re inhuman.”

“Inhuman? Is that a compliment?”

“I mean you’re too good to explain. It’s not everyday you meet a knockout girl who knows her way around a man’s appetites.”

She set aside her cleaning cloth. Returning to Eren’s proximity, her smile gives hints into a more playful side — blossoming from the adorable shyness permeating her actions during their monumental introduction.

“Do I know your appetites, sir?”

Her innocence entices him, his heart fluttering. Does she realize how beautiful she looks when her eyes are all beady and curious, watching their subject with a gaze imbedded with coquetry.

Suddenly, he’s the one who’s flustered.

“I certainly think you might.”

Mikasa comes closer — taking a seat at the island, resting against the counter. Eren suspects she doesn’t get much time for leisure like this — his mother, back in his youth, spent so much time in the kitchen her fingers were rubbed raw, not a life befitting a beautiful woman like Mikasa.

She smiles; her voice softens.

“Maybe tomorrow I can give you a whole pie.”

Sticking his fork into the filling, Eren bites his bottom lip, suppressing a smirk.

“That’s too much to ask for.”

“Oh, it’s not too bad.” Mikasa has mastered the art of looking coy, yet poised. “Besides, who else will make you a pie? You’re not married.”

The way she says it sounds like a challenge.

“I suppose you’re right. I’ve been missing out.”

She laughs, and it’s not the same rehearsed laughter he hears from all his friend’s wives, the one out on for show — it’s a real laugh, free of discipline and regulation, all free-flowing.

“So — why aren’t you married?”

Eren sighs and scoops more pie into his mouth, indulging in its sublime sweetness.

“All the pretty girls have husbands already. That, or they don’t fancy marrying the milkman.”

Mikasa looks back to the counter, her fingers coming to her teeth, nails bitten. For a moment, Eren worries he’s upset her — but he sees her stifling more laughter, too amused for her own good. Sideways glances come his way; she reminds him of the gals back in high school, waiting to be asked for the prom.

“Tell me about your husband,” he continues.

She looks at him, confused. “Why?”

“Well, you don’t seem too happy with him.” The image of her hiding her ring hasn’t left Eren — he’s not nearly as ashamed as he probably should be when he hopes to win her over, his gorgeous client in the gorgeous dress, with the lovely laugh.

“He’s not much of a romantic anymore. He likes my cooking and my outfits, but that feels like all I’m good for these days. That, and—”

She cuts herself off, blushing hard.

“And?”

“Nothing I should say out loud.”

Mikasa’s little more than a stranger, but Eren’s so drawn to her, drawn to everything about her. She’s the best-looking woman this side of the Equator, with a honeyed smile just as saccharine as her personality. Her husband, he attests, is the biggest fool on either side of the Equator.

“He really oughta treat you better.”

Something shifts in her gaze, Eren sees it. Mikasa leans closer, grabbing his wrist. There’s a desperation present in her eyes — one he surmises has been festering for quite some time. Is he the first man to pay her a compliment?

When she speaks again, it’s hushed, like she’s afraid of any eavesdroppers — spies for her husband, maybe. “How would you treat me?”

Eren flushes, swallowing hard. He looks into those eyes, those pleading pupils — and cups her cheek, thumbs rubbing over her skin.

He can’t properly comprehend what he’s doing. Her wedding ring tickles his wrist, the metal so cold against his skin, but her skin feels so warm, warm enough to tempt him further. Grinning, Eren’s face inches closer to hers, close enough to smell the perfume clinging to her neck.

“Right, Mikasa. I’d treat you right.”

Mikasa swallows. Butterflies dance around in her stomach, fighting for a way out. It’s wrong, she tries to convince herself, but the words feel like such a blatant lie — how could something wrong feel so painfully good, so inexplicably wanted?

His touch feels damn near electric. “You would?”

“Yes, ma’am. Would you like me to show you?”

Mikasa’s chest clenches, but it’s a nice clench — mostly. She knows there’s no turning back after this, but by God’s glory, she needs it, needs Eren. Her lips ache in anticipation, watching his hover before her face, patiently stalling to latch on.

She nods, holding his free hand tight. “Yes, sir— I mean— I’d like that very much, Eren.”

Eren smiles. With his fingers, he draws her face closer until their mouths meet. His kiss isn’t aggressive — it’s slow and measured, so patient. Mikasa fights the urge to weep; she can’t remember the last time her husband kissed her like this, kissed her like he truly loved her. Within her chest, her heart runs at an uncontrollable pace, threatening to leap right out.

Mikasa tries to control her kiss — the last thing she wants is to scare him off by being overzealous, too opportunistic with his affections. It’s difficult — each second with his mouth on hers pumps such good feelings through her body, leaving her damn near drunk on the impact.

She tastes the pie on his lips — her pie. Somehow, that makes Mikasa even giddier. She vows to make him a hundred pies if he’ll reward each slice with kisses like this one.

Mikasa feels the wetness building between her thighs — ending the total drought she’s endured under her husband’s dominion. It’s a girlish feeling, being so besotted with a handsome, handsome man again. It should cause her shame, Mikasa knows, but it doesn’t, not in the slightest. The only shame surrounding her is the shame that she hasn’t sought this out sooner.

None of the neighbors had husbands nearly as gorgeous as Eren. Her husband, even in his best days, couldn’t hold a candle to him.

“My husband— He’ll be gone for a while,” Mikasa whines between kisses. “Will you stay with me?”

Eren’s grip on her face tightens. He feels his warm exhales against her mouth, eyes fixated on the way he smirks like he’s won a lottery ticket.

“As long as you’d like, miss.”

Mikasa wants his body closer, wants more of his warmth, too spoiled to accept it only against her tongue. She takes his mouth again, claiming it in another enthusiastic kiss — but her tempted hands wander south, playing with the hem of her dress’ skirt, tugging it up her thighs.

“Touch me,” Mikasa pleads. “Please, mister.”

He smiles against her kiss. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll beg you if I must. Oh, touch me.”

His palm finds a place on her thigh, fingers locked around, pressing into her soft flesh. “Sweetheart,” Eren calls her, and oh, how she swoons. “You don’t have to beg me for nothing. Let me help.”

Eren’s fingers hide underneath her dress and ever swiftly find the source of her ache, slipping inside. Mikasa’s body recoils — overwhelmed by little more than one tender touch — and her fingers wrap around his wrist to keep him lodged there.

His mouth finds her neck. It’s been so long since Mikasa’s received any attention on her neck.

“There, oh, right there,” she moans, eyes squeezing shut. Eren rubs her slowly — and she’s left guessing whether he does it to tease her or because he’s such a gentleman.

He falls silent, so focused on pleasuring her. Deft fingers make a bigger mess of her wetness, drenching his fingertips in her sweet liquid, while his lips threaten tender bruises against her skin.

“Be careful,” Mikasa whispers, smiling. “My husband might see— he’ll get suspicious.”

Eren grins; attentive sucks become light kiss against her throat. “Maybe he should, Mikasa — maybe he’ll learn his lesson and treat you right.”

She shakes her head. “He’s never been this good to me. Never. Oh, don’t stop — please, don’t.”

Never straying from his task, Eren teases her sex for as long as he can. His mouth switches between her sensitive, markable flesh and her soft, welcoming lips, but his fingers never leave her cunt — far too absorbed in their mission to even think about quitting. Mikasa tries to remember a past memory where she felt this good, this tended to, but no memory comes.

Dizzy, intoxicated by his touch, she gets greedy.

“The bedroom— let’s go there, Eren. Please?”

“Your room?” Eren stills his fingers. “Are you asking me what I think you’re asking, miss?”

Any prior embarrassment she may have felt making this request vanished long ago — unbridled by shame, too bloated with unquenchable lust, Mikasa is breathless.

“Make love to me. I miss it, I miss it so much. Make love to me, sir. Remind me what it’s like.”

His hand falls away from her cunt; whatever momentary emptiness that triggers is forgotten when Eren lifts her from her chair and asks for guidance in finding the master bedroom.

Inside, Eren rests her atop her sheets. Her legs spread naturally for him, dress skirt falling without struggle, inviting him in for a taste. She looks to her left — on the bedside table, their wedding photograph greets her. Mikasa gets an unwomanly glee out of her husband having premium seating to see another man do his job.

She watches Eren smile like a kid in a candy shop — not the leer he husband throws her way when he’s finally in the mood to get relief, but a grin of determination, determination to make her happy.

He pushes her dress further up her body, far enough for him to lower his mouth to her stomach, kissing her belly. The knots haven’t left, only growing stronger — Eren’s lips tend to the least cultivated parts of her body with great care. Mikasa writhes against the ticklish sensation, smiling graciously. Heaven’s finally answered all her silent prayers, her hidden desires, a gift for her years of devotion to faulty matrimony.

Above all else, Eren’s eyes make her feel best — in the midst of his tender kisses, his gaze finds her happily. That attention, that focus — Mikasa doesn’t need to tilt her gaze to recognize how stained her panties have become.

His fingers hook around them, but he tugs them away slowly, tediously slow, leaving a trail of sweet kisses down her midsection as the air finally hits her cunt with a shiver. Mouth teasing the skin around her sex, Eren smiles, letting all the little hairs tickle between his nose and chin.

“Mikasa, darling,” he starts, softly. “Does your husband ever do this for you? Ever?”

“Never.” Darling — much better than doll.

Nearly too dazed to properly focus, Mikasa swears that Eren’s eyes narrow, brows furrowing. He says nothing more before his tongue presses against her sweet flesh, drinking up her wetness like lemonade on a day hot as this one.

Her legs tighten around him, tight enough to knock the milkman’s hat right off his head. Fingers meddling in his pretty hair, Mikasa guides his mouth to the parts of her aching the loudest, but Eren needs little instruction.

Mikasa wonders how she tastes; her husband’s mouth never sampled her cunt, only his fingers, if she could consider herself lucky enough on those evenings to be given even that much.

Eren’s hands press her thighs into the mattress; Mikasa’s back arches, driving her cunt further into his mouth, utterly inescapable. Whimpers fall off her tongue just as easily as his tongue edges her closer and closer to fruition — the knots in her stomach tighten, so tight it’s damn near painful. Every slow lick he gifts her feels like salvation, too joyfully sinful to dare divulging at the confessional. It’s a treat to her ears as much as it is to her eyes and her sex; Eren’s mouth enjoys her without restraint, loud enough for Mikasa to hear every lick, every suck, every gasp for air.

The longer he licks, the more impatient she grows to have the rest of Eren, too.

“Eren,” she yelps, hips wild in their movements. “Mister— Please, make love to me. Take me.”

He softens, determination melting to a mellow simpler. After his tongue laps up one last sample of her wetness, Eren rises — off comes his uniform top, revealing a simple, far more comfortable undershirt. He tries taking off his pants, but the inconvenience seems to burden him, and the garments only make it around his thighs before he’s climbing on top of her.

Mikasa welcomes him into her arms — her legs wrap around him, keeping him close. The summer weather makes the room so humid; sweat clings to his skin, passing onto her pretty dress. Another chore adds to the pile, but she’ll do whatever extra laundry is required to enjoy this.

Eren kisses her hungrily, with desire, though a different desire from her husband’s. The man she married claims her as his property, his little maid — Eren strives to please, to pamper, to redeem. Her lipstick smudges around the corners, the residue swapping to his lips. Mikasa blushes; between her cunt’s wetness and the ruby-red lipstick, she’s left a real impression on his face.

Eren breaks their kiss, panting. Rustling around. Mikasa knows he’s fumbling around to get his cock out. “How long’s it been, sweetheart?”

“Since what?” She blinks, staring woozily.

“Since your husband made love to you.”

It’s not a number Mikasa struggles to recall. “Two months— Two months, nearly three.”

He scoffs, clicking his tongue. “I’ll fix that, okay?”

Before she’s able to convey her appreciation in any meaningful manner, Eren carefully sheathes himself inside her cunt, submerging inch by inch until his hips are properly introduced to hers.

Her husband prefers to take her from behind. Mikasa’s much more partial to Eren’s approach.

His thrusts are slow, gentle. Mikasa’s fingernails grip his back, pressing him even closer. He smells of sweat— and of her, and Mikasa revels in the aroma. Eren’s cock quenches a thirst she’s been suffering from for too long; the fullness in her cunt has been a source of fantastical daydreams, private, unladylike yearnings — all realized, in her husband’s bed, under his utter obliviousness.

Mikasa whimpers and moans for Eren so easily. Each thrust brings a wave of pleasure that she couldn’t dream of containing in her throat.

Eren grins with every sound she makes. “He’s a goddamn fool, darling,” he mutters. “A fool.”

“I know,” Mikasa whines back. “I know.”

His pace grows — never too much, but enough to push Mikasa close to the brink swiftly. His mouth grants affections at every opportunity; Mikasa’s lips, her collarbone, her neck, the top of her cleavage (the part that teases him most), even the lobes of her ears receive his benevolence.

Euphoria. His cock travels deep inside. The moment Eren reaches down and presses his palm against her belly, Mikasa loses control — her stomach and all its tangles start to unravel, the tension building, building — and culminating in a cascade of relief that washes over her as she drenches his cock in still more of her wetness.

Eren groans; his release takes longer. Mikasa cries out as he takes her, truly takes her, his thrusts taking care of her sopping wet cunt. The sounds alone are nearly enough to grant her another round of pleasure — but Mikasa clings to him, her dress crinkling and rustling as his thrusts grow stronger, so strong until the fullness abandons her entirely, the loss accompanied by Eren’s baritone, beautiful moans, drawn out as he paints her belly with strings of sheet white.

Though Mikasa doesn’t dare voice it, she almost longs for some of Eren’s release to linger inside her cunt, long enough to sprout. Better your child than his, she thinks, blushing at the shame.

Their breathing falls in tandem.

“Do you feel better now, Mikasa?” His voice is hushed now, too, thumb stroking her chin.

Rendered speechless, she nods.

Grinning, Eren kisses her — and again, and for a third time, the longest. To her disappointment, he’s up too soon after, redressing, fixing his hair. Mikasa frowns, forcing herself up to her elbows.

“I wish you wouldn’t have to go.”

“I know — but if I don’t deliver the milk on time, I’ll be fired. And if I’m fired,” he pauses, looking down at the ground as he smiles. “Well, then I won’t have any excuse to pay you more visits.”

Mikasa blushes. She knows he’s right.

“Remember,” she coos, biting her lip. “I’ll make you a whole pie tomorrow. My thanks.”

Eren finishes dressing — but he can’t wipe the grin off his face as he returns for one final kiss.

“My favorite’s cherry. But I still don’t know if it’ll taste nearly as good as you do, darling.”

[g0kotta]

SUMMER

Mitsuya thinks the girl working at a convenience store near his house is kind of cute.

Fluff, bad humor. Around 1k words

Mikey hits Mitsuya on the back and lets out an over exaggerated yawn. He tries not to push the shorter friend away from him as they walk towards the small convenience store that was owned by an elder man who treated every Toman member as if his own grandchild. They started going to that store when they just formed Toman since everything there was cheaper than in other stores and it was a great deal especially for young punks like them who did not have a lot of money.

“We need some good snacks.” Mikey whines. “I don’t want crackers anymore. They’re dry and disgusting.”

Draken pulls Mikey away from Mitsuya and raises a brow while looking at the president of Toman. “If you have some money to buy better snacks then please do so.”

“Actually, Shinichiro gave me some cash today. So we will be eating good, boys.”

Baji pushes the door open and confidently walks into the store with the other boys, yelling out the old mans name to say a hello, but instead they see a girl their age sit behind the cash register with pyjama pants and an oversized hoodie.

“Who are you?” Mikey points his finger at her. “And what did you do to the old man working here?!”

“You mean my grandfather?” You raise a brow as you look all of the boys up and down.

While working at a convenience store, you find yourself meeting a bunch of interesting people who come in and out of the store. Some of them are regulars, stopping by for their daily coffee or snack, while others are just passing through. As you scan their items and make small talk, learning about their lives and interests. Some people are extremely nice and some are a bunch of weirdos who you hope to never see again, like for example a man who comes over to the store after his shift. Which does not sound weird, but when you realise it’s a man in his sixties dressed up as a clown buying a bottle of whiskey and complaining to you about how kids are a bunch of pieces of shit who should not exist at all, it does raise some concern. Though you only see him on Saturdays around 6PM.

What you haven’t seen before though was a young boy pointing a finger at you and blaming you for making your tired grandfather disappear. You heard stories about these boys from your grandpa, but never actually saw them, because you did not want to spend your free time at a convenience store. But your money has been getting low and you wanted to buy some new clothes before summer ends, so you decided to work for your grandpa for the summer.

“Sorry about him.” A tall guy with a tattoo on his head bows down a bit and grabs his friend by his shoulder dragging him away. The other’s scatter around the store looking for something to buy for their movie night. As you scan all of them once again you notice the boy with purple hair and a light bulb shines above your head.

“You’re Mitsuya, right?” You ask and he quickly turns around with a smile, answering with a yes.

You grab a bag full of sweets and give it to him.

“Pops said to give it to you once I see you. He bakes them fresh every day. Said your sisters like them or something.”

You notice how his eyes light up and he grabs the bag from your hands with a “thank you” and a bow.

“Please thank your grandfather for me. My sisters do enjoy his pastries a lot.” His eyes caught your own and you realise that they’re a really pretty colour. One you haven’t seen on other’s before or even if you did, you did not pat any attention to it. But something about Mitsuya is different. In a good way.

That day the boys leave with bags of snacks and you find yourself thinking about the boy with purple hair.

———

A few days pass and Mitsuya comes back again. This time without his friends, but instead with two little girls hanging around his arms. He introduces them as his sisters and you find it extremely cute how close they are to their brother and how they do not want to leave his side at all. But what you don’t expect is one of them giving you a compliment while you were scanning their items.

“You’re really pretty.” Luna states and you almost drop the can of tomato soup.

“Oh, thank you.” A smile finds a way onto your face and your cheeks have a rosey colour to them now. Receiving compliments from elders, or young boys will never be the same as receiving compliments from kids. Elders lie through their teeth, while boys just want to get with you, girls give you compliments and then talk shit behind your back. But kids.. Kids are ruthless. They always spit the truth. “You and your sister are prettier though.” You wink at them and as Mitsuya looks at you smiling at his little sisters he realises that you are very pretty indeed. How your eyes started to shine after his sister gave you a compliment and how cute your crooked smile was.

After they leave Mitsuya thinks to himself that he needs to come there more often, even if he doesn’t have a lot of money in his pockets.

———

The third time he comes, he’s there alone. He only grabs a pack of gummy bears and a milk carton.

“That’s a weird combo.” You raise a brow and tilt your head to the side.

“Don’t say anything about it.” He sighs.

“You sure this is safe? You won’t be running to the toilet in like five minutes to shit your guts out?”

“You have a foul mouth.” Mitsuya starts to laugh. “The gummy bears are for Luna and Mana, while the milk is for my mom.”

“My bad.” You smirk. “Thought you were a weirdo for a second there.” And Mistuya laughs again.

As you look at him laugh, you start to realize that he's kind of cute, and you feel a flutter in your chest. As he leaves the store you find yourself waiting for him to come back again.

And Mitsuya makes sure he does just that. He just needs to make a plan how to get your number.

[caffiend-queen]

I'll Break Your Heart Before You Break Mine...

An Avengers - Loki Holidays In Hel story

I've been cleaning up and adding bits to my Holidays in Hel series because really, it's my favorite. I hope you enjoy, and thank you as always for reading!

In which Loki's courtship of Mina (refer to "The Christmas Party") hits a snag when his timid little darling suddenly decides to dump him on Valentine's Day.

I wrote this listening to the beautiful "Takeaway" from The Chainsmokers and Illenium. Have a listen here: https://youtu.be/lzkKzZmRZk8

The first time Loki had seen a Valentine, he approached it with the same look of disgust one would give a used litter box.

“What is this cloying monstrosity?” he queried, holding the little card up by his thumb and forefinger.

“Well…” Mina’s brow furrowed. “Oh, of course. This is your first Valentine’s Day on Ear- Midgard, isn’t it?” Her boyfriend (?) beau (?) Supreme Overlord of Sex (!) was by now lounging elegantly on his suede couch, arms stretched along the top of it and legs sprawled obscenely. As usual. "This is a Valentine, it's from my niece in Wisconsin."

One dark brow arched. "Explain?"

"Well, you create little cards and give them to people you care about, family, friends..." she coughed a little and added quickly, "boyfriends. They're usually heart-shaped, pink or red, and-"

"The human heart is not shaped like that," Loki interrupted, "I've torn them still beating from the chests of my enemies and they more resemble-"

"No trips down memory lane, brother!" Thor interrupted with perfect timing, which was extremely unusual. "We must make ready. There is a new mission.” He'd slammed open the door to Loki's suite, knowing it infuriated his brother every time.

With a sigh, Loki stood, waving one pale hand and was instantly clad in his dark green armor. "And who might we be engaging? More angry Dark Elves? The crossbred Jotunn ice bear? A blood witch from the Grievous Clan?" 

“No, Professor Snape, they’re … what did you call them, Thor?” Tony Stark rambled into the apartment, standing over Loki, who had reseated himself with an uncomfortable Mina on his lap. She’d tried to pop up when Thor casually broke in, but Loki’s arm came down like an iron bar to keep her in place.

Thor was nosing around the fresh-baked muffins on the counter. “They are Plesticites, do you remember battling them on the Wandering Moons of Alfheim, brother?”

Loki groaned audibly. The aforementioned creatures were multi-limbed monstrosities that spat secretions as thick as tar and vile as vomit. “And why are they here on Midgard?” he snarled, “Why did Heimdall not raise the alarm before these sacs of pus found a wormhole?”

Mouth full of muffin, his brother shrugged one giant shoulder. Stark, with that infuriating cheer he had only when interrupting someone else’s love life, clapped his hands together. “Chop chop, Asgardian supermodels, we’re off to kill the things that look like Donald Trump’s ass.”

“Darling,” Loki gently set her down on a cushion and rose, leaning over to capture a kiss. “I shall see you anon.”

It was a spectacular kiss, so it took Mina a moment to realize a case holding six of Loki’s best daggers was on the counter next to the muffins. Knowing he never went into battle without them, she tucked them under her arm and hoofed it for the roof, trying to catch him before the helicarrier took off. 

The team was still on the landing pad, and the wind carried their conversation back to her as she exited the elevator.

“- to celebrate the day with Lady Mina?” She knew Thor had Big Plans for Jane, especially after Darcy handed him a step-by-step list for what was required of a romantic boyfriend. Mina lingered for a moment around the corner, a little excited. Plans? Loki had plans for Valentine’s Day?

“You must be joking,” he sneered, “you believe I would stoop to celebrating a pathetic testament to retail excess? Debasing myself with the purchase of stuffed animals and mediocre flowers?”

Mina sighed and leaned against the elevator door. So, no Valentine’s Day, then.

“But your lady, she will expect it,” Thor said earnestly. “It is considered most important.”

“He’s right, you don’t want to screw this up.” Mina cocked her head. Was that Bucky?  “This stuff is important to women.” Loki didn’t cut the soldier off, as he’d done with his brother. She always found Loki’s - if not friendship, a comfortableness, an accord - with James Barnes intriguing. Mina had asked him about it one day, and he’d pinned her with that bleak, blue-gray gaze of his. “Loki knows what it’s like to be tortured. For decades.” She'd felt her heart splinter in that moment. For both of them.

“It is of no consequence,” Loki said dismissively, “by then, Mina and I will no longer be-” the roar of the helicarrier’s engines began and the rest of his statement was lost. Numbly taking the case of daggers back down to Loki’s apartment, Mina hesitated at the door. Would he have already revoked her access to his place?

But the door opened and she stepped in. It still smelled like Loki- sharp and clear, like pine and snow. She marched through his suite of rooms, picking up the few items she’d left there- a silk slip, her spare toothbrush, two books she’d loved and recommended to him. That was it. There were no photos of the two of them together, no tenderly written notes. It was so familiar, Mina thought bitterly, just like the last three times. 

What was it with her and Valentine’s Day? Who the fuck gets dumped three times on the most “romantic” day of the year? Stuffing everything in her bag, she could remember Kevin’s stupid face, "It's not me, babe. It's you." February 14th, 2017.

Milo, "I just feel that Valentine's Day is an excuse for women to siphon up free gifts, and I refuse to be manipulated by female greed." Pause. "Before I leave, did you get me anything?" February 14th, 2014.

And then there was Brian. "Yeah, I don't see a future with us, Mina. You're always busy at school and I need a woman who can commit." That turned out to be her best friend Marcia. Who was already married. February 14, 2019.

“And it’s happening again?” she gave a short, humorless chuckle, “At least this time, Loki’s not really my boyfriend. I’m not sure the word boyfriend could apply to a seven-foot-tall alien who looks like a supermodel and hands out orgasms like they’re penny candy. Fuck this.” 

Stomping into Jane’s lab on the 47th floor, Mina forced herself to smile. This was a new job and she couldn’t afford to break down. Of course, she had this new job because the thermodynamics lab fired her after the paparazzi storm from her night as Loki’s date at Stark’s disastrous Christmas Party. They wouldn’t leave her alone and one even burst into the ladies’ room as she was hitching her undies back up. And, her boss was just walking out of her stall as well. Fortunately, Jane immediately made the case to Tony that Mina would be very helpful in her research.

Unfortunately, Darcy was never shy about prying into everyone else’s personal lives. “Hey, Mina Mina Bo-bina, what does your sex god Asgardian have planned for Valentine’s Day?”

Jane didn’t look up from her microscope. “Thor is the God of Sex, actually.”

Without thinking, Mina shook her head. “No, Thor is the God of Fertility. Loki is the God of Lust.” They'd both been studying a book - The Royals Guide to Asgard together. Tossing her bag on her desk, she added under her breath, “Not that it matters.”

Darcy, who could under most circumstances be the poster child for Adderall, was remarkably single-minded when it came to heartbreak. Eyes narrowed behind her glasses, she pushed her face close to Mina’s. “You’ve been crying. Did Mr. Hot and Psycho do something?”

“Nope, that’s the point,” she said, “we’re doing nothing for Valentine’s Day because he’s dumping me.” 

“No!” Jane was shocked, “Thor says Loki is crazy about you!”

“I overheard him talking to Thor and Bucky when I went up to bring him his daggers for the mission,” Mina said bitterly. “He said that he and I would no longer be together.” Her shoulders slumped. “But I don’t think we ever were.”

It was not ten minutes later when Darcy had mercilessly bullied her into joining “Girl’s Night,” refusing to tell her where the herd of single women were migrating to. 

Three days later and no word from Loki, it settled into her with a despondent certainty that he would not be “courting her” (as he’d put it) anymore. She didn’t ask Jane if she’d heard from Thor, because the look of discomfort, then pity was more than she could bear. So Mina kept a cheerful smile and pretended everything was fine as bouquets started popping up on desktops, boxes of chocolate and heart-shaped cookies circulated and whispered conversations filled with giggles were all around her.

Screw Valentine’s Day. It sucked.

Nonetheless, she defiantly dressed for the girl’s “Cupid is Stupid” outing with Darcy in a short, saucy little emerald-colored dress she’d picked up on sale. She had been saving it to wear on a special occasion with Loki, but…. Angrily dashing away a tear before it ruined her cat’s-eye eyeliner, Mina straightened her shoulders. She would go have fun with Darcy and the girls. Then this day would be over, and-

The reality that she would eventually be seeing Loki in the halls, perhaps in the lab every now and then made her sink onto her couch. Would he be bringing new women to social events? Mina’s lips thinned and she stood up, seizing her bag and storming out the door. “It’s going to be a bit more difficult finding a date that doesn’t mind you kidnapping her off the street!” she hissed, halting at the appalled stare of nice Mrs. Wyscowski who lived next door in E16 as she got off the elevator. The woman was carrying a bouquet of roses. ‘Of course,’ Mina thought, ‘even my 73-year-old neighbor gets flowers.’ Instantly feeling guilty, she held the door for her. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. W. The roses are so pretty!”

“Thank you, dear. And what are you and Mr. Odinson doing this evening?” Mrs. Wyscowski loved Loki, of course. The charming bastard insisted on kissing her wrinkled hand every time he spotted her.

Mina’s smile faltered, but she stepped into the elevator. “Have a good night, Mrs. W.”

When her Uber pulled up to the address Darcy gave her, she audibly groaned. Seriously?

The driver laughed, looking in his rearview mirror. “Not what you were planning on?”

“Knowing my friend, I should have,” Mina sighed. Cherry’s Sexual Harassment Pub was bustling with giggling women lined up at the bar and guarding table space for their friends close to the stage. Passing by gigantic posters of bare-assed men with names like “Blaze,” and “Nitro,” she rolled her eyes. 

“Bitch!” Darcy shouted at the top of her considerable lungs, standing on her chair and waving at her like she was a one-winged sparrow, trying to take flight. But when one of the buff, shirtless waiters brought over a tray of Sex on the Beach shooters, Mina took two.

Just as Mina was throwing back her first shot, a bloody and exhausted crew was exiting the helicarrier, eager to shower off the genuinely disgusting mission and focus on something new: sex, booze, and for a few, even romance. Thor nudged his brother with one giant arm. “Have you reconsidered what to do for the Lady Mina? The night is young.” 

“I have told you, Thor,” Loki snarled, “I do not indulge in such plebian excess.”

Undeterred, his brother said, “Jane has mentioned that she has seemed quite despondent these last few days. Have she seemed so when she speaks with you?”

Loki shrugged. “I do not speak with Mina whilst on missions away. I’m sure she is fine. And most likely,” he said, his pace increasing as they exited onto their floor, “waiting for me in my chambers. So if you’ll excuse me…”

But Mina wasn’t. She’d been very good about showing up when he returned from missions, working here in the Tower in Jane’s lab gave her proximity and advance warning. In fact … as Loki strolled to the bedroom he noticed her absence, along with the few little things she’d left in his suite - including A Brief History of Time, a book he'd been rather enjoying. Where was the little minx? Sweeping a hand down his body to restore himself to spotlessness and into a fresh black suit, he set off for the labs, Mina was no doubt working late. 

Mina was laughing uncontrollably as Darcy had her legs looped around the back of a stripper who had his head buried in her considerable cleavage. He was still managing to swirl those agile hips to the beat of “Girls, Girls, Girls” by Motley Crew even as he was making motorboat noises. A sudden vision of Loki teaching her how to dance the tango on his terrace rose in her mind and she angrily shook her head. She was not going to be one of those single people on Valentine’s Day who got all drunk and weepy! Well … reaching for the champagne in the middle of the table, she drank right from the bottle. Not one of those single people who cry, anyway. Screw Loki. Screw Loki and his beautiful agile hips and those fingers and how he’d purr all those filthy things in her ear when she was coming. 

Ugh.

“Break his heart before he breaks mine,” she mumbled, nearly inaudible under the screaming of the other women. But someone was listening.

In fact, the Stark group had enjoyed VIP treatment all night - graciously escorted to the best table on the floor and several bottles of complimentary champagne delivered with "Compliments of the house, beautiful ladies." The shirtless blonde waiter - who was hilariously named "Thor," according to his nametag - wore impeccable white cuffs and collar and was most attentive, chuckling indulgently as his perfect, firm ass was groped more than once. "Thor" even leaned over invitingly by Mira as he'd brought more drinks, but she smiled nervously and scooted her chair over a bit.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he oozed, “is there something … special I can get you?” 

“Hell, yeah!” shouted Darcy, “Our girl just broke up with her boyfriend! Right before Valentine’s Day, can you believe it?” Mina cringed so hard she could feel her spine compress.

"Thor" took her hand, eyes wide in his most sincere sympathy. “He’s a fool to let you get away, baby. You need a man who knows how to appreciate a queen like you.”

‘Oh, gawd …’ she thought. “Oh, I broke up with him,” she nodded firmly, “so yeah, it’s all good. It’s fine. Really,” she emphasized, trying to yank her hand away from his. Her palm was tingling like crazy and she wiped it on her skirt several times, frowning at the odd burn.

But then the lights came up and the smarmy DJ’s voice bellowed out, “Heeeey, Ladies! Welcome to the Cupid is Stupid spectacular! We’re gonna give you pretty little things all the affection you deserve tonight! Up first, give a waaaaarm, wet welcome to Valentino!”

She was laughing, Mina just couldn’t help it. This was so fucking cheesy. What was she doing here?

What was she doing here? Looking around the room, she could tell she was the only one not totally invested in the web the strippers were weaving. Her forehead creased. That was a weird image. But all the girls were screaming, waving tens and twenties, glassy-eyed and utterly focused on the man on stage, currently undulating in a g-string. The waiters were circulating, putting down more drinks, running fingertips along a cheek, along a shoulder or down the neck and dipping into cleavage. And the girls all seemed to love it. Wiping her sweaty forehead, Mina blinked, looking at her phone. Just to check the time, that’s all.

Nothing from Loki. Of course.

Rising abruptly from her seat, she made her way through the crowd of rapturous women. Once in the bathroom, she splashed her face with cold water, forgetting about her careful makeup. Why was she so sweaty? Looking in the mirror and wiping away her streaked mascara, Mina sighed. This was worse than being at home watching While You Were Sleeping and weeping uncontrollably. “I’ll walk home,” she said to the grimy mirror. “Get some exercise. Yeah. You know, endorphins.”

Walking back to the table to grab her purse and bid Darcy goodnight, she stumbled to a stop.

Loki was dancing. More specifically, her ex-boyfriend (well, the gorgeous god she’d been dating) was stripping. And the screams rose at a pitch that could shatter crystal. His vivid jade eyes were fixed on her, a filthy, knowing smirk on his face. His body was art. All marble-sheened skin with flexing, lean muscle beneath. She’d always been amused when people assumed Loki wasn’t physically powerful, like his bulky brother. Oh, no… those perfectly tailored suits of his hid a body of exquisite grace, broad shoulders and a chest and arms banded thickly with muscle. His long, long legs were sculpted, and when he lifted her to straddle his thigh and rubbed her against the taut strands there … oh, god. What was he doing here! This couldn’t- 

“Loki?” she shouted, incredulous and trying to get closer to the stage. 

“Hello, love.” She could see Loki’s lips moving, but even over the howl of the music and shrieks from the women, it still sounded like he was talking right into her ear. “I thought I would give you a bit of a surprise. Then, I intend to take you backstage, hoist you upon the nearest level surface and fuck you until you beg for mercy. Which of course, I shall not give you.” There was never a time Mina was more aware that he was a god. So beautiful, even under those tawdry pink lights, his hips moving in erotic figure eights and dancing just for her. So intent on reaching him, Mina never noticed another of the waiters come up from behind her, slipping an arm around her waist.

Thor was just helping Jane on with her coat as Loki strode into the lab. “Where is Mina?” He knew his tone was sharp, but he was suddenly filled with a sense of urgency, a necessity to reach her- to find his girl before-

“She’s out with Darcy and the girls.” Jane’s tone was not friendly. “You know, since you dumped her, it’s really not any of your business.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

It was clear Loki was shocked, which was shocking in of itself since the god prided himself on no expression other than urbane amusement or profound boredom. “She went out with the girls?” Jane said less aggressively. 

“Where?” His tone was sharp, but the couple didn’t take offense. They could feel it too, that something was wrong here. Loki was never agitated like this, not even in the middle of battle.

“Um…” Jane consulted her phone. “It’s a strip club,” she looked at him apologetically, “called, ugh, now I know Darcy picked it! It’s called Cherry’s Sexual Harassment Pub.” Thor choked down a laugh as his brother and Jane glared at him.

“This…” Loki hesitated, another shocking departure for him. “There is something wrong. I cannot say, but I feel it.”

To his credit, Thor immediately stepped up. “I shall come with you brother. My dearest, would you mind putting off our evening for a few hours more?”

She nodded, “Of course. Should I come with you? You know, to wrangle Darcy?”

“We must go, please, stay here.” It was the 'please' that stopped her from protesting as Loki dragged off her boyfriend. Loki never said please.

Darcy was screaming herself hoarse. She didn’t know how this could have possibly happened, but this was the best fucking night of her life! How the fuck could Bucky have overcome his shyness to be stripping for all these women? The Winter Soldier stared at her, licking his full lips as his crotch jutted at her obscenely, thick thighs bending to lure her closer to the stage. His long hair fell into his eyes, glowing with need for her. Her hand reached out. There was just one more layer to peel off, just the tiniest scrap of spandex between her and what she was certain was the biggest cock in North America. Just one little yank on that strap and... She was still trying to surge forward when the arms came around her from behind, gripping her tightly and making her ribs compress against her lungs. It felt like the most brutal kind of suction, feeling like the blood was being pulled out of the pores in her skin, but all she could think of was to get to Bucky- that beautiful bastard, she knew he always wanted her he did and then she was coming legs twitching and rubbing together hands still reaching out touch him.

MaryBeth from Offshore Accounts was dreamily watching Steve Rogers bare all that perfect, golden skin and rippling muscle. He was clean-shaven, not that scruffy beard he’d been wearing and those patriotic blue eyes were lasered in on her, he was going to tear her clothes off and fuck her right on the table, she could hear him! So MaryBeth swept out an arm, knocking everything off the surface and climbing on, hauling her skirt up. “Right here, Steve honey! I AM SO READY!” Darleen McMasters from the table next to theirs was from Queens, married 22 years and just here to keep her best friend and current divorcee Carla company, sat up abruptly. “FRANK?” she shouted, jaw dropped, “What on EARTH are you doing!” Her husband looked down, giving her a rakish wink and an extra little thrust of his hips.

Interestingly, Carla was also watching Frank get naked on stage, unbuttoning her blouse and hoping he’d FINALLY notice how much nicer her breasts looked than Darlene's.

Theresa from Digital Media was dreamily enjoying the sight of Carol Danvers peeling off that gorgeous fucking bodysuit, to show even more gorgeous fucking curves, her blonde hair shining like a beacon and Theresa was ready to run her hands through it-

By the time Loki had apparated himself and Thor into the middle of the club, it was silent, the raucous music gone and only the bestial grunts and slavering of the things currently feeding on the women. 

“By the Nine…” gasped Thor, instantly calling Mjölnir to him as he went back to back with Loki, who’d been searching for Mina. He found her writhing furiously against the incubus grappling her from behind. The truly amusing miscalculation of Midgard mythology - he thought while sending twelve daggers sailing through the air at the demon - was believing that the Incubi were attractive and seductive. They were repellant, horrifying, a grisly amalgamation of sinew, rot and slimy, mottled skin. They actually made the Plesticites the Avengers slaughtered that day look appealing. This one’s maw opened, showing jagged, rotting fangs as it screamed in rage and agony, punctured by the dozen blades in a tidy, cross-shaped pattern and falling off Mina’s back like a sack of meat. 

Thor’s hammer tore through another of the creatures, making the woman holding it scream “Leonardo! Don’t leave me! I believe in your Nature Alliance!” before she collapsed. And then the battle was on. Over twenty of the Incubi, mouths dripping black blood that sizzled like acid on the floor stalked toward them. They were so. Fucking. Hungry. They had planned this Valentine’s Day massacre for a couple of decades and no upstart Asgardian royalty was going to take their feast from them. Complicating matters was that most of the demons were able to hold onto the image of whatever their victim was imagining, and for many of the girls - particularly MaryBeth from Offshore Accounts who had dreamed of getting into Captain America’s red, white and blue suit for years now - were unwilling to let go of the Incubi draining them to death.

Black blood and gnarled, twisted limbs torn from desiccated flesh flew through the smoky air as the princes of Asgard ripped their way through the thicket of demonic visitors, as he leaned back gracefully to avoid a spray of ichor, Loki watched Mina leap on to the back of the incubus currently finishing off an unconscious Darcy.  The foolish creature still wore a dreamy smile on her red-lipsticked mouth, and she slid gracelessly to the floor as her rescuer stabbed the creature in the back of the neck, shoving hard to get the razor-sharp blade through its hide. He spun in one more circle to finish off the fiend sneaking up on Thor before turning back to seize Mina. 

“You had to burst in here. Creating such a fuss.” The voice was beautiful, well-bred and slightly amused. The creature it belonged to was perfection, everything a man should be - blond, very tall with a tight, perfect ass and red, full lips. And in one long-fingered hand, it was gripping the throat of his Mina, easily holding her off the ground as she kicked and thrashed, clawing at his muscled forearm. “There are so very many pretty, lonely girls in this city, on this night of all nights. And yet, you insisted on bothering ussss.” The man hissed the last word and displayed a mouth full of alarmingly sharp, needle-like teeth. “Now, I shall consume this meaningless human in front of you. Its mouth opened horribly wide, like a snake’s dislodging its jaw and Loki’s hand came up again, inhumanly, impossibly fast and threw his last dagger, a gleaming silver blur that nicked Mina’s throat, sending a spray of blood into the open mouth of the demon behind her.

It let out a scream of agony, smoke pouring from its throat and slamming on to the filthy floor, writing and howling before abruptly disappearing in a puff of sulfurous smoke, along with the remains of the other incubi. 

From there, it was really just a matter of cleaning up and damage control. The little club was suddenly packed with SHIELD agents and, Loki noted sourly, Doctor Strange, who was attending to the women, briskly erasing their memories of the night and putting in a suggestion of a gas leak.

“How original,” Loki sneered.

Bucky walked up behind him. “And here I thought my night was the worst Valentine’s Day choice ever.” He patted him lightly on his expensively suited shoulder. “You okay? Mina, too?”

“Indeed,” Loki said approvingly, “she slew one of the creatures herself.” He looked at the soldier again and decided to do something he traditionally considered loathsome. A bit of matchmaking. “However, your help is needed immediately for Miss Lewis.” 

Bucky frowned, looking over at a pale Darcy, two paramedics still trying to bring her around. “What can I do?”

Thor was close enough to be eavesdropping shamelessly, and he leaned in. “An incubus bite can only be reversed in one way, my friend.”

Picking up the thread, Loki walked Bucky closer. “The incubus presents the vision of the person the victim desires most. It is why they are irresistible. As it happens, Miss Lewis believed she was watching you perform for her.”

“What?” Bucky choked, going a little pale himself.

“You must … attend to her in order to heal her, I am certain you know what we are saying,” Loki finished smoothly. When his friend leaned down to cautiously pick the girl up, he made a negligent gesture with one pale hand and send the two of them back to Barnes’ quarters in the Tower.

“Brother,” Thor boomed, “did I just see…? Was that a … good deed?”

In a flash, another of his brother’s daggers was at his throat. “Never say such a repugnant thing to me again!” Loki snarled, eyes narrowed as Thor backed away, chuckling. 

“I must return to Jane,” he said, picking up Mjölnir and turning to the door. “And I believe you have a beautiful woman of your own to attend to.”

Placing his hands in the pockets of his beautiful suit, Loki strolled to Mina, who was attempting to wipe some of the gore off her skin. “Oh, my god,” she gagged a little, “I smell like something that washed up on the beach. How is it that you look perfectly put together?”

A corner of his mouth turned up, just slightly. “I am a god.” Her pretty face fell and she went back to scrubbing futilely at her dress. “That was a rather fetching gown,” he offered.

“Was is the operative word here,” she sighed, giving up. “You’re bad luck for expensive dresses.”

“Perhaps if you’d been waiting in my rooms at the Tower like a good girl,” he said haughtily, “your dress would be intact.”

“What?” His usually sweet-natured, mild girl threw the filthy bar towel at him. “Seriously? So you could dump me in person? How nice of you! That’s just never going to-” With a sigh, Loki seized her around the waist and they were gone. 

“Geddoff me!” Mina was wiggling, trying to get loose from Loki’s steel grip.

“Such a bad girl,” he said disapprovingly, “I must seek you out in a club catering to male nudity, save you from the Incubi and this is your gratitude?”

“Gratitude! Gratitude?” Her eyes were furious slits and she was snarling like a feral cat. “You DUMPED me! You have no right to-” Releasing her abruptly, he smiled a bit to hear her startled scream and then the huge splash. Hitching his trousers, Loki seated himself on a rock outcropping, waiting for her to surface. Mina did, paddling and splashing furiously in a rather adorable fashion until she was calmer. Wiping the water out of her eyes, she glared up at him. “Where are we?”

“This is Valeria,” he said, settling more comfortably. “It is an undeveloped planet that Asgard holds in guardianship. It is one of the last pure places in the universe.” As she swam closer, his clothes disappeared and he joined her in the water.

Mina gritted back a simper as she watched him rise from the crystal water, the waves sluicing off his hard body as he smoothed his wet hair off his face. “If it’s undeveloped, why are we here?” A wicked little smile graced his lips and she groaned audibly.

“I keep a vacation cottage here,” he said, swimming around her in circles. “Just a humble abode when I require peace and quiet.”

“Then, why am I here?” she pursued.

“Because you long to travel and take a safari in a far-flung country, Africa, perhaps. You wish to see wild animals and places undefiled by man.”

Mina flushed. “You’ve been looking at my Pinterest account again!”

“Darling…” Loki drew her onto his lap in the water. “Valeria has over 1,930,000 species of animals that have never been seen anywhere but here. I shall take you all over this world tomorrow and show you creatures you never imagined. Animals no other human eye will ever see.”

Looping her arms around his smooth shoulders, Mina gave him a weak smile. “Was that what you meant when you told Thor that we would no longer be … something by Valentine’s Day?”

“Of course, foolish girl. I’d planned this off-world safari for you for some time-” Loki’s answer was cut off when she pressed her mouth to his.

“So you weren’t breaking up with me,” she mumbled, not meeting his gaze.

Loki pursed his mouth. “Will there ever be a time you do not doubt me, my Mina? Where you will not compare me to the utterly pedestrian fools you have been with before me?”

She did feel terrible. But warm and kind of glowing inside at the same time. So when her god leaned back against the warm rocks and spread his long legs with an utterly filthy leer, she slipped deeper into the heavenly water, swimming between his knees. “Allow me to make it up to you, my King,” Mina said in the sweetest of tones. Loki was fighting a smile, she could tell, but he nodded regally. Putting his perfect, thick cock into her mouth was never a hardship, she thought, sucking carefully on the tip and fluttering her tongue on the sensitive underside. Lunging to bring the length of him down her throat, she enjoyed the low growl that rattled through his chest. Carefully cupping his scrotum with one hand, she slid her finger along the sensitive flesh behind his sac. One hand came up to pet her wet hair as his hips thrust up before he pulled them back.

“Such a good girl,” he praised her, chest heaving. When she finally circled his anus with a questing finger, Loki regretfully pulled her off his painfully stiff cock. “Not this time, darling. I must make you wet and soft for me.” Mina let out a startled shriek as he simply lifted her by the waist and planted her pussy on his face.

“Oh, my god, Loki I’m going to smother you! Wait, just- Oh, godddd,” she moaned, back arching a little as she felt his cool tongue and lips play with her. She could hear the sound of birds chirping and the occasional rustle of leaves as if the animals here were creeping down to watch. 

Loki gently bit one of her swelling lips and held on as she tried to pull loose. “I require your attention to be focused upon me, feasting on this juicy cunt.” When she nodded a little randomly, he slid two fingers up her channel and attacked her again, sliding his tongue back and forth before latching onto her clit and sucking gently.

When he caught her startled gaze, he winked one jade-colored eye and scraped his teeth gently across the excruciatingly sensitive tissue of her pearl, enjoying her gasp and deliciously wanton moan as she came. Carefully rearranging her shaking arms and legs, he kneeled her on all fours and crawled behind her. “You present so beautifully for your alpha,” Loki purred, “just as a good little mate should. Now raise that lovely rump of your higher. I’m going to fuck you. Mate with you. Drive you into the ground.” He’d placed the reddened tip of his cock at her entrance, and then, he shoved himself up inside her, hard. “Force you to submit to me, beg for my come. You will yowl and cry out and moan, just like a saucy little female of this place would do.”

Mina was gripping the wet earth under her, trying to keep her balance as Loki drove into her with ferocity. She had a feeling he was still displeased - and perhaps the tiniest bit wounded? - by her willingness to believe he was casting her aside. And when his big hand came down on the soft cheeks of her ass with a thunderous “whap!” she was sure of it. Loki was so big in this position - filling her and spreading her so completely that it was hard to tell where she ended and he began. Everything inside her felt pressed aside for his driving cock and it was unimaginably good. He had one hand on her shoulder, shoving her back and forth on his cock, and the other pulling and stroking at her nipples. She could feel the shower of sparks move up her spine, so close to coming! And then the heartless, diabolical God of Lust grabbed her hair and pulled her head up, putting his lips to her ear. 

“Do you see them, pet?” She did - two gigantic creatures were perched on the cliffs across the pond from them, silent, but alert. They were awe-inspiring, something that looked like a cross between a tiger and a bird of prey, massive wings covered in a golden striped fur. Mina’s gasp died in her throat as she stared at the two pairs of golden eyes staring back. “They recognize us, a species dominant to them, higher on the food chain. So they will bear witness as we mate, they will not drink until we leave…” His fingers were moving faster on her breasts, squeezing and plucking at them until he felt her thighs begin to quiver. “Ah … there you are, lovely. You’re so close, aren’t you?” His thrusts were faster, shorter and sharper inside her and Mina was nearly knocked off her knees.

“Please, my King,” she moaned, “please allow me to come!”

He whispered one last, sibilant hiss in her ear. “Come. Now.” And she felt his teeth bite down into her shoulder and every last bit of sense left her, screaming and shaking, moaning as she heard him growl deep in his chest. A warning. A challenge. And the two huge creatures rose gracefully and disappeared back into the jungle as he picked his Mina up and brought her to his home. 

Long after, when Loki had meticulously bathed her limp form and smoothed a glorious-smelling lotion on her sore skin, had brushed her long hair dry and then hand-fed her bites of small and utterly delicious things, Mina finally forced enough brain cells back together to ask a question or two.

“What happened with the last incubus, the one that had me by the throat?” Loki had healed her as his first action when the demon disappeared.

Kissing each of her toes, he looked up at her slyly. “Your blood, lovely. An incubus cannot bear the essence of one pure at heart. Your blood nearly destroyed him, the monster had barely the strength to retreat back to Hel.”

Mina blinked. That was not what she’d been expecting. “I don’t- that’s ridiculous,” she said shyly, “I’m no pure thing.”

Her beautiful, infuriating Valentine gracefully moved over her, knees already between hers and spreading her wider. “Oh, my sweet Mina,” he said in a tone that could only be described as tender. “You are so very, very pure and good. You redeem me.” Loki smiled down as she blinked back tears. “And now, I shall attempt to defile you in a way that only a very, very good girl can be.”

I'm starting over with a vague memory of who might like my Loki and Avengers tales. If you would like on or off this list, please let me know! Thank you. Mwah!

@what-is-your-plan-today

@sweater-daddiesdumbdork

@the-soulofdevil

@americasass81

@mdemontespan1667

@sultry-rachael

@myoxisbroken

@gigglingtiggerv2

@notpedeka

@narnianarcher

@sylviefromneptune

@winterslove1917

@kimanne723

@hawkeyes-queen

@grymrayven

@stevihj

@lizette50

@jevans2

@wolfsmom1

@devikafernando

@wegingerangelica

@nildespirandum

@alexakeyloveloki

@thebatshitcrazyfangirl

@thehumming6ird

@archy3001

@iheartsebastianstan

@tomstinkerbell

@wolfpawn

@rayofdawnworld

@thecutestlittlebunbunfairy

@dangertoozmanykids101

@alexakeyloveloki

@nuggsmum

@boredbrooder

@fairlightswiftly

@inkededucatednnerdy

@nonsensicalobsessions

@viv-annelore

@eleniblue

[wardenparker]

Down the Rabbit Hole - ch 4

Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When Jack accidentally shoots a civilian on a mission he takes on not only the guilt of the man’s death, but inherits his soulmate as well. To you, it’s a dream job with more perks than you can imagine - but for Jack it’s a nightmarish complication. Even more so when he starts to develop feelings.    

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 10.8k Warnings: *Blanket warnings - mentions of deceased spouse, a lot of food and alcohol consumption, family recipes, age gap, cursing.* Making out, a bit of groping, heavy flirting. Nothing extreme here.  Summary: The day after your outing with Jack things take an unexpected turn, including a visit from Champ’s wife and a change in plans for your cousin’s wedding. Notes: That pesky love triangle is rearing its head defiantly in this chapter, gang! 

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12 ~ Ch 13 ~ Ch 14 ~ Ch 15 ~ Epilogue

Jack opens the door to the dining room, a bit nervous as he comes into what he’s come to consider ‘your space’. He knows that he’s blown kind of hot and cold with you, but he wants to see you. Needs to see you, if he’s honest with himself. After a restless night, he’s here. A crate of the new whiskey and a crate of apples from a nearby farm he knows as an offering to your culinary expertise, rolled in behind him on a delivery dolly.

You’ve been in your own little world - singing along to the music playing through Bluetooth speakers situated on the steel counters and dancing around - while you whip up two batches of icing to go with the red velvet cake that you baked. Cream cheese frosting and whipped chocolate ganache are the contenders for topping off the classic sweet, and you’re going to give Diana a call to come do a taste test as soon as they’re ready. Or you were, until you turned around to put a bowl of chocolate frosting on the main counter and saw Jack in the doorway. “H—hey.” You flash him a grin, feeling your cheeks heat at the sight of him all decked out in his suit jacket and tie with his Stetson.

“Hey, sugar.” He hates interrupting your little dance party in the kitchen. Smirking slightly as he had watched your hips sway in time to the beat. “Not interrupting anything time sensitive, am I?”

“Not at all.” Even if he was, you wouldn’t tell him. He had been friendly but distant for the rest of the night last night, helping you bring things in the house when he dropped you off but politely declining the cup of coffee you had offered. The man was a menace, leaking into your dreams and permeating every thought afterward. “You’re just in time for the first cakes to be frosted, but I…I actually made something else this morning. You’re the first to try them, if you don’t mind being a Guinea pig.”

“Always willing to be your test subject, sugar.” Jack assures you, inhaling deeply and groaning at the sugary sweetness of the air. He’s starting to think it’s your scent. “Whatcha got for me?” He asks, shuffling closer and smirking as he peers into your bowls.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” With a cheeky grin in his direction, you nod to the hand truck he carried in behind him.

Jack turns around and grins when he looks back at you. “This here are gifts.” He declares, picking up the crate of apples and setting it down on a clear surface of the prep tables. “Man down the road was sellin’ apples. Figured you could use ‘em somehow. Wanted to help him out and they looked good.”

“They look gorgeous.” The crate of orchard fresh fruit is basically crying out to be loved and used, and you pick one up to bite into the flesh immediately. “And they’re perfectly ripe,” you groan happily at the juicy sweetness. “You have to try one of these.” It’s still in your hand when you dash over to the far counter to retrieve the tray of cookies that you made this morning. “And one of these, too.”

"What are all these?" He asks, not caring - he will eat anything you offer him - he purely wants to know so he can tell what you are putting on the menu. "They smell good."

"I was thinking about what you said yesterday...about how you only like shortbread that has jam or in a sandwich cookie." The little Linzer-inspired cookies on the tray have beautifully fluted edges and perfect stars cut out of the top cookie with a layer of powdered sugar decorating the top, but the little purple flecks in the cookies are still visible. "These are lemon lavender shortbread with lemon curd to sandwich them together."

"Sounds fancy." He hums, looking over the tray and choosing a cookie that looks to have the most powdered sugar on top. He inspects it and admires the craftsmanship you put into a simple cookie that is anything but. "Looks delicious."

"I know they're a little unusual, but I made them for my sister's baby shower a couple of years ago and I never would have thought to use lemon curd between the layers if you hadn't mentioned sandwich cookies yesterday." In truth, they're one of your favourite things in the world, but you don't know how lavender cookies will go over with cowboys. If the flavours aren't going to be popular, you'll just make them in your own kitchen at home and be very happy with enjoying it in private. "If you don't like it, that's okay. I just always need you to be honest when you taste something."

Jack nods seriously and takes a bite of his cookie, closing his eyes and chewing silently. Contemplating the flavors as seriously as he would testing a batch of whiskey. "Hmmm." He nods to himself, taking another bite and munching on it again. "I— the lavender is a little heavy for my taste, but I can see this going with a spiked sweet tea." He opens his eyes and looks down at it. "Bourbon sweet tea."

"Pull back on the lavender? I can do that." Somehow you knew - or maybe hoped - that you could trust his palate, and you dash to the refrigerator to pull out the pitcher of sweet tea you have stashed there and the open bottle of bourbon on the counter to mix some drinks and see if he's right.

"Just a smidge, for me." Jack tells you. "But I'm sure others will like it just like it is." Jack watches as you pour out the drinks, one for him and one for you. He takes it and immediately takes a sip before taking another bite of the cookie. "Yep, holy hell in a handbasket." Jack whistles, looking at the cookie and the drink with fresh eyes. "You gotta try that combo, sugar."

A bite of a cookie and a sip of your drink have you grinning almost immediately, doing a little happy dance in place as you realize that the subtle floral notes in the bourbon are amplified by the cookie and the tartness of the curd tempers the sweetness in the tea. It's an absolutely perfect combination and you're on the verge of giggles because of it. "Holy shit," you look up at him again with bright, excited eyes. "That's incredible."

"Now, with that sweet tea, you don't have to do anything to the cookie." Jack tells you. "It's balanced just like that - at least it is to me."

"I'll have to put a note on the menu that they're recommended as a pairing with the spiked sweet tea." You had already been planning on putting that particular drink on the menu, but now it's mandatory. The combination is too good to pass up. "And it's one hundred percent thanks to you."

“Nothing to it sugar.” Jack winks. “I know my whiskey and I know my sweets.”

"Do you have time to hang out?" If he's just dropped by for a few minutes you'll understand, but the jittery eagerness in you that just doesn't seem to be satiable hopes that's not the case. You'll take every single moment of time with Jack that you can get.

“Now, sugar, I haven’t even gotten to my other gift.” He pouts, secretly pleased that you want him to stay. “What kind of man would I be if I deprived such a gorgeous lady of my company when she’s wantin’ it?”

"You brought me something else?" Only the crate of apples had been visible over the side of the counter that he was standing behind, and you raise an eyebrow at him. "Besides the gift of your generous company, I mean?"

Chuckling, Jack bends down and picks up the crate of whiskey he had pinched from the warehouse. “I brought you some of the new whiskey line we were talking about. So you can see how you like it.”

“Oooo!” Practically squealing when he puts it down on the counter, you slip around the other side to steal a tight hug of gratitude. “Thank you, thank you for this. I’m going to have to make a study of this one to get the tasting notes right.” Something in the back of your mind is saying to try pairing it with the apples he brought, but you’re far too distracted being pressed momentarily against his body for that thought to continue.

Electricity practically crackles in the air when your eyes meet his and Jack grunts a small, nearly unheard curse. It’s wrong, it should not be happening, but the voice of reason that is normally screaming in Jack’s mind is disturbingly silent as he leans in. Pressing you in to the counter and reaching up to adjust his hat so he can kiss you.

That tightness in your chest was so individual - you had thought. The butterflies in your belly and lump in your throat, a problem you would have to deal with on your own. You were convinced they were isolated feelings until his eyes met yours. Instead you see nothing but desire reflected back at you and the delicate flutter of his long lashes before you both shut your eyes. His kiss is so much of his own personality - brash and insistent yet somehow also gentle and coaxing; and his hands mirror the feeling with one gripping your hip tightly and the other softly cradling your opposite cheek. It’s the most achingly sweet and intoxicating kiss you’ve ever had in your life and you just…surrender. There’s no point in pretending you aren’t completely in his thrall, so you just wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and soak up every second of affection he’s willing to give you. You can analyze it later. For now, you’re just going to luxuriate in how startlingly right it feels.

Once his lips touch yours, it's like a fuse has been lit. Or a countdown started. Inevitably working down to the moment that Jack is going to lose control with you. The moment building between you like an organic thing, taking on a life of its own as he presses into you more, his tongue becoming slightly more insistent as he swallows your moans down.

You open up for him instantly, never intending to be coy or mask how much you want to be on the receiving end of his affection. Maybe other people might turn their noses down at you for it or call you easy, but you’ve never believed in playing games. Especially not right now. Not like this. Not with your hips shoved up against the steel counter and your fingers clawing at his clothes to drag him impossibly closer to you while your tongue dances with his to a beat all their own.

With a willing partner, and you are obviously willing, Jack takes control. His real job as an agent is good for making sure that Jack as the ability to throw a grown man twice his size so manhandling you up onto your pristine counter is no mean feat and he does it with a small grunt and grin against your lips.

It’s the first time you disconnect from him since he started kissing you, and it only happens for a moment, but you yelp in surprise when he picks you up and giggle gleefully when you land right on the counter where he has determined you belong. Shaky hands remove his hat from his head, leaving it on the counter beside you and letting you dive back in for more of that fervent press of his lips to yours. Every pleased sound you absorb from him seems to roll down your spine and make you that much needier, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

He's never been a shy man and he doesn't start now. His hands roaming over your body in a way that if you weren't amenable to his affections, he would be getting slapped. Squeezing your ass and pulling you against him as he breaks away from your tantalizing lips and starts to kiss down along your jaw.

“Shit, Jack…” His name is barely a gasp, pushed out of you all at once when he tips his head to the side and finds out exactly how sensitive the tender skin on your neck is. Your fingers might as well be claws now, digging into his back while your knees bracket his hips and squeeze. Whatever the fuck caused this absolute snap in his composure, you want to pinpoint it exactly so you can repeat it as often as humanly possible.

His mind is filled with you, unable to think of anything else other than you and touching you. He groans and his teeth nip at your skin. Chuckling when you shiver and gasp, his mouth working its way south.

“Would’ve worn a f—fucking dress if I’d known you’d come by horny,” you pant, nipping at his earlobe before he continues to move down your shoulders, pushing your sweater off your shoulders with ease.

Jack chuckles, moving to your shirt and under it so he can unhook your bra. Wanting to duck his head under your shirt and pop your nipple in his mouth.

Something in your brain short circuits when his thumb swipes the underside of your breasts, a pitiful whimper dripping from your lips as your head drops back just for a second. There’s no way you can let this go by without watching him, though, and one of your hands threads into his hair to encourage him to explore as much of your skin as he wants.

He has your tit in his hand, his mouth diving down to suck on it, just to hear you cry out his name when a wrench is thrown into the mix. The door in the front of the building opens. “Hello?” Jack lurches back from you like he’s on fire and his eyes widen at what just almost happened. “I—” he backs up, nearly tripping over the hand cart and reaches over to grab his hat. “Get dressed. I’ll— I’ll stall.”

“Shit.” He pulls back from you with an unreadably wide-eyed expression and you aren’t much better, frantically pulling your shirt down and trying to get your bra back into place all in one graceless motion. The fact that you were in the process of having your clothes pulled off in the kitchen of your damn restaurant is either completely inappropriate or just a christening for coworker trysts yet to come, but either way you’re going to have extremely stern words for whoever is out there.

“Hey hun!” The bright and cheerful voice of Diana rings out through the space and Jack bites back a curse. She’s probably more eagle-eyed than her husband and she will notice kiss swollen lips and flustering bodies.

“Shit.” He hisses quietly, turning around and fleeing through the double doors to greet her and give you time to fix yourself.

“Well you’re not who I was expecting to see.” Diana smiles widely when Jack comes out of the kitchen, only raising an eyebrow when she notices he always-immaculate hair is mussed up right before his hat goes back on. “Visiting our new friend, Jack?”

"Just dropping off some of the new label for her to try along with some fresh apples." Jack tells her smoothly, bypassing any conversation about kissing or how he had to adjust so his jeans weren't tenting before coming through the doors.

“That’s very generous of you.” Nobody devours mystery novels and detective thrillers the way Diana Rogers does without developing a few observational skills, and the crumpled lapels of his jacket combined with the way he won’t meet her eyes, and she glances at his lips to be greeted with the exact sight she hoped to see. After all, she knows who and what you are to him. Diana chuckles quietly. “So the kiss was a thank you for the delivery?”

It's like the wind has been pushed out of his sails and Jack's shoulders slump at being caught. He looks back at the door with his hand rubbing the back of his hot neck as he blows out a breath. He had lost control. He had done the dumbest thing he could and touched you. The heat of your skin tingles against his fingers, as if your touch is already muscle memory. "I—" He swallows, closing his eyes. "Lapse in judgement." He murmurs quietly, the walls going back up and common sense taking control of his thoughts again. He can't do this with you. "Tell her— tell her I had to go, okay?"

“Jack—” Instantly regretting saying something, Diana watches him hustle out the front door with a frustrated sigh. That man is as dear to her as her own flesh and blood, but he can’t see past the end of his own nose sometimes. It was maddening to watch before, but now that there’s another person involved it’s worse. Even more so because she genuinely likes you. And who knows how you’ll feel about Jack running out the door without a word like a scared, spurned puppy.

Jack hits the side of his Bronco when he gets to it, frustrated at himself. "Shit!" He groans, knowing that he's fucked up royally. He can't do this with you, to you. So, frazzled, he opens the door and climbs inside. He needs to talk to Tequila and ask for a favor.

******

“Diana! What a nice surprise.” You’re all but glowing when she walks in the door, expecting Jack to stroll back in behind her with that cheeky look of self-satisfaction on his face that he would most certainly have earned. Your whole body is on fire - and if it weren’t your boss’s wife that just waltzed into the kitchen, you’d be shooing her out again immediately.

"Hey hun." Diana smiles brightly at you despite being annoyed at Jack. She's going to witness your face fall in disappointment and she hates it. "I came to see if you wanted some company and perhaps help?"

“That’s so sweet of you. I was actually going to call you later once the red velvet cakes were frosted.” And after Jack left, but that doesn’t need to be said out loud. He must be composing himself in the dining room. Not that you’re necessarily surprised - the insistent bulge in his jeans had been pressing against your thigh barely two minutes ago.

"Oh, you are just so sweet." Diana hates that your eyes shift behind her towards the door. Expecting Jack to come through them with the eager anticipation of a sweetheart waiting on her beau. "I know that it's disappointing, but perhaps you might want my company now, since Jack had to run off? Something about an emergency?"

Shit. You can feel your shoulders tense, lips pressing together in a firm line so you don’t frown and chest tight so you don’t sigh disappointedly or something equally melodramatic. It’s more of Jack’s hot-and-cold bullshit, apparently. Just when you thought it was obvious which way he was going to go. “O-of course.” You force yourself to nod, plastering a bright smile on your face so she doesn’t see you crumble. “Pull up a chair and I’ll pour you a glass of tea.”

She wants to wring his neck, or drag him back in here by his ear and demand that he fix the stricken look on your face. But she also knows that it will make Jack dig in his heels harder. "Maybe there is an emergency." She suggests softly, wanting you to believe that it's not you. Because it isn't. All of this is on Jack Daniels.

“Maybe.” You offer Diana a half smile before moving to the refrigerator. She’s observant enough to have obviously figured out that you have something to be embarrassed about, and that just makes you all the more embarrassed.

“Sometimes cowboys want to make you throw a lasso around them and knock ‘em upside the head.” She tells you as she moves towards the crates of apples and whiskey. It was a sweet gesture and one all done on his own. “I know that for a fact.”

“It’s my fault.” The logic doesn’t track, but you feel guilty, so it must be. You shrug a little, putting the glass of cold tea down in front of her. “Getting your hopes up after knowing a man for a week is schoolgirl stuff.”

The only reason she doesn’t reassure you that you have a reason to be drawn to Jack is because it’s not her place. “Seems like it’s not all unfounded.” She hums. “Just— Jack has a lot of past trauma. I have a feeling he’s wrestlin’ with it.”

“I’m not asking anything of him.” And you barely ever had on any front, which is why this whole thing was so frustrating. It makes your heart ache in a way that is completely new to you and makes you feel like he’s already burrowed into your insides before you could stop it. “I wouldn’t pressure him. He—he told me about his wife. It would be a shitty thing to do, to expect anything from someone who’s still in mourning.”

“Abigail Daniels has been dead for nearly twenty years.” Diana tells you bluntly. “Jack carries around his grief like an old dog with a mangy bone.”

“She was his soulmate.” And you’re not, you remind yourself harshly. Even if it’s a nice daydream to have. “Some people are only ever with their soulmate for their entire lives. It’s not fair to want him to jump into something just—” You blow out a breath, deciding to retrieve the layers of red velvet cake from the fridge and start icing. Maybe it will help calm you down. “Just because I have a crush…”

“He’s had his share of dalliances.” She admits, probably more than what were good for him. “He’s a red-blooded man with needs. But every woman he’s been with has known upfront what to expect and I’ve never seen him skedaddle off like his pants were on fire. You scare him.”

“Hell if I know why.” It’s not like you’re a scary person. Or at least no one else has been scared of you this same way. “It is what it is, I guess. I’m certainly not going to force a man to spend time with me.”

“Have some patience with him. He’s a man, bless his heart.” Diana knows that there will be more ups and downs before all of this plays out just because your soulmate is so damned hardheaded.

You smirk, stifling a laugh, and shake your head at the phrase. Enough time was spent with your grandmother throughout your life to know that ‘bless his heart’ is not a compliment. “I’ll call him later to apologize,” you decide. He’s supposed to be spending the weekend with you in Boston and the last thing you want is for that whole trip to be awkward.

“No, you won’t.” Diana tells you sternly. “You did nothing wrong.” She doesn’t even know what happened beyond the two of you kissing but she has a feeling that Jack couldn’t help himself. “That boy needs to apologize. And you should make him grovel a bit before you forgive him.”

“Did he say something?” The motions of icing a cake are soothing - getting out the cake stand and a cardboard pad, giving the giant bowl of chocolate icing a turn before putting a little on the pad to stick the first layer of cake to - it’s all a series of comfortable motions that your body has memorized.

“Just for me to tell you that he had to go.” She won’t bury the knife. You don’t need to hear about a ‘lapse of judgement’, especially when you don’t know why he is fighting this so hard.

There’s no need for a verbal response, not when the look on your face does all the talking for you. You just nod, focusing all of your attention on the task in front of you, and decide that when you call Jack later you’ll let him out of the commitment he made for this weekend. He’s obviously changed his mind about whatever spurred him on today, and you don’t want to spend time with a man who regrets you.

Diana moves over to help you, un-crating the bottles of whiskey and holds one up. “Do you want to try this now or wait until you are happier?”

“I’m fine, Diana. Honestly.” The fact that you feel heartbroken is just silly, you tell yourself, and put two glasses down on the counter in front of her. “Let’s try it. No reason not to.”

She studies you for a moment before she nods and starts to break the seal of the bottle so she can pour healthy measures into a glass. "I'm surprised that Jack brought you all this." She hums as she sets down the bottle and picks up the glass to smell the liquor. "It's under lock and key right now. Champ hasn't even brought home a bottle of it yet."

“I wanted to name the restaurant The Rabbit-Hole,” you explain, hating the ache of knowing Jack had done something so sweet and potentially broken rules to surprise you. “He thought since this is called Red Rabbit, I could use it in some recipes or pairings.” It downright makes you want to cry, if you’re honest with yourself, but you won’t do that in front of Diana.

“That boy.” Diana shakes her head and shoots you a grin. “I swear I don’t know if I need to pull his head out of his ass or shove my foot up it.”

“He doesn’t owe me anything.” The insistent and nagging need to defend him, to protect him, is right there on the surface even though you have no idea why. “We just hung out a few times. That’s all.”

Diana hides her smile behind her glass, happy to see that you are so sweet as to protect a man who obviously hurt your feelings. She wonders if you know that it must be your soulmate connection. “It smells delicious. What do you think?”

“It’s fruitier than I expected.” Of course, until right now, you hadn’t known anything about the line except that it was aged in applewood barrels. You had assumed that that was why Jack had decided to bring the apples with it. “It smells like the mature older sibling of the applejack we used to buy from the farmers in town growing up.” It’s such a small-town thing to do - to find the one employee working in the local apple and pumpkin farm every year who was willing to sell flasks of applejack whiskey to the underage high school kids. “And sweet. Like…maple?”

Diana tastes it and tilts her head as she swishes it around in her mouth. “Not maple.” She narrows her eyes and thinks. “More cane? Raw cane sugar?” She asks you, trying to confirm.

“Is that what that is?” She’s right, it’s not maple, but it has an earthier flavor than table sugar does without going all the way to molasses. “This would be amazing in caramel.” The thoughts are already forming, swirling around in your head while you figure out what flavours will work best with the unique liquor.

“And with that crate of apples.” Diana muses, looking towards the box. “He must have stopped by old Junior’s place and begged a box off him. Man is stingy with his ‘babies’ as he calls his trees.”

“He said somebody was just selling them by the side of the road…” He wouldn’t have done that for you, would he? Make such a lovely and sweet gesture and then take off like his ass was on fire?

Diana snorts and walks over to the crate and picks up an apple. “Nope.” She shakes her head and looks back at you. “These ambrosia apples are only available out of one farm in the area and Junior’s a son of a bitch about selling them.” She tells you with a grin. “Jack must have done some sweet talking or opened up his wallet to get these. The man wouldn’t sell me a bag to make fruit salad for my son’s birthday last year.”

“Oh.” When your shoulders finally slump, you pick up the apple you had taken a bite of earlier and have another nibble, letting the taste of the bourbon roll around it in your mouth. Whatever you do, it has to be this bottle and these apples. “I—I guess…I guess he must have changed his mind about me, then.” What the hell other explanation could there be?

“I think Jack is fighting what he wants.” Diana murmurs softly, setting the apple back in the crate and reaching out to stroke your shoulder. “He believes he doesn’t deserve it.” That is the truth, since his guilt over killing your original soulmate is hanging over his head like a shroud. It’s her opinion he needs to tell you and get it out in the open, but that was just her.

“There’s no reason to. It’s not like I have a soulmate that’s going to pop out of nowhere and try to complicate things, or anything like that.” No, that definitely would not happen. Not with all your marks gone and second soulmates being an impossible fairy tale that people told widows and widowers to try to comfort them. “I mean honestly, I came here with no intention of restarting that part of my life, only to have two different men flirt with me right from the get go and then within a week it all dies down and slips away. What was I even expecting? For some…magical change in appeal? Like I just needed a change of scenery and suddenly I could have my pick of men? That’s just…ridiculous.”

“Two?” Diana blinks for a second before she settles into a small smile. “Tex, of course.” She murmurs to herself, shaking her head. “I don’t think you have to worry about the interest not being there.”

“I should be focusing on the restaurant anyway.” Anything else is just a complication, and complications will just cloud your mind. At least, that’s what your dad would say if he were here.

She sighs softly, nodding at your comment even though she doesn’t agree with it. “Whatever you think is best for you.”

“I’m sorry you had to walk into the middle of this.” While you’ve been talking and sipping, your hands have been busy working. The first red velvet cake nearly has its crumb coat of chocolate frosting done. “It was never my intention to create any kind of workplace drama here.”

“I’m sorry that I interrupted.” Diana huffs at you. “Things might have been vastly different if you hadn’t had someone come in.”

“Maybe not for the better, though.” You can just imagine how it would have turned out now. Your clothes strewn all over the kitchen and your attraction satiated, only for Jack to turn away after he’d gotten what he came for. You’d only be even more miserable.

All she can do is hum, not sure how Jack would have reacted, although it was probably better than right now. The sound of the front door opens again and she can hear the sound of boots thumping on the hardwoods, heading towards the kitchen with a eager determinate stride.

Boot steps make your ears perk, but you swear you’re trying not to show any interest whatsoever until there’s a knock on the kitchen door and it swings open to admit Tex’s imposing frame. You honestly can’t be sure if you’re relieved or disappointed, but the natural smile that comes to your lips is a definite clue. “Looks like everybody’s looking for sweets today,” you observe, trying to get a little of your own teasing tone back again.

“Darlin’ I’m always down for some sweets.” Tex throws you a wink and hooks his fingers into his belt loop. “Was wonderin’ if I could talk to you?”

“Sure.” The second after you say it, you get the feeling that he’s asking for privacy more than anything else, and Diana seems to sense it as well.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” she offers, smooth as silk. “You call me later if you want to talk some more, okay honey?”

“Um—yeah. I really appreciate it. Thanks, Diana.” Her hand on your arm is a hair’s breadth away from being the most maternal hug in the world, and you pack up a few of the lemon lavender shortbread cookies for her to take home to Champ and Bobby before she slips out the door as unceremoniously as she came.

Tequila nods towards Diana respectfully as she takes her leave, waiting until he hears the door open out in the front before he lets out a breath and turns towards you. "So, uh—" He blows out a breath and grins at you. He knows you might not be happy but he wants to make sure that you have a blast. "Want to talk to you about something...if you've got a minute."

“That sounds ominous.” He’s never delivered a single piece of bad news to you, though, and never been anything but smiles. You just hope that that isn’t about to change. “Is this a seat and some tea kind of talk, or are we contemplating something serious over a whiskey?”

"I'm hopin' it's more a of 'I made your day' kinda talk." He admits, ducking his head down slightly and looking at you underneath his lashes before he straightens slightly. "Jack just came to tell me that he can't attend the wedding this weekend with you." He explains. "Something about an emergency that is pulling him away - he looked really upset about missin' it - but I was hopin' you would let me fill in and escort you to the wedding?" He asks hopefully. "We can have some fun."

There is no way in hell that Jack looked upset after running out of here like a bat out of hell, you decide, and you wonder if the older man had told his friend the reason he was chickening out of his promise. It’s not that you don’t want to spend time with Tex. Honestly, it’s kind of the opposite. He’s a sweet guy who likes to have a good time and is always admirable and ready for good conversation. He’d be a perfect choice if you weren’t upset about Jack tucking tail - so you tilt your head at him and remind yourself to smile. Tex is just being nice, and it would probably be an extremely bad idea for you to read more into it. “Well that all depends,” You tell him, leaning back against the counter. “Can you dance?”

"Depends on what kind of dancin' you want." Tex admits with a wink. "I'm not good at the fancy ones. But slow dancin' or having fun? I'm better than Jack any day of the week." Jack hadn't really explained, just said that he couldn't make it to the wedding and asked him if he would step in and make sure that you had a good time. Knowing that he had a crush on you. At least he thinks Jack knows he likes you. He should.

“And meeting my family once wasn’t enough to warn you off ever spending time with them again?” When he flew back to New Hampshire with you to help you pack, he had gotten treated to a full family dinner at your favourite Tex Mex restaurant and your father had laughed mercilessly about ‘taking Tex for Tex Mex’. To his credit, the cowboy hadn’t seemed to mind and it had given everyone else a good giggle.

He gives a half shrug of his shoulders and grins at you again. “What can I say? I’m a masochist for a pretty girl.” He drawls.

It stings somehow, almost bittersweet, knowing that an hour ago there was someone else here who might have been prepared to say something similar until he decided to tuck tail and run. Still - Tex is a good guy and has never given you any reason to doubt his good intentions. “I’d love for you to come.” You’ll have fun with him. You know you will. And just maybe you won’t be run out on this time.

******

The reception is in full swing, Tex adjusting the velvet lapel of his tuxedo and holds the laughably delicate champagne glass in his hand and wishes that he had a crystal cut glass of whiskey. Being here with you is worth the commercial flight, the crowded plane, and he understood why you didn’t want to take the Statesman jet. Worried about the way it would look and misuse of company property. Since he knew you don’t know about the intelligence portion of the company, he had let you book a flight on Delta.

What he hadn't told you was that he had called the hotel, transferring your room for the night to his own credit card and upgrading the room to a suite for luxurious comfort and privacy.

You'd taken your time washing the plane smell off and carefully covering your tattoo like you always do for anything formal, then making sure your hair and makeup were as close to perfect as you could manage on your own before getting into that beautiful dress. The tie and kerchief that matched your dress went to Tex tonight instead of Jack, and honestly he has been an absolute dream of a wedding date. Friendly with every elderly relative and murmuring jokes in your ear when cousins get snooty, your hand is looped around his arm now as you sip champagne and watch far too many friends and family members jump up for the Chicken Dance. No power in the universe could force you out of your seat for this craziness. No thank you.

“Ten dollars says you catch the bouquet.” Tequila leans over and whispers in your ear, using any excuse he can to murmur against your skin. He hadn’t missed the way you shiver slightly when he does that.

"Who says I'm even getting in on that brawl?" You huff and roll your eyes at him for effect. Anything that makes him laugh is good in your book.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Darlin’ a brawl is always a good time. Especially when it’s against your cousins.”

"You just want to see if anybody throws an elbow." Knowing your cousins it very well might happen, and now you kind of want to see it for yourself if you're honest. "It'll really annoy Paris if she doesn't catch it," you laugh, subtly pointing out one particular cousin of yours in her bright fuchsia bridesmaid dress.

“Oh, you’ll win against her.” Tequila predicts, smirking slightly. “Guaranteed. Tell ya what? You join the ladies for the bouquet toss and I’ll join the men for the garter.”

"Alright, but using your hat is cheating." It's so nice that the night hasn't been awkward at all. Nothing feels forced or like you're trying too hard to tiptoe around uncomfortable topics. This is comfortable and flirty, and you grin up at Tex. "Is there a prize if either of us win?"

His matching grin is daring and he leans in. “A kiss?” He offers, knowing it might be too much, but he’s going to shoot his shot. You look gorgeous and he’s drawn to you more and more as the night goes on.

You swallow, knowing that the last time that you kissed someone it got very heated and ended very badly. It's not that you don't want to. Not at all that you don't want to. Tex is a great catch and ridiculously attractive. And if it's awkward, you blame it on the champagne and never speak of it again. "Alright." You nod after a second's hesitation. "You got yourself a deal, cowboy."

With a grin more powerful than the sun, Tex nods quickly. “It’s gonna happen.” He promises you, setting his champagne down and immediately scanning the reception area as he scopes out his competition for this garter catch. Doing recon as if it were a mission.

“Oh, so you’re going to be the one throwing elbows?” That makes you laugh, at least, and you finish your drink before setting the glass down on a passing waiter’s tray.

“Whatever it takes to win.” He admits with a sly grin. “‘Specially when the prize is so worth it.” He’s felt like you’ve warmed up to him. Your fingers lingering on his arm a little longer and your smile a bit brighter. He knows that you’ve got a little thing for Jack, but he’s here and Jack missed out.

“Well, don’t knock anybody over or anything. Nobody gets rewarded for bad sportsmanship.” Flustered by the whole thing, you bite your lip and turn back to watch the last few seconds of your family flapping around like idiots until the song comes to an end. Are you flattered? Absolutely. But also a little nervous.

Tex chuckles, watching you fluster and squirm slightly. He’s aware that you might not be as interested in him as he is in you, but that happens. He’ll kiss you when he catches that garter and then if you don’t want it to go any farther, it won’t. But he wants to see where this goes, hoping it might lead to something beautiful.

The DJ gleefully announces the bouquet toss a few seconds later, and you laugh softly when your cousins flock onto the dance floor like seagulls after one, lone French fry on the beach. “Here goes nothing.” You decide, out loud, and give his arm a squeeze before heading directly into the thick of the group. Your sister will tease you mercilessly for it later when she finds out about the bet, but that’s okay. Tonight has been fun - you’re just hoping it stays that way.

Tequila hums in amusement as the women gather, watching you look back at him and roll your eyes in annoyance. You have been on the receiving end of plenty of envious looks because of the dress you are wearing and maybe because of him, but there is a definite competitive air around the group as they try to nudge you towards the outskirts.

If you had a smaller family this might be less hysterical, but the sheer volume of single cousins guarantees that no one can have a single clue who’s actually going to catch the obnoxiously bright pink bouquet. It’s Cassie’s absolute right to enjoy the attention on her wedding day, and she’s encouraging the competition from the other side of the dance floor, so you just shake your head and laugh, preparing to give a good old college try but not intending to turn the whole thing into a mosh pit.

It’s almost humorous, the gasp and screeching that goes up from the crowd as the bouquet lets loose into the air and starts its arch over the crowd. Watching the hands go up and reach for it. Even though it’s far too high for them to reach.

This moment might be most athletic your cousin Cassie has ever been, tossing her flowers out into the living sea of eager hands. The shrieking is ear piercing, but makes you laugh more than anything. This is a group of women who firmly believe that a bouquet of flowers will predict their future and you just can’t take that kind of thing seriously. Which makes it all the funnier when your fingers snag on the large Barbie-style bow adorning the bouquet’s handle and you tighten your fist to make sure it doesn’t slip through your grip.

Tex immediately sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles out happily before starting to clap and holler as you keep a firm hand on to bouquet. Grinning like a loon and winking when you look over at him.

There’s a collective groan and general whining of discontent from your cousins, with one even remarking how you barely know Tex so it isn’t faaaaair! But you laugh it off as you walk back to him, wiggling the flowers in his direction with a smirk. “No one can ever say I’m not competitive,” you tell him with a giggle.

“You sure are.” Tex hums, grinning as he reaches out and strokes your arm softly. “If looks could kill right now, you’d be havin’ your stone set.” He chuckles, looking over the sour looks of every one of the other ladies as they disperse reluctantly.

“Now let’s go piss off the men, too.” Tossing him a wink, You nod to the dance floor where all the single men are now gathering to catch the garter. It’s a tradition you genuinely don’t understand, but for the moment it’s fun. Plus your heart is beating just a tiny bit faster wondering what kind of a kisser Tex will be.

Ambling over to the crowd, Tequila seems relaxed, but he’s tensed slightly under the cool veneer of his tuxedo. The skills that make him a great Statesman agent going to make sure that he is the one that catches the garter.

For the most part the men are less enthusiastic about the whole ‘next to get married’ thing, but they are all competitive and eyeing Tex like he’s the greatest threat to their existence they’ve ever known, which just makes you cackle with private laughter.

It’s a little more suggestive than the bouquet toss, everyone whistling when the groom’s hands slide under the bride’s dress to pull the garter off. He stands, holding it up like it’s a prize and grinning before he twirls it around his finger and launches it into the crowd.

It’s honestly pretty entertaining to watch the guys acting like they’re going to start knocking each other over while your divorced brother rolls his eyes on the sidelines, but the highlight is how horribly indignant the groan is through the crowd when Tex’s arm goes up and easily catches the little fabric missile in his large palm. He doesn’t even hide his happiness, turning around and smugly grinning at you. Waggling his brows as the other men slunk away grumbling under their breaths.

The DJ comes over the sound system again, calling for you to join your date on the dance floor so the winners of the two tosses can share a dance, and you chuckle at the pageantry of the whole thing. “It’s either a victory lap around the dance floor or putting us on display for my cousins who are planning bodily harm,” you decide, taking his hand regardless once you’re in front of him.

Tequila snorts and looks around the room with a cocky grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.” He promises, looking back at you and giving you a small wink. “Enjoy the moment, darlin’. Every one of them are jealous of you.”

The song is nothing you recognize, but you move into his arms easily. It’s slow and melodic and obviously meant to set a mood, and you find yourself getting more and more nervous. With no desire to fuck things up between the two of you, you also have to admit that you don’t really know what actually is between you at all.

He can feel the nerves pouring off of you and his grip on you tightens slightly. “Relax, darlin’.” He murmurs, taking mercy on you. “We don’t have to kiss here in front of everyone and we don’t have to kiss at all.” He allows, knowing that if you aren’t into it, he’s not going to insist.

“No, I want to.” You assure him with an immediacy that surprises both of you. It makes your ears and cheeks burn and you clear your throat self-consciously. “Maybe not…not in front of everyone. But…I’m just nervous.” You sigh a little, shrugging against his chest. “I’m not very good at this, can you tell?”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.” Tex hums, his fingers at your waist stroking your side gently. “Maybe just out of practice.”

“Maybe.” The confidence in his tone makes you want that to be the case, and you turn your arm slightly so that he’s now holding your hand against his chest instead of holding it out. It’s more intimate, but not in a pushy way. “Maybe it’s just that I don’t have great luck.”

“Luck is what you make it.” Tex tells you seriously. “You can say you had a string of failed relationships. Or you can say you learned what you won’t tolerate.” He murmurs, looking into your eyes and he wishes that he had some inkling of what you are thinking.

“I guess I’ll have to think about what I learned, then.” Thinking of them as failures certainly hadn’t helped at all, and the idea that there are lessons to learn and room to grow is a comfort now that you have no soulmate and an amorphous future to try to navigate.

Tex honestly doesn’t know if he has a soulmate, he’s never had scars on his body, and he holds out hope that his is an agent, but he’s not counting on it. “You do that.” He murmurs softly, his smile encouraging.

“Pretty sure there won’t be anything against you in there, though.” You tilt your head a little, moving in closer to him as you sway to the music and looking up into his face. “Just in case you’re wondering.”

“Well first that means that I’ve got to be counted among the liaisons you’ve had.” Tex winks at you and waggles his brows at you playfully.

You had meant that you didn’t think any of the lessons you had to learn would count him out in the future, but of course his playful nature wins out and you end up with burning cheeks. “I suppose so,” you admit.

The song comes to an end and there is a smattering of applause and some murmurs that shuffle through the air. “Do you want to get another drink, darlin’?” He asks, not wanting to assume anything.

“Something other than champagne this time?” Bubbly is great, but you’ve sort of gotten the feeling that it’s not his drink. And as much as you enjoy your family, you also really enjoy just spending time with Tex. “Then maybe we can say good night? My feet are killing me and I’m sure you don’t want to get jumped by my cousins who were hoping that garter would get them proposed to.”

"One for the road." Tequila nods, and his hand stands on your back while he guides you towards the table with your name cards on two of the seats. "You can sit and I'll get our drinks." He offers, knowing those shoes have to be killing you. They look painful.

The atmosphere of the dress shop last weekend had been intoxicating - that’s why you went for them - but the next time you plan on dancing the night away you’ll definitely be in sneakers. Or cowboy boots. “Just get two of whatever sounds good,” you tell him, figuring he’ll come back with Statesman whiskey or something of similar quality. A full open bar is a thing of beauty.

Tequila makes his way to the bar and orders two old fashions, nodding politely to the older couple as he waits for the bartender to make them. Tonight has been interesting and he’s going to give Jack hell for skipping this, knowing how the older agent loves a good party and schmoozing up attractive ladies.

A few silent signals between you and your siblings are enough to tell them not to come over - that you’re in the middle of something with Tex and will fill them in later - and your older brother rolls his eyes at you as dramatically as humanly possible before pulling your little sister and her husband back into the dance floor for ‘Dancing Queen’. Your phone in your clutch has remained silent aside from social media posts, pictures from the wedding reception already going up as people continue to have fun. You had really hoped. Thought maybe a small ‘Sorry again!’ text or an ‘Hope you’re having fun.’ message might come through from Jack just to prove he’s been thinking of you. But there’s nothing. There’s been nothing but radio silence from him since he walked out of the kitchen on Monday. So you swallow the disappointment, shove your phone into the bottom of your bag, and resolve to forget about him entirely. You’re out with a handsome, sweet, funny man that made a stupid bet to earn your kisses, and goddamnit you’re going to make sure they’re good ones. And whatever else happens? Happens.

“You are a lovely looking couple.” The older woman smiles as she eyes Tex, making him grin like a sap as he twists his head towards where you are sitting. “Well, thank you ma’am. Hopefully that will be true soon.” He doesn’t want to start a rumor that you have to defend, but he would like to be reality.

“Soon?” The woman glances back at where you’re sitting and chuckles softly at the uncertainty of young people. “What’s stopping you?”

“Lady’s choice.” Tex answers easily. “I’ve made my interest known and now the reins are in her hands.”

“I didn’t see the face of a disinterested woman while you were dancing,” she assures him as the bartender puts two glasses down in front of Tequila.

Tex grins and tips her hat to her. “Ma’am, sir.” He drawls as he picks up the drinks. “I better go back to her before she loses interest then.”

“There you are.” When Tex reappears at your side with two glasses, you offer him a contented smile. “What are we drinking?”

“Old Fashioned’s.” He sends you a small wink and sets the glass down in front of you. “Since we are doing all the traditional things tonight.”

“Sounds perfect.” You pat the chair beside you, inviting him to sit with you for a moment to enjoy your drinks. “To good company.” Is the toast you offer, holding up your glass to him. “Thank you for coming this weekend. I know there are a million other things you could have done, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.” Tex takes the seat you’ve offered, wanting to be in something that moves a bit easier than this tux, but it’s worth it. “No one else I’d rather be with too.”

The rims of your glasses tap against each other with a dainty ringing sound, and you shift a little closer to him at the table under the guise of getting comfortable after your first sip. “Next time we decide to party, I say we do it in jeans and sneakers,” you laugh, seeing the discomfort in how he holds himself. “Something a little more casual.”

“God yes.” Tex groans, nearly ready to kiss you for that suggestion. “Don’t get me wrong, you look beautiful, but you’d look beautiful at a bonfire sippin’ a beer with a t-shirt on.”

“I like a good excuse to dress up, but it’s been a long night.” His utter relief makes you laugh, and you sip the delicious drink he brought you between laughter. “You…you look very handsome. I mean, you always do, but I mean…tonight especially.” Geez…you really are bad at this…

“Tonight I’m irresistible?” Tex offers, throwing you a wink before he takes a sip of his cocktail. “That was the goal, darlin’, I’m glad I pulled it off.”

You could laugh. You probably should. But you end up simply shrugging, and offering him a shy smile. “Tonight you look like Prince Charming.”

“Does that make you Cinderella or Aurora?” Tex asks with a smirk. “Always confuse those two.”

“Cinderella.” You tell him, your tone as serious as if he had offended your family’s honor. As an enormous Alice in Wonderland fan, you had had a very Disney-centric childhood. “Aurora’s prince is named Phillip.”

Tequila winces, shaking his head. “That’s a horrible name for a prince.” He huffs, insulted by the lack of imagination. “Although, Tex ain’t any better.”

"I'm sure it was just fine for the 1950s." Never really having thought about the validity of a cartoon prince's first name, you nudge his leg with your foot under the table and let your smile come back ever so subtly. "Besides, princes aren't all they're cracked up to be."

It takes him a moment, but when he gets your meaning, Tex breaks into a beaming smile. “Yeah?” He hums and waggles his brows. “Prefer cowboys?”

"Maybe." The way he takes that as such an absolute victory is adorable, and you lean into him at your table to enjoy the warmth radiating off of him in waves.

“Then I guess I better work on changing that to a ‘definitely’.” Tex chuckles and takes another sip of his drink.

"You have a particular method in mind?" The way you've ended up sitting, your chair is scooted right up next to his so you basically only need to whisper to each other. It makes everything feel that much more intimate and secluded even though you're still in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

The small, teasing smile that is in the Statesman’s agents face turns devilish and slightly cocky. “Well, that depends on what happens after that kiss.” He drawls out. “I can always show you how good I am with my hands.” He winks and settles back for your reaction.

Freezing with your glass halfway to your lips, you can feel your eyes widen and your body flush hot all at once. “I—is that…something you want to show me?”

He looks at you for a moment to gauge if you really don’t understand how much he wants you. He murmurs your name quietly, “I want nothing more that to take you back to the suite and show you exactly that.”

The decision isn’t a hard one. It’s not as though you aren’t attracted to Tex, and there isn’t the threat of alcohol clouding your judgement because your tolerance is so damn high. This is one consenting adult to another - and also admittedly a reminder to yourself that Jack Daniels’ opinion is not the only one in the world. Shaking off the sting of that rejection, you knock back the end of your drink and lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek with your own completely on fire. “Then I think we should say our good nights,” you tell him pointedly. “And have the rest of the night to ourselves.”

The speed at which Tex springs to his feet is astonishing, immediately setting his drink down and holding out his hand to help you out of his seat. “Whenever you’re ready, darlin’.”

To your siblings’ credit, they don’t actually say anything when you come and say ‘good night’ with Tex’s hand on your back, and your mother only raises an eyebrow halfway before shooting your father a look that says not to say anything. She knows you’ll fill them in if there is anything they need to know, but your business is your business. In just ten minutes’ time you’re slipping out of the ballroom, hoping not to be seen or stopped by distant relatives looking to chat.

Your hand is still firmly in his as the two of you make your way towards the elevators. “Do you want to take your shoes off?” Tequila asks you. “You can walk barefoot or I can carry you?” His grin is playful, but he would totally carry you up to the suite.

“I’m not going to make you carry me.” You roll your eyes at him like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever said, but still laugh. “I’m definitely taking these off, though. Three inches is too much.”

He snorts and bites his lip. “Darlin’ if three inches is too much, we’re gonna have a problem.” He jokes, a filthy grin on his face.

You stifle a laugh so hard that you snort, covering your mouth in embarrassment and looking up at him to see the absolute mischief on his face. “Oh no,” you promise him with a snicker. “That’s a very different circumstance.”

Tex winks and you and then bends down to one knee in the middle of the large hallway. “Let me take off those three-inch heels, hmm?” He pats his knee expectantly and smirks up at you.

“Reverse Prince Charming?” The hallway is mostly deserted, except for a few stray caterers and one guest who smiles at the two of you fondly before hurrying off to give you privacy. When he doesn’t move, obviously serious about the gesture, you lift one foot to rest it delicately on his knee while still trying desperately not to get his tuxedo dirty.

“Always gotta help a pretty lady in distress.” His fingers are thicker than the whoever designed the tiny buckles, but he manages to get the shoe undone and starts to slide it off your foot. “And this looks painful.”

“Who knows what I was thinking.” You laugh it off, nearly groaning in relief when you put your bare foot down on the chilly floor and let him unbuckle the other. You know exactly what you were thinking - it was all about how Jack looked at you in this dress and how you wanted to impress him. Thoughts that have no place in your mind right now.

“Done.” Tequila keeps the straps of the heels hooked on his fingers as he stands up and grins. “Now you can walk properly, even if it made your ass look incredible.”

“Flatterer.” Tangling your fingers with his when the elevator door opens, you pull him in with you and reach to take your shoes back.

“Just tellin’ the truth.” He puffs up in excitement and pride that you are so eager to go up to the room with him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Deciding that teasing is better than letting your emotions get involved even in taking a compliment, you tap the button for your floor and watch the doors close while you lean into his side. “I know you’re after my sweets,” you tease, shooting him a grin. “Sugar is the great temptation.”

"It is." Tequila can't even deny the way his body reacts to that tease. "I wanna find out if your sweets are only limited to your baking."

“Well…” Glancing at the closed door, you know you have nothing but privacy for at least the ride to your floor. “I believe I owe you a kiss.”

There's a smugness to his smile as he turns towards you, reaching for your waist to pull you against him gently. "Yeah?" He hums, glancing up at the numbers going up. "Think we've got enough time to do it properly?"

“That depends how much time you waste talking.” Tex likes to be teased, it gives his ego a stroke and makes him laugh, and he chuckles now even with the palpable tension in the air. “I swear, cowboys chatter more than church ladies.”

"Nothin' better to do at times." Tequila acknowledges, leaning in and his breath huffs against your skin. "But I'll shut up now and do this." He mumbles right before he captures your lips in a kiss that is meant to start gentle but eager.

It’s heated, neediness poorly hidden under the soft touch like he’s holding himself back but only barely. That gorgeously satisfying feeling of wanting and being wanted rolls through you and you lean into him more surely, slipping your hands up to his shoulders and letting the kiss linger.

It's hard not to deepen the kiss, not when he feels you soften under his lips. Your body shifting towards him and he could take it farther. Press you up against the wall and show you exactly how wild you are driving him, but the doors will open in approximately twenty-two seconds.

The faint ding of the elevator pulls you both out of the moment, albeit reluctantly, and you bite back a grin. “Maybe we should find someplace that has privacy for more than thirty seconds?”

He doesn't answer, just takes your hand and swiftly pulls you off the elevator to start striding down the hall towards the end where the door to your two-room suite is located. Eager to get you into the room and see where this goes.

______ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73

DtRH: @haileymorelikestupid @spishsstuff @missmarmaladeth @axshadows @a-gay-cryptid @sgt-morgan @1a-ma1a-su3rt3 @flowers4copper @ghost-timelord @the0racl30fd3lphidos @all-the-way-down-here @bobafvcker @ficsbynight @dinoflower @supernaturalgirl20 @xdaddysprincessxx @bobawh0re @amiee-mitch18 @darkhairedmenrule @heyyimlaynna @strawberry-f4iry @3zm33atzbuss33 @whataghost @cyber666slut @nobody-000 @eddiemunsonsgirlfriendirl @lucciolaraven @powergirlsupremacy @secondsistershelby @dreadmars @androgynoushellscape @soytomatecherry @cheesecake-massacre @mylifeisbasedonashow @idiotickiddo @tomfeltonisbae @maratheidiot22 @im-nada @everybirdfellsilent @deepdarkdelights @brokenwhitegirl384 @ur-honey-child @caseket @copperrose15 @we-could-have-been @valkyries-ride @scarletmunson @strawberriricemilk @ghost-timelord @galactigoos @floridawaters @cutiepie6473 @pinball-vance @theslytherinwriter @scorpioswonder @stankyleg05 @fxdsketches @sad-innit @coffeyorky @1a-ma1a-su3rt3 @starlordsonlywife @aura626 @mistresskei @marv3lwhor3 @sadimusprimee @yourwonderbelle @sgt-morgan @spot116 @milybaby018 @loserk1nks @artfulthoughtswp @aavw @babyrunsforfanfic @faceache111 @midnight-huntress @asimpleraccoonqueen @marki-moo0 @pages89 @rawr-bitches @rebel-fanfare @soooosha @luna-is-out-there @im-sylien @timpletance @certifiedhunter @ellenmunn @littlethief78 @tinalbion @eddy-y @tikibabi @whyidkok @bearcoon1666 @littlebirdsbookshelf @a-gay-cryptid @disaster-ahaha @viridiesa @axshadows @purplerain04 @karmarouge @holycyclehomo @sainteredhood @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @the-wishmonger @theliferuiner @raptorclaw24 @asp1r1ngm1lf @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @st4rl1ght444 @litholithium @tusk89 @youjustneedatherapist @nekodemon73 @iceclaw101 @lightningsface @shakespeareanwannabe @jasminemunson @spideysimpossiblegirl @wannabedaphne @sammus-white @jazzieomega @88dragon06 @ishabull @raquel-rial @tuquoquebrute @hotleaf-juice @dantaku @youokhoney @thisiswhyibleedsstuff @maximumkryptonitegladiator @jediknight122 @gadsgikklesen @movievillainess721 @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @the-strawberrythief @spishsstuff @choppedmugjudgeplaid @haileymorelikestupid @gooddaykate @missredherring @abyssal-zone-stares-back @supernaturalgirl @winterandstars @severewobblerlightdragon @missmarmaladeth @noisynaia @saintbedelia @algressman16 @eaks0710 @mina2000alex @emdraws02 @universallyclodlawyerpainter @rayrayvan @akaleelanie @mishasminion360 @amneris21 @roxypeanut @lunarcatbun 118 @frasmotic @emdraws02 @universallyclodlawyerpainter @rayrayvan @lovelychaos420 @1432690 @no1pornstachefan @thegrimreaperbitch @esmeensheep @izz-ayes-world @kittycatcait219 @loveyou3000tonystark @tintinn16 @igenerallytrynottogiveagoshdarn @motheroftorches @phoenixhalliwell @the-dazzling-urbanite @coffeyorky @trickstersp8 @victorian-cherub @julissadunn @clarysthing @the-girl-that-loves-many-fandoms @mastersurf @theghostofutopia @ncsls0515 @seraphinaivy @hiyorinatsuki @ghostofaboy @yn-hamato @elfwriter1088 @sunnygrey99 @lexinicolenix @lazyemisfandomtrash @curiouskeyboard @qualityearthquakes @spider-284748 @unnecesarysstuff @sgt-morgan @love-affair-with-fandoms @lunarcatbun @kstar770 @kykymarty @supergingerlocks @hell0kittybimb0222 @a-birds-fin @loidforgerishotashell @mythical-writer @ghostshalo @avengersimaginesfan @sccialcasualty @lordecult @petalo-dropsart @i-quite-like-eating-carrots @svudetective @hasta-la-pasta-bb @manicpixiedreamgirly @destinydog @skeppycarnation @anaisweird @critters-beware @fruityforcocoapuffs @linnnniie @spideyromantic @paupeach2024 @faithxyu @fxramir @legomyeggo @jjggdfvvy @hi-my-name-is-riley @kasaikawa @lost-ghost-thats-sleepy @callmegkiddo @2dead2function @generallysleepdeprived   @failingclassesinmygucciglasses @thebeesknees42 @moonmoon007 @wi0na @cilliansangel @lostinsideourminds @angstismydrug @elvenmother @bilibiche @kettlekatie @preschoolispunk @djarinsstuff @generallysleepdeprived @love-affair-with-fandoms @wowieitbeme @fanofverymanythings @jay-ghostly

My Masterlist!

[abitohoney]

So after a recent Big Move™️, I’ve finally gotten my household goods delivered to my new home. WOOT WOOT.

And as I pulled out some baking/muffin pans, I thought

Damn. I’d like to think I’d be rough and tough and a “don’t look at me wrong or I’ll punt your ass over a high-rise” sort of girl boss in the Arcane world.

But realistically all I want is to bake some treats for Sev and Ran. Make sure they’re eating good. Dust off and adjust their collar before they head out on a mission/task or to a meeting or whatever. Pack them little snacks or lunchboxes. Pretend to not be fussy over them since I also have my own work but actually unintentionally show ✨affection✨. Give them a goodbye kith. Be a lil Susie-homemaker in denial.

Also this moonshine is kind of hitting hard send help

OMG congrats on the big move! I still remember my first big move! Exciting (and exhausting)! Hopefully you're past the exhausting part and slipping into chill mode.

Hard same on thinking I'd be a kick ass girl boss in Arcane but really just wanna be Sev and Ran's little Honey homemaker. 🤓

Some silly, cute, fluffy thoughts inspired by this below the cut. SFW believe it or not.

Fussing over them and packing them lil snacks and lunches sounds like a dream! 🤩 Gosh, just imagine packing them both a little paper sack lunch for the first time. They just give you a look like "Seriously? What am I, 8?" Meanwhile you're just smiling at them adoringly.

Maybe they both sit with the rest of Silco's cronies come lunch time. They're already feeling ridiculous carrying they're matching paper sack lunches, but they're just assuming it's gonna be some lame old bologna sandwiches and stale leftover chips from the last Jericho's dinner.

They simultaneously open their bags to pull out not just any old sandwich, rather it's the freshest looking bread they've ever seen, holding equally fresh greens, meats, and cheeses. And best worst of all, you'd used cookie cutters to cut them into heart shapes. Sevika and Ran exchange glances, brows raised. They both set the sandwiches down, behind their bags, hoping to hide them from the rest of the gang, only to pull out more incriminating lunchables. Several slices of pineapple, cut into disgustingly cute little stars. Then comes the veggies, cause of course you made sure their lunches were a complete balance of nutrition. Chubby little baby carrots arranged on a thick homemade hummus in a flower design. One little cherry tomato decorates the center.

The coup de grâce to their humiliation? Custom, tiny cupcakes decorated in bright pink, red, and purple icing and bedazzled with heart shaped sprinkles of the same colors.

Another exchange of glances, cheeks flushed, then eyes averted downward. Neither dare make eye contact with anyone else at the table. Not that any of them would dare to even so much as snicker at Silco's second in command or top assassin. Not if they valued their life.

So Sevika and Ran consume their entirely too cute lunch in silence. It's an uncomfortable one, but deep down, beneath those hard exteriors, their hearts swell with pride and joy. They have someone like you- who cares so much- to so lovingly select, create, and craft the sweetest of lunches. And just for them. ♥️

Sending help ASAP! (It's just me in a box with holes so I can 'help' you finish off that moonshine)

Also, every time you send me something ISTG I get such a strong itch to write my poly Sev x Reader x Ran fic. I will some day. (Still anxiously patiently waiting for your writing too! <3)

[onceuponastory]

homeward bound - bucky barnes x reader

Plot: Y/N and Bucky have finally managed to get some time off together, and Bucky has the perfect idea - to bring her back to Brooklyn and show her all his favourite places when he was growing up. Pairing: Pilot!Bucky Barnes x FlightAttendant!Female!Reader Warnings: A few mentions of anxiety, and a small mention of nausea. As always, if I miss any triggers, please let me know. Notes: Did anyone miss Pilot!Bucky? I sure did, so decided he should come back. If you haven’t read the other parts in this AU, here’s one, two and three. Obligatory I am not a pilot or flight attendant, although I do watch a lot of Air Crash Investigation. Also, well done if you recognise the significance of the numbers in Bucky’s callsign ;) Not beta’d, so any mistakes are my own.

“This food is amazing. Thanks for bringing me here, Buck.” Y/N moans happily, leaning back in her seat. Bucky watches her, grinning. 

“I told you. New York pizza is the best.” 

As they tuck into another slice, Y/N once again feels incredibly grateful that she and Bucky finally have some time to spend together. With both of them working in the jobs they do, finding time off is hard enough, let alone together. Thankfully, their schedules have finally lined up, and they have an entire week off together. Ideally, Y/N would want more time with him, but she’s not about to complain about finally getting to spend some downtime with her gorgeous pilot boyfriend. And this time, Bucky brought her to Brooklyn so she could meet his mother. At first, Y/N was nervous and kept fidgeting with her hair and her outfit. Everything that didn’t seem perfect enough was under scrutiny. Bucky means a lot to her, and she knows just how close he is to his mother, so she knew she had to make a good impression.

“Love, it’s okay.” Bucky smiled, squeezing her hand. “You look gorgeous. She’s going to love you just as much as I do.” His words and the kiss he pressed to her cheek eased her worries for a few precious moments, as did her assertion that Bucky wouldn’t bring her to meet his mother if he wasn’t sure about this relationship, or about her. Yet as the front door opened, the nerves hit Y/N once more, like a bucket of cold water being thrown over her.

“Hey Ma.” Bucky grinned, pulling her into a hug. But before Y/N could even say more than a hello, Winifred Barnes turned to her, grinning. Immediately, she greeted her with a hug, and an insistence to:

“Just call me Winnie, sweetheart.” She smelled like fresh baking and lavender, a comforting, homely scent. And right away, Y/N felt her anxiety start to fade away.

“It’s wonderful to meet you Winif-Winnie.” Y/N stammered, slightly crushed in her hug. But the hug wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with love and happiness, which Bucky must’ve had every day when he was growing up. It must’ve been a life of warmth, love, and laughter. Of fresh baking on the table every day, and fresh flowers throughout the house. Of a mother who loves you and your friends like her own.

No wonder he’s such a wonderful person.

“Likewise, sweetheart. Now, let me get a good look at you.” A pair of blue eyes that perfectly match Bucky’s blue hues, stared back at her. “James.” She tutted, her tone causing Bucky’s eyes to widen. “You never told me she was so beautiful!” Y/N gasped, her brow raised.

“You never told me your name was James.” She chuckled as Bucky’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Oh, there’s a lot you don’t know about him, hun.” Winnie took her arm, leading her gently towards the house. “But we have all week to talk about it.” 

“Ma!” Bucky called, but they were both too busy laughing to pay any attention.

Since then, Bucky’s taken her on a whistle-stop tour of all the places he frequented as he was growing up in Brooklyn. The park he used to play in as a kid, his high school, the late night coffee shops he frequented as he was studying for his pilots exams, and the restaurant they’re in now… everything important to Bucky’s life is now part of hers too. She’s a part of his life now.

And that means the world to her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day, however, Bucky promises to take her to the most special place of all. The entire drive there, he refuses to even give her a hint about where he was taking her. At first, she thought he was taking her to Coney Island, given how much he spoke about going there as a kid and riding the rollercoaster so much with his friends that he felt nauseous. Although, for a moment she wondered why that would be his choice above the other things Bucky showed her, but she definitely wasn’t going to judge him for that. Especially considering how she herself always tries to go to a Disney Park whenever they’re near one on their travels. 

She watches Bucky driving through the streets he grew up on, pointing out places and people. Once more, the familiar feeling of love settles in her stomach. He’s accompanied her on the last few Disney trips she’s been on now, and despite how they’ve been dating for almost two years by this point, she still can’t believe just how lucky she is to be dating him. Especially considering the time it took them to admit their feelings to each other. But now, they get to do the big things like taking trips together (including ones outside of work), and looking for places to live together. And there’s the little things too, like buying groceries together, waking up next to him, or getting a text from him every morning and every night, without fail, even if they’re on opposite ends of the world from each other.

And honestly, doing the little things she does with Bucky is her favourite thing in the world.

“So… is it an art gallery or something?” She asks as he drives past the turnoff for Coney Island.

“Nope. Not even close.” Bucky chuckles. Soon, Y/N notices he’s taking her out of the city, and she raises a brow. 

“Where the hell are we going?”

Yet, Bucky still doesn’t say anything.

“Come on, you’re not gonna give me one hint?” She pleads, even considering batting her eyelashes and pouting in the hopes it works on him. After all… it has before.

“No. I told you, it’s a surprise. And besides, we’re almost there.”

Soon, Bucky turns off the main road and down a smaller, narrower one. Once they reach the end of the road, he parks the car beside a large building. Well, somewhere that looks more like a warehouse than a building. 

“It’s an airfield.” Y/N murmurs, reading off the sign.

“The same one I trained at all those years ago before I joined the big leagues. I thought….” Bucky trails off, the excitement clear on his face. “I could take you flying!” Y/N chuckles.

“Bucky, you take me flying almost every day. It’s kinda part of our job, remember?” Yet, a small part of her almost hoped his surprise wouldn’t be related to flying, and would be something else that Bucky loves. Maybe she’d even learn something new about him. But she’s not disappointed by the surprise. Flying is a big part of Bucky’s life, of both of their lives. Of course he’d take her here, to the place where it all began. And besides, if he hadn’t learnt to fly, she would never have met him, or be here now, sharing stories about his life growing up and feeling closer to him.

“Not like that.” He smirks. “I mean, like this.” Once they’re out of the car, he leads her round the corner, gesturing to a small Cessna parked on the tarmac. Well, it’s not that small, but it is compared to the jumbo jets Bucky flies normally. She’s never been in such a small plane before, yet the fact Bucky is going to be at the controls is making her feel a lot calmer about it. “You like it?” She nods. “Well, it’s ours for the afternoon.” After completing the pre-flight checks, he opens the door for her, helping her inside and making sure she’s buckled in correctly before doing the same. 

“B45107.” He says over the headset. “Ready for taxi.” As she watches him at work, doing what he knows best, Y/N can’t stop smiling. Even though she’s dating the best pilot at the airline, Y/N rarely gets the chance to see him working up close, doing everything it takes to get people into the air and back onto the ground safely. She loves this, getting to see him work, seeing his professional side. 

Bucky lines up at the end of the runway, ready to begin takeoff. Immediately, Y/N grins, feeling the familiar excitement in her stomach once more. As the plane hurtles down the runway, the speed pushing them back into their seats, Y/N has never felt so alive, so exhilarated than she does in that moment. Once they’re in the air, she gazes out over the horizon. The sky is so clear and blue that she can see for miles. 

“Is that the Statue of Liberty?” She asks, pointing at a small dot in the horizon.

“Yup. And you’ll see the Brooklyn Bridge soon.” Bucky smiles, watching her look out of the window, as excited as a kid in a candy shop.

“It’s beautiful up here.” 

“I’ve seen more beautiful things.” Bucky shrugs. But as she turns back to him, ready to ask what could possibly be more beautiful than this, Y/N realises he’s staring at her. A deep heat settles on her cheeks, and she smiles. When Bucky reaches cruising altitude and finally gets a free moment, she leans over, kissing his cheek.

“What was that for?” 

“Because I love you.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She and Bucky stay up in the air for the rest of the afternoon, pointing out parts of the skyline to each other and enjoying each other’s company. Yet, as the sun sets, colouring the sky with streaks of red, orange and pink, it’s time for them to come back down. Although she’s had a wonderful time, Y/N can’t help but feel a little disappointed at having to come back. Ideally, she’d have loved to have seen the entire sunset, and maybe even the moon and stars.

Of course, Bucky notices her disappointment right away. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I was just having a lot of fun, that’s all. Sad it’s over.” Yet, Bucky smiles knowingly.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not over yet.” He opens the back of his car, pulling out some blankets and pillows. “I was thinking we could grab some food and watch the sunset together. I have a spot I used to go to when I wanted to get away from it all, which... turned out to be a lot of times actually. But now I’m so much happier than I ever was. I have my dream career, and my dream girl.” Y/N smiles, her stomach fluttering. She feels so lucky to be part of Bucky’s life, to see the places that are most important to him. “And… I’d like to show you it.” Y/N leans in, kissing him softly.

“That sounds perfect.” She smiles.

And for the rest of the night, Y/N and Bucky lay curled up together under a mound of pillows and blankets, watching as the stars and moon come out, each happy in each other’s company and warm embrace.

“I love you.” Bucky whispers, kissing her temple. “So much.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Please follow @onceuponastory-library​ and turn on notifications to be notified when I next post!

[sunflowervoltwentyeight]

Happy 28th! Here is my November 2023 fic rec, organized by word count, from longest to shortest. Enjoy!

Apple Pie Baked Just Right by 28goldensfics / @28goldens (92k)

“You’re sweet, thank you.” Harry was speaking so quiet it was almost eerie, but his fingers squeezed against Louis’ hand again. “I already feel like I can pretty much be myself with you. I’m glad you moved here, I’ve needed a friend. I hope you keep getting that breath of fresh air you need here.”

 Louis’ heart felt like it could pound out of his chest and onto the floor in front of them.

 “I’m starting to think I will.”

Louis has to get away. The news of his father’s terminal diagnosis, the loss of his job, and the breakup with his girlfriend leads Louis to leave for a life of slower things in the small town of Cedar Hills.

His new neighbor is the Cox Family Apple Farm. Harry Styles, the oldest child of the Cox Family, might just teach him how to live life a little simpler, bake an apple pie, and breathe.

Album Series by suspendrs / @suspendrs (72k)

The Pink Album (31k) They don’t really discuss how hard it is to be in this situation, or to be doing the things they have to do to continue being together. It’s just something they don’t talk about, and that’s alright. Or maybe it isn’t, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it. Or, a love seven years in the making, inspired by Harry's debut album. Part 1 of albums Fine Line (21k) There’s still a lot of things they don’t talk about, a lot of things they don’t bring home with them at the end of the day, and a lot of things that don’t even need to be said. The world is the world and it sucks sometimes, but it’s far away when Harry’s at home and Louis’s here with him and none of it needs to matter when it could just as easily be ignored. Harry tries to open up sometimes, tries to bring Louis into his world, but Louis’s got a world of his own to tend to, and it feels like more often than not they are on two separate planets and the universe just keeps expanding. Or, a love three more years in the making, inspired by Harry’s sophomore album. Part 2 of albums Walls (20k) The thing about having been on the move so much for the past five years is that now, once they’re finally able to sit down and rest for a bit, they don’t really know what to do with themselves. Louis loved the pace of the band, for all he and the others complained about it; he isn’t very fond of sitting still, and he absolutely boredom, and there was very little space in their lives for either of those things while they were so busy putting out an album every year and touring more often than not. Being in the same room as Harry while neither of them are under the pressure of keeping up appearances feels like being in a room with a total stranger, and the amount of trouble they’re having trying to get to know each other again is really rather alarming. Or, a love one whole decade in the making, inspired by Louis's debut album. Part 3 of albums

I Was Yours (I Wish You Were Mine) by staybeautiful / @harruandlou (56k)

“Harry Styles!”

His name rang out clear through the city streets. He turned quickly back to the bar, startled by his own name and startled by the voice that called him.

Standing in the doorway to the bar, back lit and glowing slightly was Louis.

Not an eighteen year old apparition dressed in the same low slung blue jeans and t-shirt with swooping bangs that was always the image in his mind. No, he was Louis now.

or Ten years ago Harry dropped his best friend and high school boyfriend off at the train station and never saw him again. Now, he's twenty seven, living in NYC, and dreadfully unlucky in love. He can't stop wistfully thinking of Louis promising that they'd see each other again in ten years time. A chance meeting outside a bar has them tumbling head first into a summer of music, milkshakes, and maybe each other.

On the Edge by zanni_scaramouche / @zanniscaramouche (47k)

Figure skating is as vital to Louis’ identity as his DNA, so when his skates go missing right before the last Olympics of his career there may be a meltdown only vanilla bath salts can fix. Well, that and the stupidly charming hockey player he met on the plane.

Harry’s too old to be the wonder kid and too young to be taken seriously in the NHL. As an alternate thrown in at the last second, he fights to prove himself on the national team at the largest sporting event known to man. Or he will, once he gets off this flight and can focus on something other than the fussy figure skater and his stunningly blue eyes.

A baggage mix-up skews both of their perfectly laid plans for gold, forcing the two to work together as the clock clicks towards the minute they’re expected to shine on centre ice.

From Dust to Lust by jacaranda_bloom / @jacaranda-bloom (45k)

From the moment Louis set eyes on the gorgeous stranger across the airport terminal, he knew the guy was trouble, which was the last thing he wanted. He wouldn’t have thought spending two days cooped up in a car travelling from the Australian Outback to the East Coast would change his mind.

It’s funny how things work out.

OR the one where Louis and Harry are fly-in-fly-out mine workers, coincidences are totally a thing, karaoke is an underrated form of foreplay, and the universe most definitely works in mysterious ways.

Play Pretend, Find a Friend? by angelichl / @angelichl (40k)

They had to pull back for air. Louis surveyed the guy’s face, in awe of his blown pupils and sharp jawline, the way their shared spit glistened on his lips.

"Hi,” he breathed. He blinked, and came back to himself a little bit, blushing at his own boldness. “Sorry. Is this okay?”

The stranger removed his right hand from the curve of Louis’ waist in order to cup his jaw, tilting it up to the angle he desired. He pressed their lips together, murmuring, “Definitely.” And then he kissed harder.

When Louis sees his ex-boyfriend kissing a random girl at a party, he acts out of blind jealousy. He kisses the first guy he can find. It turns into a thing.

INSPIRED BY CLOUDS.

Bloodsport by tofiveohfive / @tofiveohfive (40k)

“You know how our next game is against the Cardinals, right? You remember how vicious those guys can get. I wanted us to come up with some plays, maybe work on a block from the left—”

Louis stops when he hears a chuckle.

He doesn’t think he’s said anything particularly funny, so he turns to Harry, waiting for an explanation.

“‘S funny, ‘s all.” Harry throws his finished bottle somewhere near the other discarded ones. “This is the first time you’re talking to me in eight months, and it’s still about football.”

Illusions of Someday by softgoldenglow / @usignedupforthis (26k)

The one where law student Louis and aspiring musician/full-time barista Harry are both a bit of a mess. There's dance parties and rainy beaches, vodka shots and mugs of tea. The world is hard but they're figuring it out together.

Not a Lot, Just Forever by givesuethemoon / @givesuethemoon (4k)

“I think,” Harry says, voice quiet, “that no matter where I go, who I meet, how old I get… I’m always going to come back here. I’m always going to come back to you.”

Part 3 of 22-23 canon

[mecub]

I wrote a thing! It’s 3am! Warning for body horror and the nonsense that comes out of my brain this late at night.

You’ve been traveling for days, and you’re tired. The inn is full, and it’s too cold and rainy for you to sleep in the streets. But a woman with a warm voice like honey hears you complain, and she offers sanctuary at her home. 

You go with her. Her house is the definition of cottagecore, with a big garden and climbing vines and tall grass. She offers fresh strawberries and poppy seed bagels that she’s been learning to bake, sorry if they’re not great. You tell her that they’re amazing, and scarf down what’s probably too many strawberries, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

You spend a few days with her, recovering from your most recent battle. The two of you pick berries and cut up a perfectly ripe watermelon, letting the juice run down your fingers as you picnic in the forest behind her home. You tend to her flowers with her, try everything she bakes, teach her an old family lemonade recipe. You talk, too: about books you’ve both read (she studied classics! You have a long conversation about interpretations of Circe in modern media), about people you’ve known and left behind (“I hurt people,” you say. “Every time I get close to someone, it just blows up on my face.” She smiles, almost bitterly. “Me too.”), about your adventures (you trust her, you realize as you open up about the details of monsters that you’re not sure you regret killing).

But still, the day comes when you know you need to leave. You have so much to do, so many people to save, and sitting in the sun eating fruit is just… selfish. You learned your lesson a long time ago, about being selfish.

On the morning when you plan to leave, the woman sets out fresh poppy seed bagels— the same recipe she made the day you got there. She’s already improved at making them, in the few days you’ve stayed with her.

You tell her that, and you must sound sad when you say it because she looks up and whispers, “Ah. You’re leaving?”

Something inside you hurts at the look on her face when she says it, but you nod. “I have to.”

She just shrugs, with this look that you can’t make yourself read, and it really does hurt, but you have a duty. No matter how much a place feels warm, and safe, and calm, finally calm after everything, you need to go.

You stand in the doorway, running a finger over the climbing vines. You can almost imagine they move towards you, almost imagine this place cares for you like you’ve come to care for it.

A soft voice behind you says, “Wait.”

Your stomach sinks. Why couldn’t this be easy? Why couldn’t you just go, and forget about her, and about this place, and about feeling safe?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“You can’t leave.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, and she sighs behind you. Your body twitches to turn around, to face her, but you know you can’t, you can’t.

“No. You don’t understand,” she says, and you hope you’re just imagining the something dark in her voice. “I can’t let you go.”

No. Your hand clenches on the doorframe, but you stay put. 

You’ve been wrong before, about countless things. You could be wrong about this. You could’ve just misread her tone. You can still be safe.

“What?” you ask.

Her voice is honey-smooth, too sweet. “You heard me, hero. Stay.”

Not this. Not her, not here. 

You turn.

You turn, and find her kind face twisted with hate, staring at you from across the room. Her smile is too sharp, her eyes too bright. You reach for your sword. You would rather be anywhere else but here, now.

She laughs. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out. It’s rare to meet a hero this naive. Your type usually don’t trust.”

Tears well in your eyes as you draw your sword and say what’s expected of you. “What are you?”

“Does it really matter? We’re all monsters to you, aren’t we?”

“You’re not a monster. You’re—“

“Kind?” she hisses. “Caring? Good?”

You nod.

She laughs, humorless. “So were the so-called monsters you killed. They were my friends, and my family. And you killed them, without regret, without mercy.” Her eyes glow, and you take a step back, but she steps forward and growls. “There were children amongst those you killed, ever think of that?”

Oh, god. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know, I—“

“Quiet, little hero. Your excuses don’t matter, because I’m not letting you live long enough to make them.”

Something behind you hisses. You spin, and find the vines around the doorway have woven themselves into a wall. You slash at them with your sword, but it doesn’t work. The vines wrench it from your hands, and you’re left defenseless against— against whatever the woman is, a witch or demon or something that you should’ve recognized. It’s your job to spot danger, it’s your job to kill monsters, yet you trusted her. You trusted her and now her eyes are glowing and a wind whips through her home and your stomach clenches and—

She raises her hands. Smiles. You open your mouth, to beg for mercy or to scream for help or something, anything, but you don’t get the chance because something inside of you is wrong.

It takes you a moment to realize that something in your stomach is writhing, growing, pushing against your guts.

The woman’s fingers twitch, and you know what’s about to happen. 

“Please,” you whisper. “I have people to save, I have to protect them.”

“So do I,” she growls, and then her hands curl into fists.

It doesn’t hurt, for half a second, when your stomach bursts.

And then you’re on the ground, sobbing, screaming as poppies curl around berry bushes that burst out of you, petals glistening with your blood. 

The only mercy of it is that your body drops you into unconsciousness quickly and that, after she’s sure you met your end painfully, she leaves you to the forest and lets your body become food for the plants growing from your guts.

At least you can do something good in your death. At least, even though you failed to save the world, you’re good enough to be fertilizer.

[thedreamlessnights]

Accismus - pt. 4

{previous chapter} || {next chapter}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: Arriving in Novigrad proves to be another adventure as you meet Geralt's friends and family and investigate leads on another djinn.

Warnings: Mentions of previous burnings at the stake, blood and corpses, lots of pining, sexual innuendos and references, graphic descriptions of injuries.

Word Count: 9.3k

A/N: It's finally here, and only took... several months 😬 Seriously, though, I'm so sorry for the wait. I've been dealing with so many things it would take an essay to list them out. I hope the content makes up for it! Thank you all so much for your patience and comments, they've kept me so incredibly inspired, and I can't wait for you all to see the rest of the story. Without further ado, enjoy chapter four!

A glimmering light against the darkness you’ve known of late, the Free City of Novigrad has undoubtedly come back to life.

The sight of it takes you aback; the flourishing businesses, open gates, large crowds chattering about this and that. Even with Temeria reinstated, Velen still suffers greatly from the price of the war, still carries the burden of it all. You’d expected it to be the same here. Why should it be any different?

But with Radovid gone, there are no pyres. No burning books or flocks of witch hunters stalking the streets, nothing but minor conflicts as you and Geralt pass by: a business spat, drunk soldiers wandering the street, a brief argument between lovers. Had you not been explicitly told of it, you’d never have known that mages and nonhumans once burned here. 

Something about that puts you at unease; a complete return to normalcy. It’s as if it never happened, as if that level of suffering and hatred could simply be washed away. But you know better. 

People might pretend that all is normal once more, but beneath the blood and bodies that have been clumsily disposed of, those roots still grow. And if they’re ignored, they’ll take hold once more. Maybe not today, maybe not even ten years from now, but they will. 

It’s a knowledge that fills you with an unshakeable sense of dread.

As the two of you roam the city with Roach and Mead on foot, merchants sing out their various spiels and various taverns rumble with conversation. 

You don’t know this place, but lingering in the back of your mind is the strange sensation that you’ve been here before. And perhaps, in a way, you do know it - through Oxenfurt. 

They smell the same: mud, the reek of piss, the stink of the sea. The stench of beer that hangs on the patrol’s breath. But, just like Oxenfurt, if you walk through the right spot you get the honeyed scent of flowers growing on the vine, the heavenly aroma of baking bread, fragrant meat roasting on the fire. 

The sweetness of fresh air that seems to slip through your fingers.

You really do miss it - Oxenfurt, that is. The memories are muddled and tarnished with pain, but somewhere between them, you still ache.

The lectures, poring over the pages in fascination. Hours spent taking in how every internal system works together, creating movement and balance and life. So complex. So involuntary.

Most of all, though, even more than the lectures, you miss the hope you’d had then: hope that things would all fall into place one day. That it would all turn out right in the end. 

You don’t think that way anymore. That optimism has been washed away now, so strange and foreign you barely recognize it. All you can seem to think now is how everything is bound to go wrong. Even now, you’re anxiously mulling over upcoming situations. 

With every step closer to The Chameleon, that unease continues to grow. Whoever is in there - will they hate you? Will they see what you’ve been expecting Geralt to see all this time, what he’s refused to accept despite your insistence?

You close your eyes for a brief moment and shake your head. It won’t help. But every second here feels like a lifetime. Five minutes and you already want to leave this place. 

When Geralt finally stalls in front of a building, your heart skips a beat. This must be The Chameleon, then. Even just standing outside, it’s obvious that this place is nicer than The Swift Oak. 

It’s well maintained, newly painted, and - by the number of people filtering in and out - it must also be popular. Whether that’s from Dandelion’s reputation or earned through fair business, you don’t know. It could be either way. 

You feel sick to your stomach.

When you and Geralt are done hitching your horses to the posts in front of the tavern, he turns to you and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Gotta warn you…” he says, expression apologetic. “Dandelion can be-”

“Geralt!” booms a nearby voice, cutting off his words. “That really you, ye bugger?”

The two of you turn to see a dwarf with a neatly trimmed beard and mohawk standing at the tavern’s entrance. There’s a grin on his face, an axe slung across his back, and - with a start, you realize you know exactly who he is: even though you’ve only seen him in Gwent cards.

“Greetings, Zoltan,” Geralt replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is Dandelion here?”

“Right inside, the rascal,” Zoltan replies, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning. “He’ll be delighted to see you.” He pauses, giving you a brief look over. “And… who’s this?” 

You quickly introduce yourself, and Zoltan chuckles.

“Ah, Geralt. Always getting around.”

Your cheeks immediately burn, and you pointedly turn your gaze away from him.

Geralt, suddenly looking incredibly awkward, simply glances at you and nods to the door. “We should head in before it gets dark,” he says. 

He isn’t going to correct Zoltan? 

“Ah - before ye go,” Zoltan says quickly, “ought to tell ye that your sorceress was here.”

Your entire body goes stiff, and Geralt straightens a little. He’s never talked very much about Yennefer, and - well, your curiosity has been piqued. 

“Yen was here?” Geralt asks.

“Aye, a few days back,” Zoltan confirms, shifting uneasily. “Askin’ about your whereabouts, whether or not we’d seen you of late. Told her, ‘no, havenae seen our pal Geralt in ages,’ and she argued a right amount with Dandelion. Set off in a storm, told us she’d be back later.”

Oh, Gods. 

“They argued, huh?” Geralt asks dryly, not looking surprised in the least. “What about?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Zoltan replies, scratching at his beard. “Wasnae truly interested, and, well… you know what she’s like, Geralt. Somethin’ about magic, some sort o’ danger, can’t tell you all the details... Dandelion pried, she cursed him, left in a storm. Said she’d be back later.”

“She say how soon?” Geralt asks.

“Nah. Course not.”

“Great,” Geralt says dully. “Knowing Yen, that could mean either a few days or a few months. Thanks, Zoltan. Better get inside.”

“Aye, good to see you again, old pal,” Zoltan grins, shaking Geralt’s hand. “And it’s nice to meet you,” he adds, giving you a nod. “I expect I’ll see you two around.”

He heads off into the crowd, and Geralt makes for the door.

The minute the two of you step inside, you’re overwhelmed. The tavern is warm and lively, flowing with music and mead and chatter. The aroma of cooking food wafts through the door, and your stomach growls hungrily. 

Geralt gives you an amused look, raising a brow. The two of you had eaten not long back, but it seems it hadn’t been enough to tide you over. Before you can respond, the sound of another voice cuts through the noise.

“Geralt! I knew you’d come!”

A man with brown hair, a neatly-trimmed beard, and bright blue eyes has woven through the crowd, beaming as he looks at Geralt. His clothing is finely-made, purple fabric with detailed embroidery that glistens under the light, and a hat with a egret feather on top. The finery makes you feel incredibly out of place in your wrinkled, dirty clothes.

“Dandelion!” Geralt fondly squeezes the bard’s shoulder. “Good to see you.”

This is Dandelion? This well-dressed, bright-eyed, charming man? You’d pictured him older, nothing but tawdry. A senile old man well past his peak with a predatory glint in his eyes and a beer-filled gut. You’d been very wrong - after all, how could a man like that ever be friends with Geralt?

“How are you, old friend?” Dandelion asks with a warm smile. “It’s been ages, truly! You must be hungry - ah, Rosa! A bowl of soup for the witcher, if you please!”

“Make it two,” Geralt corrects, and Rosa, a young woman with thick black hair and rosy cheeks, gives a nod. Then Geralt turns back to Dandelion. “How’d you know I would come?”

“Oh, you know Yennefer,” Dandelion replies, dismissively batting the question away with his hand. “Shows up one day asking where you are, then comes back a week or so later with you in tow.” 

He stops, seeming to finally see you, and a brief quizzicality crosses his face. “Hold on. You aren’t here with Yennefer, are you?”

As he’s speaking, Rosa returns, handing you and Geralt each a bowl of soup. You start scarfing it down like it’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten, and - it honestly might be.

“Nope,” Geralt responds, starting on his soup too. “Was hoping you knew where she’s gone off to.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Dandelion says. “She burst into the inn, asking where you were, and when we told her we hadn’t seen you in ages, she went pale. Kept muttering something about a curse, but wouldn’t tell me anything else. When I asked her what she needed you for, she called me a pest, Geralt, a pest! Can you believe that? Then she stormed off, claiming she’d be back later.”

Geralt’s brows pinch, and he shifts, setting down his now-empty bowl. “Can’t be good if she’s worried.”

“Like I said, she wouldn’t tell me a thing about it,” Dandelion says, rather petulantly. Then he looks over at you. “Oh, where are my manners! Who’s this?”

Once again you introduce yourself, and Dandelion heartily shakes your hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” he says. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Long story,” Geralt says exhaustedly.

“A long story?” Dandelion’s brows rise, and a sly smile paints his lips. “What sort? Action-riddled? Romantic? Oh, I know - a long, twisting contract that led the two of you together!”

Your cheeks go hot, and you set your spoon down next to your empty bowl. This must have been what Geralt was trying to warn you about earlier.

“Dandelion,” Geralt chides. “Anything else I should know?”

“Alright, alright,” Dandelion acquiesces. “And no, that’s all - if you don’t count The Chameleon’s booming business, and Oxenfurt University’s recent reopening.”

“Oxenfurt’s open again?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. Geralt and Dandelion both look at you with varying levels of curiosity.

“It is, yes!” Dandelion says proudly, puffing out his chest a little. “Students and lecturers have been flooding back into the city. They’ve even asked me to give a guest lecture! Why do you ask? Are you interested in attending the classes?” 

You don’t know what to say. “I…”

“Ex-student,” Geralt fills in for you, and you give him a tight smile.

“Really?” Dandelion asks. “Well, in that case, you’d better register quickly. The classes are filling up faster than lecturers could ever hope to teach.”

“Thank you, but I’m not interested in returning,” you inform him.

“Is that so?” he asks. You can tell you’ve piqued his interest, and you wince with regret as he continues on. “Oxenfurt is where I got my master’s degree in the seven liberal arts, did you know that?”

You didn’t know he had a master’s in the seven liberal arts. “Well, I-”

“Oh, what am I saying?” He props his hands on his hips. “I haven’t even introduced myself! I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove - though most know me as Dandelion. You may have heard my ballads?” He gazes at you expectantly.

“I have,” you confirm, pointedly avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

“Splendid! Tell me, which is your favorite?”

“Dandelion,” Geralt cuts in, “stop the bragging.”

“But-”

“We’ve had a long day. Need a room.”

Dandelion hesitates, and his smile falters. “Oh, alright,” he relents. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the gritty details from you later,” he adds quietly. “Two rooms, coming right up!”

You let out a small noise. Geralt clears his throat.

Dandelion pauses, looking between the two of you with widening eyes. “Oh, I see,” he says, grinning coyly. “One room.”

“Dandelion,” Geralt says warningly.

“Alright, alright,” Dandelion sighs, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. “Here. Take the first room upstairs on the left, it’s open. And, Geralt? Try not to make too much noise. We’ve been trying to get the walls soundproofed, but it’s costing a small fortune, and guests are still complaining from the last time you and Yennefer were here.”

Your face feels like it’s caught on fire. You bite your lip until it stings and pretend you’re admiring the decorations on the walls.

“Uh-huh,” Geralt says, tone flat. “Be sure to do just that.”

He places a warm hand on the small of your back to guide you away from the conversation, and you shiver a little under his touch.

“Much appreciated,” Dandelion says with a wink. “Do enjoy yourselves, though - oh, and let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you!”

Geralt moves his hand from your back and heads toward the stairs, and you give a polite nod to the troubadour. “It was nice to meet you, Dandelion,” you tell him.

“Likewise!” he says brightly. Then he lowers his voice. “And tomorrow, I’ll get all those details from you, alright?”

“Heard that,” Geralt calls. 

Dandelion pulls a face. “You won’t let me have anything,” he whines.

You let out a soft laugh and follow after Geralt, legs getting heavier and heavier as the two of you head up the stairs. When he unlocks the room, your heart sinks in disappointment. One bed again. You’d been hoping to sleep on a mattress tonight.

Geralt sets his things down on the bed and sighs, taking a seat.

“Listen… sorry about all of that,” he says, pinching his nose. “Once Dandelion finds out why we’re here, we’ll get stuck answering questions. For hours, most like. Figured it was better to wait.”

“It’s fine.” You set your things on the floor and start unpacking, and Geralt watches you as you pull out the bedroll you’d purchased earlier. His brows immediately pinch.

“Plenty of room on the bed,” he says.

“I know,” you reply softly. “Just…” 

You hesitate for a moment. Explaining this means you’re going to have to confess that you’d spied on him when he was asleep, and you don’t want him to paint you as some sort of creep.

Geralt patiently waits for you to continue, and you let out a frustrated puff of breath.

“I know you slept on the floor last time,” you say quickly, “and I know this whole thing must be extremely uncomfortable for you, especially sleeping in the same bed as me. You’re with Yennefer, and it’s only fair that this time I’m-”

“Hey. Hang on,” Geralt cuts in, sending your rambling to a crashing halt. There’s a pause before he shakes his head, then pats the bed next to him. “Come up here.”

You stare at him for confirmation, and he raises his brows expectantly. Turning your eyes toward the floor, you get up and take a seat.

“Slept on the floor last time because the mattress was too soft,” Geralt says gently. “This one’s a lot harder. That one? Felt like I was sinking into a cloud. Been on the path so long, couldn’t sleep. Didn’t have anything to do with you. As for Yen…” He trails off, shaking his head again. “We... Shit. Don’t know how to say this. Didn’t leave off on the best of terms.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Listen, don’t worry about any of that,” Geralt says quickly. “Won’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

He has a sternness in his tone like he’s expecting you to argue, but you don’t have any desire to.

“If you insist, master witcher,” you reply.

“Mhm. I insist,” he responds, and you move your things off the floor. He seems to relax as you sit next to him. Then he grabs his things and starts getting ready for bed. 

Right, sleep. The thing you’ve been avoiding since last night. In the partial silence that’s disturbed only by Geralt’s breathing, you’re keenly aware of the door at your back, and your heart starts racing like a drum. As you try to get settled in, your hands start shaking. 

Geralt immediately turns toward you, fixing you with that piercing look he commonly wears. “You okay?” he asks. “Pulse just shot up.”

Your mouth is dry when you speak, and your words come out as a hoarse stammer. “Could we… switch sides?” You look pointedly at the bed, and his gaze softens with understanding.

“Sure. Happen to like that side better anyway.”

Despite your fear, his words still pull a weak smile from you. Then you quickly trade sides with him, heart slowing as you settle in and tug off your boots. 

This room has a privacy sheet, which makes things so much easier with your situation. You change into your nightclothes behind it, clean your teeth, then tuck yourself under the sheets, too tired to do anything else.

As you lay down, you realize Geralt is lost in thought, watching you. Still sitting up, hands propped loosely over his thighs. You give him a questioning look, and he stirs and blinks hard, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“The … man you killed,” he murmurs - very hesitantly. “Did-”

“Geralt, I can’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I can’t talk about it.”

He nods. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have pried.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You aren’t angry that he did - you’re angry you can’t seem to tell him.

“You don’t have to be,” you reply after a moment. “I’m not upset.” Then, when he’s silent, you add, “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight,” he says.

You turn over and close your eyes.

Oxenfurt is so very warm in the summer. 

Granted, Velen hadn’t been much better, but it was wet heat, and you’d been used to it - swampy and muggy, boiling you alive. Redania, even along the coast of the sea, is dry.

Too dry. The hot air sears your lungs as you run, legs aching and feet burning like mad. Your shoes have been falling apart for months now, but you haven’t had the coin to replace them. In the midst of everything, your foot hits a stone, and you trip. 

The books you’d been carrying go flying. Your hands throw themselves out to brace your fall, scraping raw against the stone, but they’re still too late. 

The impact knocks the wind straight out of you. 

Your right knee jams into the ground in a blinding flash of pain, and you gasp airlessly, wondering if you’re going to die here until, finally, you can breathe again.

Not without pain. 

Gingerly, you push yourself up into an upright position and look around, trying to compose your rattled mind. Your body aches like the Abyss. 

Shit. 

The notes in your books are scattered everywhere, and you’re already late to class. Your hands are stinging and bleeding, and your knee shoots with pain every time you move it.

But you can’t miss this lecture.

Shakily, you get to your feet, limping around to gather your notes, wincing with pain every time you move. Damned campus. Damned shoes, now broken worse than ever.

As you gather everything into your arms again, a lark flies overhead singing a sweet, cheerful song. You stare at her wistfully for a moment, wishing you shared her freedom, then painfully limp along.

The university always smells of dust and old books, and your footsteps echo in the hall. Somewhere in the distance, there’s the smell of smoke. When you finally make it to class, everyone’s eyes turn to you. 

“Late once again,” Professor von Gratz remarks. “Do not make it a habit.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, ducking your head and hobbling to your seat. If he notices your injuries, he says nothing.

You don’t bother telling him that work held you back, or that someone’s cart toppled over and forced you to take a longer path on your route, or that you tripped. You don’t bother, because you’ve learned they simply don’t care.

Instead, with hands shaking in pain, you sit and organize your books. Just as you’re opening up your notes, the lark from earlier flies in from the open window and lands directly on your desk. 

Her song, which had been so sweet not long ago, is shrill and piercing, deafening this close to you - and no doubt interrupting the lecture. You cast your eyes to the front of the room, worried that you’ll be scolded again, but you find that the professor isn’t there. 

No one is. The room around you is empty. 

Your gaze must sweep the room twenty times before you can finally accept it, because that’s impossible, this isn’t possible. But your eyes don’t lie. The room is empty.

Perhaps you’d somehow injured your head in the fall? Perhaps you’re in the wrong classroom? Surely they couldn’t have all left without you noticing. Could they?

Whatever the answer is, you’ve got to get out of this place.

Gods, your hands are burning. Not stinging like earlier, not even throbbing, but burning. They’d been scraped in the fall but, this… this is not right. 

Blisters are swelling on your palms and fingers, blisters oozing with blood that grow and grow and burn like nothing you’ve ever felt and finally burst, splattering blood on your face. 

Your eyes snap closed and hot bile rushes to your mouth. Gods. You firmly swallow it down, taking a moment to compose yourself. You’ve had worse than this.

With a shaky inhale, you open your eyes again. Breathe. Just breathe.

Still, the bleeding won’t stop. Blood is everywhere - all over your clothes, your skin. When you reach for your things, it gets all over them too. Your books, notes, the desk. All covered in blood. The brooch your parents sent you, a gift for your hard work, is soon doused in it.

Oh, gods, you have to get out of here. Get someone to help you. Where is everyone?

As you helplessly try to gather everything, the lark flies over and firmly pecks at your hand. You hiss in pain but refuse to let go of your books. She pecks again.

“But I need these!” you say. 

Giving a chirp, she hops closer and pecks at your hand, over and over this time until it draws more blood. You’re forced to leave everything but the brooch, which you store safely in your pocket.

Then you follow her out the door.

On the other side, the air is biting. Wind howls in your ears, swirls in your hair, numbs your cheeks. Rain beats down against your scalp and shoulders, and you can’t stop shivering.

Your knee doesn’t hurt anymore. Neither do your hands. The lark perches on your shoulder. The bleeding has stopped. You can’t make sense of any of this.

In front of you lies the mouth of a cave. A deep, dark opening that seems to swallow you even now, where you stand. Your knees seem ready to give out at any moment.

In a flutter of feathers, the lark takes flight again, resuming her song as she circles around the cave’s entrance. 

She wants you to follow, you realize.

But there’s something here, something in the ground that threatens to sink you, something in your gut so dark you can’t stomach it. Evil. Evil that bleeds into your bones, makes your hair stand up, fills your mouth with the taste of metal.

“I won’t go in there,” you say. Your voice is shaky, but your resolve is firm. “I won’t.”

The lark lets out a dejected chirp and swoops inside. You realize something, then. You realize that if you don’t follow her in, you’ll be all alone. And even at the mouth of this horrific place, you can’t stand to be alone.

So you follow.

As soon as you step inside, you find a torch in your hand. The warm, glowing light offers solace, and so does the lark’s song - echoing all around. Still, the evil remains underneath, coating the walls, coating the mud on your feet. The lark is so much faster than you are.

“Wait, slow down,” you plead, trying to keep up. Gnarled roots and broken stones threaten to trip you, and you find yourself stumbling more than walking. The lark’s song is still present, but you’re falling more and more behind.

Then, all at once, the singing stops. It’s just… gone. No echoes. No more feathers fluttering with the beat of her wings. Nothing. You stand there, holding your breath, waiting, praying that you’ll hear her again. But after a terrible moment of silence, your torch goes out.

You’re left in complete darkness. 

Ice floods your veins. Pure, chilling terror that sinks into your chest, your stomach, your legs. Your heart thunders against your ribs, and your breathing is deafening in your ears. The hair on the back of your neck and arms stands up.

Trying your best not to panic - panicking won’t help - you turn around, blindly stretch your hands out in front of you, and start moving. Slow, careful steps. No light to guide you, no sound aside from your heart and your breath. Shaking with fear.

Then something warm closes around your arm. 

Your body reacts in pure, unadulterated instinct, jolting and shoving, trying to get away from the pinned grip that’s now pressing on you, out, out, out. 

For a moment, you’re lashing out in fear, and then… then you finally see a warm pair of honey-gold eyes above you and white hair and-

“Easy,” comes Geralt’s gravelly, sleep-touched voice. “Easy. It’s me.”

You freeze for a moment before letting out a sigh of relief, going limp. It’s him, you’re safe, just another dream. You’ve never had that dream before.

Trembling, you bury your face in your hands. “Geralt,” you say shakily. 

He hesitantly touches you again, soothingly running his hand over your arm, and you have to fight back a sob at the gentle act of comfort. 

“I - I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be,” he says. “Pretty fierce claws you’ve got there, though.”

Despite the humor lacing his tone, horror washes over you. Did you scratch him? You pull your hands from your eyes and look him over, searching for evidence of an injury, and it presents in a scratch against his right arm. There’s a clear imprint of long pink lines dug into the skin, even drawing blood in places.

“It’ll be gone in five minutes,” Geralt says calmly. “My fault. You were having a nightmare - tried to wake you up without thinking. Should’ve gone about it differently.”

“I hurt you.”

The words are raw and pained. After everything you’ve already put him through, you’d not only woken him up but also scratched him. Drew blood.

“Doesn’t hurt at all, actually,” he says. “Remind me to tell you later about how Dandelion and I once had to share a bed. Snored like a log, kicked the shit out of me all night long. Pretty sure I broke a rib.”

The words are clearly meant for comfort, but they don’t make you feel any better. You gently run your fingers over the wound and Geralt doesn’t even wince. It doesn’t change the fact that you still feel awful. 

“I should bandage it up.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, it’ll be gone in five minutes. Maybe even less. Witchers heal fast.”

“I know, but I-” 

You stop mid-sentence, freezing in place.

As you’re only realizing now, Geralt is shirtless. Shirtless and scarred everywhere. Your eyes trail over his torso, taking all of it in - the raised pink lines, rosy strokes against his porcelain skin. You’ve never seen this many scars in your life.

Most are long claw marks, scattered along his torso. There’s a deep imprint of a bite mark where his shoulder meets his neck. His chest has a star-shaped wound on the right side, and there are three diagonal, round imprints stretching across his ribs.

He’s lean, too, lean and broad and just as muscular as you’d imagined, if not more, and - oh, gods, you’re staring again.

“You - you’re shirtless,” you say dumbly. You wince at your own words. Why? Why had you just said that? Why does this man make every ounce of intelligence bleed out of you? 

Geralt looks faintly smug at your shock; a cat-like smile paints itself on his lips, but only for a moment. 

“Yeah,” he finally replies, eyes fixed on you. “Shirtless. You asking me to put a shirt on?”

“A shirt?” you say faintly. “No - I mean… I…” 

He smiles again. It’s quickly replaced by something with more intensity, something still laced with humor and curiosity, but.. different. There’s something suggestive, something warm about his gaze that makes you feel like the floor’s going to fall out from under you. 

You shoot him a glare. “Be quiet and sit still,” you snap. “I need to bandage your arm.” Your cheeks scald from within, and you fiercely ignore his eyes on you.

Geralt lets out an amused hum from deep in his chest but doesn’t protest further. 

You grab some bandages from your pack and return to him, then carefully dab on the celandine salve he’d insisted you take with you this morning. You still despise doing any healing, but this is small enough that it doesn’t do more than lightly tug at your heartstrings.

“There,” you proclaim when it’s done. “I’m sorry. Again.”

He takes two fingers and places them under your chin, tilting it up so you’re looking him in the eyes. Or at least, you would be - were you not stubbornly keeping your gaze down toward the bed. 

“Told you, you’ve got to stop saying that,” he says, voice low. His tone is soothing but it only makes you restless, drives you insane.

You finally look at him and narrow your eyes, heart pounding like mad, and you know he can hear it. “You’re too patient with me.”

His lips quirk into a small smile. “Think so?” 

“Yes.”

“You’re wrong. Too harsh on yourself.”

He’s so close to you now that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him, the warmth that his hands share: rough, callused hands that so gently cradle your chin. He still smells of grass and oud and the sweet earthiness of the outdoors, and his lips look so very soft and inviting and… gods, you’ve wanted him since you first saw him. You can’t pretend anything else anymore. 

Geralt must notice the way you’re looking at him, because something in his gaze shifts - sharpens. His eyes go even warmer than before, and his lips part, and are… are you imagining that he’s leaning toward you? On pure instinct, you tilt your chin up a little further and -

Suddenly wide-eyed, Geralt tenses and looks at the door, clearly hearing something you can’t. Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash from downstairs.

“Shit,” Geralt remarks under his breath and, to your dismay, he quickly drops his hand from your chin. Then he gets up to pull on a shirt - which is also much to your dismay.

“If that’s who I think it is…” he says, not bothering to finish the phrase.

Yennefer, you think glumly. Without another word, you follow him down the stairs. Clearly, there’s some kind of argument happening; voices are flowing up from the first floor.

“Look, I’m sorry about the fuckin’ glass, alright?” comes a voice that is most certainly not Yennefer. “I’ll pay for it, blah blah blah. Whatever you want.”

“Lambert?” Geralt calls, moving partway down the stairs. “Huh. Can’t go anywhere without getting into an argument.”

His words are teasing, and the fondness in them doesn’t pass you by. Another friend? But Lambert turns, and you’re immediately stricken - because he’s clearly another witcher. 

Two swords, thick armor, and, as your wish forces you to follow Geralt further down the stairs, you see the tell-tale glowing yellow of the stranger’s eyes. Just like Geralt’s, only not as warm. 

Something in this Lambert’s gaze makes you wary, and you find yourself shadowing Geralt, hiding yourself behind his frame as much as you can. Luckily, you seem to escape unnoticed, because Lambert just crosses his arms over his chest and grins at the sight of Geralt. 

“Look who it is,” he drawls. “Wondered if I’d see you here, pretty boy.”

“What brings you here?” Geralt asks, lightly clapping him on the shoulder. “Keira with you?”

“No,” Lambert answers tightly. Something pulls at his face before it vanishes, melting into a scowl as he looks around. “Eskel is, though,” he adds. “He’ll be here soon.” 

Geralt’s brows raise. “Eskel’s here, too?”

“Ran into each other on a contract,” Lambert says. “Sort of like me and you with that ekimmara, only this time it was a noonwraith and - well, long story. He’s hitching up his horse. I needed a fuckin’ drink.”

“Geralt, he just broke my best glass!” Dandelion fusses, in the midst of sweeping up the mess a few feet away. You hadn’t noticed him there with Geralt in front of your view.

“And I told you I’d pay for it,” Lambert replies. “Fuck’s sake.”

Dandelion’s eyes narrow. “How many times must I repeat that it was priceless? If you hadn’t waltzed in and served yourself at an ungodly hour, this all could have been avoided. That glass was my prize from last year’s poetry tourney - I can’t simply go and replace it!”

“Boo fuckin’ hoo,” Lambert mutters under his breath.

Dandelion’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth, but anything he’s about to say is swiftly interrupted.

“Geralt, is that you?” chimes another voice. This one is lighter, and with an accent you don’t quite recognize. “Welcome back!”

The source of the sound is a blonde trobairitz with sparkling blue eyes. She gives Geralt a warm smile and pulls him into a brief hug.

How many friends does Geralt have? How many of them are here? 

You don’t like to be envious, but seeing him surrounded by people who clearly know and care for him - and knowing that there must be many, many more out there - it makes your chest ache with a fierce longing. You’ve never had this many friends, not in your whole life.

“Priscilla!” Dandelion exclaims, immediately abandoning his sweeping and leaping to his feet. He gently grips her shoulder, and his gaze clings to her every feature as he beams at her. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you! But… what happened? You weren’t due to be back for another week!” 

“The competition was canceled, love,” Priscilla says, giving a small frown. “No one would tell me why, but - if the rumors are to be believed - someone gambled away the prize money. All of us were sent away before it started.”

Outrage crosses Dandelion’s features. “They had you go all that way only to send you back? And over some gambling fiasco, at that? That’s… that’s entirely unacceptable!”

“And I’m sure you’ll be writing a very strongly-worded letter of protest,” Priscilla replies brightly. You find yourself immediately endeared to her. 

“Of course I will, my dear!” Dandelion says, hopping over the seemingly forgotten pile of glass on the floor. “This world has no respect for artists, I tell you!” 

He scurries away, presumably to grab some paper. Priscilla just shakes her head with a fond smile and takes a seat at the bar.

“So,” she says calmly, framing her hands on the sides of her chair. “Tell me, what have I missed?”

Geralt, in his usual laconic manner, begins to brief Priscilla on what he knows about Dandelion and Yennefer - omitting you and the djinn, of course . You still haven’t been noticed, and the discomfort of the situation is growing more and more. You and Geralt can only delay telling them for so long.

As your mind starts to drift, you take notice of the fact that Lambert has skulked away to the other side of the bar and poured himself a drink. He nurses his Redanian lager with a distant gaze, and you can’t help but think that he looks the way you feel: awkward, out of place, and incredibly lonely. 

He must sense your gaze on him, because he looks up at you and narrows his eyes. You immediately look away.

“…got in some kind of fight with Yen,” Geralt is saying. “Haven’t seen her, though.”

“And why are you here?” Priscilla asks. “I imagine you’ve not come just to visit me and Dandelion?”

Guilt pulls at Geralt’s expression. “Yeah. Sorry.” He shakes his head. “Long story.”

Priscilla raises her brows and perks up - just the way Dandelion had last night - and you want to laugh at the clear similarities between the two. You wonder if Dandelion will remember to ask you about the ‘gritty details,’ as he’d put it.

“Not you, too,” Geralt sighs. 

Priscilla lets out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t write about anything you don’t want me to. Unless, of course, it’s terribly exciting.”

It isn’t, you think. Not the way that the other ballads about Geralt are exciting.

Before Geralt can answer, the door opens, and all of you turn. Another witcher, you realize in excitement. This must be Eskel.

He’s tall, broad, and stocky, with scars that run down the right side of his face and a leathery red jacket rolled up to his elbows. Two swords. Yellow eyes. He grins when he sees Geralt, and the expression melts any initial intimidation he might have given off.

“Hey, Wolf,” he greets, coming closer and shaking Geralt’s hand. His voice is warm, deep, and assuasive. “Good to see you.” 

“You too, Eskel,” Geralt replies. “Nasty wound you’ve got there. That from the noonwraith?”

You hadn’t noticed it at first, but there’s a deep cut in Eskel’s neck, trickling partially-dried blood down onto his shirt.

“Yeah,” Eskel says, leaning against a table. “It’ll heal. Got some Swallow with me. What brings you here?”

“Long story,” Geralt replies. “Listen - I know it’s unlikely, but… either of you happen to hear anything about a djinn lately?”

Lambert snorts. “What the hell is the deal with you and djinns?” he asks. “Oh, wait! Let me guess: you finally got tired of being Yennefer’s lapdog, and now you want to beg another djinn to please take back your wish.”

“Cut it out, Lambert, ” Eskel says. “Besides - they already undid that wish.” 

Your chest wrenches. Geralt and Yennefer undid the djinn’s wish?

“Mhm,” Geralt says tightly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Remember telling you that pretty explicitly, in fact. You drunk already?”

Lambert rolls his eyes. “I forgot, alright? Forgive me if I don’t remember every intimate little detail of your life. Shit, don’t tell me you’re here to redo it?”

“Got nothing to do with Yen,” Geralt insists. “Just need a djinn.”

“A djinn?” Dandelion has returned, paper in hand, and both he and Priscilla are gazing at Geralt with newfound interest - as if they’re already drafting up titles for a ballad in their minds. The bard grins widely and takes a seat on a nearby chair. “What’s this about a djinn?”

Geralt sighs, and you immediately feel awful for him. You know that it’ll be embarrassing for him to tell them the truth, and, well, he shouldn’t have to. You’re the one who made that idiotic wish - it’s only fair that you're the one who has to tell them.

Without thinking, you step out from behind Geralt and, despite trembling, speak as clearly as you can. “I’ll explain. It’s my fault, anyway.”

Poorly chosen words, because Geralt gives you a chiding look, and you can hear his voice in your mind: Gotta stop blaming yourself. 

Too late. At the sound of your voice, everyone’s gaze immediately shifts to you, and all the blood quickly drains from your face.

“There you are!” Dandelion exclaims. “I wondered when you’d be joining us!”

“Been here the whole fuckin’ time,” Lambert points out, pouring himself another drink. “Hiding behind Geralt.”

You ignore them both, swallowing hard and taking collected, even breaths as you try to ground yourself. 

“Geralt is asking about a djinn for… well - because of me,” you continue. Gods, this isn’t coming out right, but you have no choice but to go on. “Not long ago, I came across a djinn, and for my third wish, I asked for protection to be with me always. It… sent him.” 

You pause for a moment, taking in the various combinations of expressions on people’s faces, which generally seems to be a mix of shock and delight - aside from Eskel, who simply looks shocked. 

In their stunned silence, you hesitantly continue on. “It took the always part literally, so… now we can’t be more than a few steps apart, and we need another djinn to undo it.”

There are about ten seconds of sheer, ear-ringing silence before Lambert slams his mug down on the bar. “You’re shitting me,” he says.

The room explodes. 

Dandelion starts firing off questions like his life depends on it, trailing off mid-sentence to jot down ideas. Eskel shakes his head with a grin and takes a seat, pouring himself a drink. Lambert snorts out a joke about ‘Geralt, always having shit like this happen.’ 

Priscilla lets out a shocked laugh before clapping her hand over her mouth - then reaches over to borrow some paper from Dandelion. Geralt, meanwhile, crosses his arms and sighs loudly, bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I’m so sorry, Geralt.”

His expression softens as he drops his hand and looks at you. “Hey. Not your fault. Gonna drill that into you sooner or later.”

You give him a weak smile, still shaking.

“Geralt, Geralt,” Dandelion croons, waltzing up to the two of you. “I’ve been searching for an idea for my next ballad for months now, and the day after you show up-”

“You’re not gonna write about this, Dandelion,” Geralt says. “Promise me.”

“You must be joking!” Dandelion exclaims. “This will be my best ballad yet! Two unsuspecting citizens, bound by fate-”

“Fate?” you exclaim. “What does fate have to do with it?”

Dandelion raises a brow. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming you didn’t specify Geralt for your wish?”

“No,” you say firmly. “I didn’t picture anyone at all. If anything, I just thought I’d have some kind of invisible protection.”

“Then that settles it!” he replies brightly. “The djinn decided - out of every being, every number of things in this vast universe that could apply to your wish - he would send none other than Geralt of Rivia as your protection. Not only that, but he entwined the two of you closely together, unable to be apart. What is that, if not fate?”

“A djinn having a bit of fun,” you reply bitterly. “You can’t think I was destined to find that djinn?”

“Of course!”

You don’t respond. You can’t, because your throat locks up. 

If you were destined to find that djinn, then all of the horrible things that have happened to you over the course of your life were destined as well. It’s an awful thought. 

Were your parents doomed to die a terrible death from the moment they first took a breath? It’s ridiculous to think so. Your parents were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the crossfire of a newly emerging disease. 

But the more you think about it, the more doubt slowly starts to trickle into your mind. 

Your parents were born poor and died poor, and no amount of work they did ever could have changed that. As is common for the poor, they were financially trapped, stuck in the place they were born - a place that would soon become riddled with disease.

If their circumstances guaranteed that they were in that godforsaken town when the plague hit, then… is that destiny? Was fate setting up a long string of events, using the price of their blood to drag you back to Velen? Velen, where you’d built a shitty little life for yourself that got ripped apart again and again? Velen, where you’d finally come across that djinn?

Was it fate that put the words of that wish in your mouth, or was it your own stupidity? 

“You see?” Dandelion says, seeing the expression on your face. “It’s fate, through and through. And, it will be making an excellent ballad. Tell me-”

“Dandelion,” Geralt interjects. “No ballads. Not happening.”

Dandelion sets his paper down with a scowl, crossing his arms. “Geralt, you are a cruel, obdurate man. You’re denying me the best ballad I’ll ever write.”

“That hurts, Dandelion,” comes Geralt’s response. “No more ballads? Don’t know how I’ll survive.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Dandelion sighs, fixing his gaze on you. “Please, try to talk some sense into him. He’ll have to see the light sooner or later.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Sorry, but something tells me that if anyone was going to change his mind, it’d be you.”

Dandelion grips your shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says, a bit slyly. “I see the way he looks at you.”

Your heart skips a beat. Surely Geralt must have heard that? When you turn to look at him for confirmation, he meets your eyes head-on, but… the look on his face is something new. Discomfort, you realize. 

Your stomach faintly sinks, but Geralt simply clears his throat and speaks. 

“Now that that’s dealt with,” he says, “Any of you happen to know where I might find a djinn?”

There’s a long beat. Then Priscilla speaks.

“I can’t say whether it’s true for certain,” she starts, “but during my recent travels, I heard many talk of a djinn in the Blue Mountains, left by a mage who wished to tame it. He was killed before he could manage it.” 

The Blue Mountains. A journey like that would take… you don’t even know how long. Weeks, at the very least.

“Know anything else?” Geralt asks. “Got any specific locations, the name of the mage?”

“They said it was held in a cave near the borders of Kaedwen and Aedirn,” she answers. “But I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

Geralt’s brows pinch. “That border goes on for miles. Lots of caves near there. Long way to travel for a rumor, too.”

“It is. And I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” she replies. “Unfortunately, most of this information came from a plastered troubadour on the street who was using it to compose a ballad. Though, there were others who all said the same thing, and the details were consistent enough that it just might be true. Not that anyone seemed in much of a rush to go get the djinn, mind you.”

Geralt’s shoulders slump a little, and you ache with sympathy for him. None of what she’d just said is exactly reassuring.

“Gotta see if I can find out anything else about that,” he says. “Appreciate you telling me.”

She nods and gives a weak smile, and Geralt’s gaze briefly skims over the rest of the crowd.

Eskel shakes his head. “Sorry, Wolf,” he says. “Haven’t heard anything.”

Geralt shrugs. “Knew it wasn’t likely. Got something to go on, at least.”

“Yeah, good luck,” Lambert snorts, working on his second lager. “Wouldn’t want to be you.”

“Fuck off, Lambert,” Geralt replies, sighing deeply. “C’mon, better see if there are any books about that djinn,” he tells you.

You follow him without a word.

“Nice to, er, meet you!” Priscilla calls. 

You give her a smile and wave before you leave, but your stomach coils with fear. What if you two don’t find another djinn? What if you’re stuck like this forever? How long will it take for Geralt to lose his seemingly endless patience with you?

“Don’t mind Lambert,” Geralt says, interrupting your thoughts. “He can be a prick. Nothing personal.”

“It’s fine.” You don’t particularly feel like talking at the moment. 

His pace slows into a halt. “Don’t have to say that if you don’t mean it,” he tells you.

“I know. It’s really fine, Geralt. I wasn’t thinking about him.”

He gives a nod and starts walking again, and you follow alongside him. “Gonna tell me what you were thinking about?” he asks.

You consider it for a long, vulnerable moment. “Alright, Witcher. But only if you tell me what you were thinking just now, too.”

His brows rise. “Huh. Guess that’s fair.” He rolls his shoulders, hesitating before he answers. “Was wondering about Yen - where she is. That curse she mentioned.”

“You’re worried about her,” you say.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Pretty powerful on her own. Can’t think of why she’d need my help. Doesn’t sound good.”

“Maybe she just wanted an outside perspective,” you offer. “Another pair of eyes to catch something she hadn’t seen.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, though he doesn’t sound fully convinced. “Your turn.”

You let out a puff of air, digging your nails into the skin. “I was worrying about the djinn,”you confess. “About what would happen if we don’t find another one.”

He doesn’t seem at all phased by this. “Wouldn’t worry about that just yet,” he says. “Haven’t even started looking, really.”

“How many djinns have you come across?”

“Two,” he answers. “Think you already know about the first. Helped Yen find the other one.”

“Was it hard to find?”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t say it was easy, exactly. Yen had me searching shipwrecks at the bottom of the ocean for clues. Turned out, the owner died before the djinn fulfilled his three wishes. Ended up having to fight it, make a deal. Wasn’t impossible, though.”

You resist the urge to point out that Yennefer is an extremely powerful sorceress and you aren’t, and instead ask the question you’ve really been wanting to know the answer to. “And you used that djinn to undo the first djinn’s wish?”

He huffs. “Thought you might have caught that. Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, and his expression sombers. “Yen… she was never sure if what we were feeling was real. Could never trust it. Wanted to know for sure.”

 A lost emotion pulls at your chest; grief, perhaps. 

“It wasn’t real, then?”

There’s a long pause before he answers. 

“It was.” 

You understand instantly. 

Your heart squeezes painfully at the memory of Hanna, an old friend. No longer, but that’s not what’s important. She’d been in love with the farmer’s boy, and you’d bet Antoni down the road that they’d marry before spring. 

You’d lost that bet. 

They’d quarreled most days. Rarely was there a day of stillness between them. Still, the look in their eyes had been love, real love - and you’d known that look anywhere, and you’d thought…

“Explain it to me,” you’d asked her one night. “Don’t you love him?”

“Of course!” she’d said, wringing her hands. “But love doesn’t make it right.”

“No? Then what does?”

She’d gone all starry-eyed then, suddenly looking as if she was a thousand years away. “I think… I think it’s peace,” she’d finally answered. “I couldn’t come home to him like that, spend hours arguing, because all it did was drive me insane. I wanted us to be happy, but we weren’t. And love doesn’t change that.”

And just like that, you understood.

There’s no mention of Priscilla’s djinn in any of the Novigrad bookshops - or anywhere else, as a matter of fact.

Geralt spends hours trekking through places, perusing titles and chasing down leads. Each time he sets a book down or a trail goes cold, his expression is nothing short of grim.

You browse through a book or two, but nothing pulls at your interest enough to keep you from your thoughts, which return again and again to that dream - and what happened after. You’re restless in this city, hoping for and dreading an end to all this searching. 

Eventually, when the sun has gone low in the sky, Geralt gives up and takes you back to The Chameleon, where Eskel and Lambert have headed off on another contract, but Dandelion, Priscilla, and Zoltan are chatting at a table.

“There you two are!” Dandelion exclaims. “Come now, have a seat! We were just discussing the new Gwent faction.”

“Never understood it, myself,” Zoltan remarks, leaning back in his seat. “The faction’s shite.”

Geralt pulls a chair out for you, and you take a seat - cheeks going hot.

“Gonna grab us some dinner,” he says. “Want anything specific?”

You shake your head. “Anything’s fine.”

He gives a nod and walks away, and you hear him ordering - just close enough to be in bounds of the wish.

You shift in your seat, suddenly very uncomfortable at the attention directed on you.

“Do you play Gwent?” Priscilla asks. 

“A little,” you reply.

Dandelion grins. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it?”

Priscilla shoots him a stern look. “Ignore him. What do you think about the Skellige deck?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t know,” you admit. “I’ve never played with it or against it.”

“Geralt has a deck,” Dandelion exclaims. “Surely he can pull it out, play a few rounds with you.”

Your heart drops. “Oh, I don’t-”

“Don’t worry,” Priscilla says. “It’s a difficult deck to play against - no one will blame you for losing a round.”

“I don’t have a deck anymore,” you explain. “I can’t play.”

Dandelion leans forward, eyes gleaming. “That wouldn’t have to do with the djinn, would it?”

“Ah, shut your trap, bard,” Zoltan says. 

“I’m only asking!” Dandelion retorts. “Anyway, I’m sure you could borrow the Skellige deck, and play against one of us! I doubt Geralt would mind.”

“Would mind what?” Geralt asks behind you, having returned with your dinner. He sets the two plates on the table and takes a seat next to you.

With the lacking space between the seating, his thigh presses against yours, and you quickly stuff a bite of food into your mouth - an attempt to distract yourself from the heat radiating off of him. Heat that’s slowly transferring to you.

“Oh good, you’re back!” Dandelion says. “You wouldn’t mind lending your companion here your Skellige deck, would you? Just for a few rounds, of course.”

“Sure. Wouldn’t mind.” Geralt starts on his food, brows pinching as he observes you. “Who’re you playing against?” 

“No one,” you say quickly. “I’m alright, really, I don’t need to play-”

“Why?” Dandelion interjects, giving you a sly smile. “Afraid you’ll lose?” 

Unfortunately, if there’s one thing you happen to be competitive about, it’s Gwent.

“Not by skill, no,” you reply, narrowing your eyes. “But I have no idea if the deck is any good.”

“Aye, but a shitty deck doesnae matter when the whole faction is shite,” Zoltan says.

“Hey,” Geralt says, sounding a little wounded. “Happened to win the Toussaint Gwent championship with that deck.”

You let out a deep sigh from your nose and shake your head, setting down your fork. “Fine. I’ll play.”

Dandelion beams and pulls out his deck, and Zoltan snorts in amusement, crossing his arms.

“Hang on. Gotta go get the deck first,” Geralt says. “Might as well finish your food.”

You never get the chance.

Just as he’s spoken, Geralt goes wide-eyed and stares at the door, the way a cat does when it’s heard something you haven’t. The way he had earlier, when Lambert breaking the glass had interrupted the kiss.

A cold wind blows through the room. It chills you deep and down to the very bone, as if ice is seeping through your veins and freezing every inch of you from the inside out. A sharp, deep floral scent accompanies it, fuzzing your mind over with intoxication. 

The door bursts open and silence washes over the room as two women enter rather gracefully - one with ashen hair and a scar on her left cheek, and the other, well… you know who the other is. You’ve read Dandelion’s ballads. 

Raven hair and violet eyes - this can be none other than Yennefer of Vengerberg.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix

[copperbadge]

I have done the goddamn dishes and run the dishwasher every day this week, and this morning between yesterday’s dinner, today’s breakfast, the daikon tots, and the gluten-free bagels pictured above, I set a new personal record by running a full dishwasher, twice, before noon. The second load was mostly pots and pans, but still. I am one mortal human, how many dishes must I wash? 

[ID: several images of gluten-free bagels being made, from the puffy but clearly not “risen” dough to the formed bagels awaiting cooking, the final golden-brown baked product, a bagel split open to show the fluffy interior, and one smeared with cashew butter that I ate shortly after snapping the photo.]

One of my colleagues has a toddler who is Allergic To Everything, including tree nuts, seeds, oats, dairy, eggs, and gluten. I told her I’d mastered yeasted bread as far as I cared to, but if she wanted I’d try gluten free baking for the kidlet, and that I had a good King Arthur recipe for bagels. The challenge was getting pure coconut milk, because most has seed oil added, and he can’t have seed oil. I finally found some at Trader Joe’s, so this morning I did my first ever gluten-free baking. It’s mainly a success! The bagels are a bit dense, as gluten-free bread often is, and they have a distinct nutty flavor from the coconut, but overall they’re highly edible. 

I boiled them all but baked only half; the recipe says they’re best fresh-baked, so I’m doing some Science. The boiled-but-not-baked ones went to the freezer once they’d cooled a little, and this coming week I’ll be testing those -- seeing if you can bake from frozen or from thawed, and if the outcome is similar. That way if my colleague wants, I can freeze them post-boil, and she can bake them herself as needed. Otherwise I’ll just bake a shitload, cool them all, and freeze them before passing them off to her. If he likes them and they don’t trigger any of his allergies, she’s offered to pay me to make bagels on the regular, which is more of a mitzvah than a side-hustle since I only intend to charge for the ingredients. I do enough baking that throwing a monthly order of gluten-free bagels into the mix won’t be a chore, but I’m not so rich I can buy King Arthur measure-for-measure flour on the regular if I’m not the one consuming it :D 

[iamthecomet]

Mushy May Day 17

Prompt: Domestic Activities Pairing: Sunshine & Aether Rating: Gen Featuring: Sunshine wants to help Aether bake Cirrus' summoning day cake. She also apparently, doesn't know how to count. Word Count: 750+ Read it under the cut or on AO3.

Letting Sunshine into the kitchen is a questionable decision. Aether knows he’s playing with, literal, fire. That agreeing to let her help make Cirrus’ summoning day cake could very well be a disaster.

But when Sunshine looks up at Aether, eyes wide and warm, he can’t say no to her. No matter how bad of an idea he thinks it is. She bounces on the balls of her feet. Promises to be good. To pay attention and listen. She tells him, he lets Dew in the kitchen with him all the time, what’s so different about her?

Experience. Aether wants to say. Both with sharp objects and fire, and on the surface. Sunshine is new. Awestruck by every human thing she can get her fingers on. The gas stove proved for endless entertainment the first time she wandered into the kitchen alone.

She almost blew up the Abbey.

Aether thinks he’s justified in his concern.

He opens the cook book to a frosting stained page. The picture of the cake stares back at them. Lemon poundcake. Raspberry and lemon curds. Fresh fruit. Sunshine bows her head over it and furrows her copper brows as she reads.

“Looks easy.”

Aether huffs a little. “It is. But baking is also really easy to screw up. You have to pay attention.”

Sunshine shoots him a withering glare. “Mountain lets me help in the greenhouse.”

Aether sighs, scrubs his hand through his short hair. Ok. Maybe he’s being too over protective of his stove, his kitchen. He’d had a hard time letting Swiss in here too. Afraid that his inherent chaos would be used for bad and not good.

Aether was wrong. Swiss makes the best breakfast he’s ever eaten.

Maybe Sunny will be a natural baker.

Sunny is not a natural baker. Aether comes to that conclusion an hour in. The cake still isn’t in the oven. There’s egg yolk stuck in Sunshine’s copper curls. He’s burned one batch of precious lemon curd already and judging by the confused trill Sunshine just made he’s probably going to burn this one too.

“Sunshine,” Aether says, voice calm, breathing through his nose. He is filled with endless patience. He can do this. “Stir this for a minute and let me see what you did. Don’t. Stop. Stirring.” He insists as her hand closes around the whisk and she takes up the effort.

“I don’t understand why I’m so bad at this,” she says, melancholy. Aether knows that look, that feeling. Most ghouls get to the surface with some sort of a superiority complex. They’re technically better than humans at everything.

But human specific hobbies? Baking? Cooking? Knitting? Sewing? Those are hard won battles. Not natural for ghoul hands or brains, and some of them come easier than others. Cumulus can knit a sweater in a week if she really wants to. The only thing Aether can do with yarn is make knots.

“There’s a learning curve, Sunbeam.” Aether says, looking at the cake batter, trying to figure out what went wrong as he spoons through it. “You’re not going to be perfect at it right away.”

“But Cirrus’ cake is going to suck because of me.”

“It won’t,” Aether says. “How many eggs did you add?”

Sunshine shrugs. “I think five. I lost count at one point and just assumed an extra one wouldn’t be too much of  a problem. Is it?”

“Cakes want to be exact.” Aether says, counting the eggshells on the counter and coming up, inexplicably, with seven. “But the good thing about adding extra eggs—is that it means we can make extra cake.”

Sunshine looks over her shoulder at him, fair brows knitting together again. Her hand pauses on the whisk and Aether makes a stirring motion with his finger. She jumps back into action, whisking away. “Sorry—”

“It’s fine, Sunbeam. So you added two extra eggs. What we can do now is just double the recipe. No one’s ever complained about extra cake.”

Sunshine’s brows unfurrow, her face opens up, a grin spreading across her face. “So wait, because I messed up, Cirrus gets two cakes?”

Aether nods, “Exactly.”

“See,” she says pointing the dripping whisk at him. Aether cringes and she shoves it back into the curd and goes back to stirring. “I am good at this.”

“Yeah, Sunny,” Aether says, shaking his head, reaching over to try to get some of the egg out of her hair. “You are.”

[taxevasiontactics]

The Godmother's Godchild [2] - This Town Ain't Big Enough for Anyone, Really

Synopsis: The problem with a small town is that you don't really have a lot of options in places to go. You keep rubbing shoulders with Peppino, much to his continued frustration, and end up overextending just the tiniest bit. Damn kids. Damn helpful instinct.

Warning: Description of a Minor Wound

Your prediction ends up coming true the very next morning.

To avoid a repeat of the night before, you go grocery shopping. As you’re driving down the tight, one-lane-in-either-direction road, you note a few things. The town was built before cars were a staple of life. It’s smack in the middle of farmland; even if it’s no corn hell, the miles of emptiness and cow fields take up the majority of your trip’s vistas. There are no big warehouse superstores, no fast-food chains, and no corporate names in sight. The grocer in town (the only one) is a mom-and-pop gig, as is every other storefront in sight. It’s charming in its own way, but you feel like you’ve wandered onto a retro show when you stop inside. Linoleum floors, buzzing lights, an old cash register that goes “ding” as the middle-aged clerk pulls on its lever. Even the people shopping around you know each other. You can feel the looks as you pass. They’re probably gossiping about the newcomer, as nonthreatening as you try to make yourself with nods and smiles.

That’s what makes Peppino stick out like a sore thumb when he appears around an aisle’s corner. You try to say hello, but the moment you turn he bolts out of sight as quickly as he came. He’s surprisingly fast too, going from near standstill to a sprint in the blink of an eye. The same thing happens as you’re perusing produce, then while checking canned fruits. Even the baking aisle is not free of a near encounter with the man. Your entire shopping trip is plagued by near-misses, disappearing the moment you even try to approach.

You finally get a chance to talk when you push your cart behind his at the only checkout lane. Looks like the man’s ditched the tank-top-t-shirt getup for now, swapping it out for zip hoodie and t-shirt instead. He pointedly does not look your way. He has a lot of food in his cart: flour, vegetables, cured meats, and a few herbs. And tomatoes. Lots, and lots, and lots of tomatoes.

“Stocking up for the day?” You ask the open air. Peppino tenses like he was hoping you would ignore him too.

“Yes. Every day, as fresh as it gets…”

You nod. “Where I used to live, every pizza place bragged about using only San Marzano tomatoes. Authentic Italian style, or something.”

He seems to take great amusement at that, scoffing and muttering a string of his own authentic Italian. This apparent blasphemy is enough to knock him out of whatever timorous behavior he’d subconsciously assigned to you.

“They wouldn’t know real Italian food if it came and smacked them in the face. Why would you need canned tomatoes when fresh ones you can make just as good, for less?” He picks up one of the red fruits for emphasis, waggling it in front of you. “You don’t need fancy things, no, you just need to know how to make it right.”

The clerk clears her throat, holding back a smile. “Mr. Spaghetti?”

“Oh, scuzi, sorry…”

He rummages around in his pockets, pulling out a coupon book. They exchange papers and knock down prices for nearly every item in his cart. You get the feeling that this is a practiced dance between them – either because the clerk is used to penny pinchers, or because Peppino makes a habit of being one everywhere he goes.

He waits while she gets through your cart, raising an eyebrow at its contents. You catch it, raising your own eyebrow. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, you think. Quick fridge fill-ups, low-effort meals, and snacks.

“What?” Genuinely, you don’t know what he could criticize here.

“Don’t you think you should…” He waves his hands in the air, searching for the words. “Get some things better for you? No one can survive on cereal and- and chips, and whatever other little filler foods those are, no?”

“Questioning my ability to run after a cat on a handful of cereal, are you?” You tease.

Peppino makes a sour face, and you snicker. You decide against playing Misery Olympics and telling him about how you usually eat at work. Based on your past two encounters, he might find something else to yell at with your diet of coffee and granola bars. This is cheating­, for you. The clerk finishes, you pay, and you wheel out with your pantry goods. Peppino follows along, bags in hand.

“You seem to care an awful lot all of the sudden, considering I nearly made you crash and poked fun at your name,” you wryly reason.

“You are doing the exact same thing!” He runs ahead of you, somehow pointing at you in accusation despite the three heavy bags in his offending hand. “I’m just trying to be polite before you decide to turn me into a toad, or whatever it is you people do!”

You sigh, opening up your truck’s door and loading up your groceries. Exasperation runs through you in a moment, despite how outdatedly funny his worry is. A toad? So that’s what last night was about.

“Correction,” you start, “that would be the school of transmutation, an entirely different career path that I didn’t study. I’m from a school that primarily focuses on helping things reach a state they naturally can faster, and with less error.”

You close the door, leaning back against it with your arms folded. The more you’ve ranted, it seems, the more Peppino has shrunk in on himself. A little part of you is satisfied to see his accusations addressed and overturned.

“Even if I did know how to make polymorphic potions,” -He cringes. You continue- “you would have to absorb it somehow for it to have any effect. I promise, cross my heart, that I won’t try to turn you into a toad, an inanimate object, or anything else you might be afraid of.”

The frown on his face grows even more as he continues to grumble, “And why would I have any reason to trust you?”

“You don’t.”

You hop into your truck, catching Peppino’s frown get momentarily wiped off in bewilderment. Pleasant assumption? Unpleasant conclusion? You don’t know, and the ice cream in your groceries is going to melt if you stick around for much longer.

“You either trust me or you don’t. For the record, though?” You give him one big, cheesy grin as you start the engine. “The pizza was really good, and I can’t get any more if I turn you into something weird. Goodbye, Mr. Spaghetti!”

Peppino’s face turns bright red, one finger lifted to inevitably retort, deny, or chew you out. You peel out before you hear whatever else he has to say, riding the high of getting the last word in all the way back.

---

You’ve hit a wall in terms of preparing the property for sale.

Clue 1: the cottage was not cleaning itself.

There are many good things about magic cottages. They’re usually enchanted to take care of themselves, Aunt Marian’s was no different to your expert senses. You were still hit with a lungful of dusty air when you first walked in, yet thought nothing of the thin layer that covered many surfaces.

Clue 2: the cottage did not repair itself.

A few days after the grocer encounter, you tripped over a floorboard. It wasn’t like that before, you don’t remember breaking it in any way while organizing, but you knew for certain that the culprit behind your thrown plate of toast (which you were looking forward to, by the way) was the curiously crooked board. You blamed it on a shifting foundation and ignore it, trusting it to go back in place eventually.

This morning, a mere two days after the tripping incident, you went to get a glass of milk. Where you expected chilly cold fridge air, you found a slightly-cooler-than-room-temp puff of air from within the dark, metal cabinet. Luckily, nothing had spoiled yet, but you aborted your search for milk in favor of not tempting fate by quickly slamming the door shut again.

Clue 3: the cottage no longer provides power to anything inside.

You can only assume that Aunt Marian tied herself to the house. When she passed, the enchantments slowly faded away from lowest to highest priority until it ultimately failed you and your milk. You can’t make a change to the spellwork yourself, nor are you going to assume the future owners will have any idea how to fix it either. With this in mind, you go to the library with sleeves rolled up both metaphorically and physically. You’re stubborn enough to try keeping the cottage as it is, intent on not shelling out goo gobs of money on modern conveniences. You’re set on making your own solution to the problem.

You want to substitute natural magic with alchemy. A constructed power well, with properties you pick. Of course, this means you have to turn to the dreaded art of transmutation to make this work.

Arming yourself with a mind-numbingly dry book from the bottom of an overstuffed shelf and a bottomless bag rescued from the same pile, you walk through the nearby woods in hopes of finding the proper ingredients for your idea. Though the smell of greenery and life around you are refreshing, the mugginess and uneven ground are not. You thank Aunt Marian mentally for her foraging lessons during the hot, humid days of your youth. Then you yell at her for leaving the cottage a fixer upper.

Your mind wanders as you walk and search. Maybe this is some higher power’s way of punishing you for being a flippant idiot with Peppino. You don’t know transmutation, you said. You don’t know how to change the properties of anything, let alone turn a person into a toad! Fine, the higher powers huff to your inverse Arachne self, if you don’t know transmutation you’ll be made to learn it.

Still, you wonder and wander, what’s Peppino’s problem? Sure, you did laugh at his unfortunate name, you inconvenienced him majorly on the road, but you haven’t directly done anything that would be interpreted as hostility. He seems to immensely distrust you on principle. Aunt Marian, as far as you know, wasn’t much of a Beauty-and-the-Beast godmother, doling out curses on the deserving to teach them a lesson. Maybe he’s a staunch mundanist. Maybe he just doesn’t like new people in general. Ha ha, you think, if your godmother was the just-punishment type, he probably would have been a toad a lot sooner had they met.

Your train of thought is upended by a sudden wailing echoing through the trees. You hurriedly stuff your most recently plucked mushroom into the bag, making your way towards the sound.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god-“

“Okokok calm down it’s ok-“

“MY LEG HURTS MY LEG HU-U-U-RTS!”

“I told you not to let her go up there!”

“I told her not to go up there!”

“Then why did she?!”

“I don’t know!”

You find a pair of kids underneath a tall tree, arguing over a little girl. She’s clutching a bloodied leg, sobbing as the red drips through her fingers. You can’t see the damage clearly from between her dirtied hands as you walk up, shouting to get their attention. The children stop their bickering when they realize an adult has come out of the literal woodwork. Reactions flipflop from confused relief to bracing for trouble.

“I know I’m a stranger, but I can help.” You introduce yourself right away, adding on for good measure, “I’m a doctor. Can I take a look at her?”

Your credentials do the trick, and the kids immediately blab to you about what happened as you set to work. Marnie (the little girl, you presume) went into the tree to grab a new branch because they lost their old dousing rod in a river when Thomas tossed it right in (the older girl, Aggie, points at the boy of the pair) to try and see how far it would go to save them time on finding a new well.

“I didn’t mean to lose it!” He shouts back. “I thought it would work!”

You don’t have the heart to tell them that dousing rods don’t work anyways. As they continue to tell their tale of how and why Marnie was in the tree, your triage reveals that she’s scraped herself up pretty badly. Your extra bottle of water from within the bottomless bag washes away enough blood and debris to see that there is a large abrasion covering the majority of her left shin, irregular around the edges and still bleeding. You assume that this came from the actual impact on the ground. Her arms are bruised and present similar, if more minor, scrapes in small patches. You gently convince her to let you feel her limbs, finding nothing shifting where it should not.

“Good news,” you tell her, “I don’t feel that anything is broken.”

The big sister breathes a huge sigh of relief. She hits Thomas on the arm with an even fiercer scowl than before. “You are sooooo lucky! SO lucky my sister is ok!”

“Ow-! Ow! Hey! I’m sorry! I said I was sorry! Aggie stop!”

Digging in your bag, you once again thank Aunt Marian for lessons on being prepared. You treat Marnie with a field salve mushed together with items you’ve already collected after cleaning her hurts again, then bandage her up. Aggie looks guilty. Her cheeks puff outward like a frog’s and her hands grind into each other.

“Daddy said that no work goes unpaid, but we don’t have any money. Doctor, um…” (You get the feeling she’s already forgotten your name, you let that slide too.) “Is there anything we can do to pay you without money?”

Your heart hurts to see a kid try and take on responsibility. You quickly wave off the offer, “It’s fine, I was just helping out.”

“Daddy said we can’t!”

Honest to goodness, you hate trying to reason with kids. They’re not like adults, they can go on being just as stubborn as you. You’ll make no headway in convincing Aggie that, truly, you are ok with not being paid this time. Small town values are something else. The kids have had a rotten enough afternoon and you, the adult, feel like going out of your way. It also presents a unique opportunity to knock two birds with one stone.

“Alright, alright,” you mutter, pulling out your phone. “You can do one thing to help me out. I was going to have lunch all by myself, this afternoon, but…”

The kids pipe up quicker than you can finish. “We’ll help!”

“Oh, good! That’s a relief. You’re going to be doing me a big favor by coming along.”

You search up the address for Peppino’s Pizza.

---

A metal bell rings overhead when you walk through the façade’s door, alerting your favorite Italian to customers at the door. If you didn’t know the owner is as authentic as they come, you’d laugh at the incredibly stereotypical black and white tile in combination with red, white, and green décor. You watch him emerge from the kitchen with a great big cloud of flour as you usher the kids inside. You might even call him eager to greet his patrons from how fast he gathers up a notebook and pen.

“Salve! Welcome to Peppino’s Pizza, how can I help-“

It dissolves the moment he realizes it’s you standing in his empty restaurant. The click of his pen is a little too aggressive to be anything else but annoyance at your presence. Still, he can’t immediately start getting sour with the three kids here. Good, your secret weapon is working.

“Heyyy Peppino.” You come up to the counter, stretching your greeting with all the casualness you can muster. Your gaggle of kids follow suit, heads peeking over the counter. “How’re you doing?”

“Just fine.” He scans over the tiny crew, pausing on Marnie. “What happened to the little one?”

“Tree.” You shrug.

“It was a really big one,” she supplies.

His concern runs out and he taps his notepad impatiently. “So, are you going to order something, or are we going to stand here all day?”

You turn to the kids, gesturing to the faded plastic menu over Peppino’s head.

“Pepperoni!” Thomas shouts first.

“Peppers and sausage!” Aggie exclaims next. “I just want cheese…” Marnie mumbles.

The chef raises a brow after he finishes writing their orders down, leaning over the counter. “All on the same pie? Or are you going to make Peppino cook three separate pies? Eh?”

He has an exceptionally large amount of geniality for them when compared to his stiff behavior with you. You’re almost surprised – you didn’t expect it to work this much.

They look back at you. You shrug. “One small for each won’t hurt.”

“And what about you?” He turns away from the notebook to focus on you. You notice it’s less than a glower, so that’s a start. “Do you want something too?”

“Same as last time. Can’t beat a new favorite.”

He writes that down too, punches the total into a machine that you think is from the 90s, and charges you out. Four pizzas and drinks; not exactly chump change when ordering for everyone, but it’s a good deal cheaper than what you’d get back home. While Peppino heads in the back to get your orders together, you pull out the heavy book from your bag once again and settle with the trio of children in a faux leather booth. Their chatter becomes background noise as you read on, unentertaining paragraphs beginning to make more sense.

By the time you’ve finished getting a beginner’s grasp on the concepts and mechanics needed for your ideas, Peppino’s coming out with two pizzas on either arm. You’re a little impressed by how he can balance all of them at once without burning himself. So are the kids, apparently, because they’re shouting and clapping as he slides them towards each recipient over the table.

“Yours, pepperoni, pepper and sausage, and” -he takes a moment to flourish an extra spin for Marnie’s pan, who is the most impressed of you all- “cheese. Buon appetito.”

Thomas immediately digs in without a care for burning his tongue. Marnie’s hands are more careful thanks to Aggie’s help. The older sister only gets one bite for every two of Marnie’s, but she manages to take huge bites that even the difference anyways. All three of them parrot their thanks to the chef in charge between the feral bites that come with kids really enjoying their food. Peppino lingers for a second longer than he should. You follow his line of sight directly to the book in your lap.

“If you’re trying to understand what any of this is saying,” you wryly comment, “trust me, so am I.”

His gaze jerks upwards, concentration turning to yet another frown. “What is this?”

“What’s in the book?”

“Yes, the book.”

“Oh. Yes, the book, the book I am currently reading.” You hold it up and make a show of flipping the cover around for him with a smug half smile. “The book that contains information about transmutation. This book.”

You can see it. The conversation from a few days ago is turning over in his head. The kids stop eating for a moment to watch the adults talk. You feel yourself get a mirthful joker’s kick out of watching the mental journey turn wary curiosity into mounting paranoia.

“For… what?” He asks, composure holding back whatever horrors his mind is undoubtedly conjuring.

You can’t help yourself. You set the book back down in your lap matter-of-factly, opening it up to the page of polymorph potions. “To turn you into a toad, of course.”

Peppino gets out of reach in a surprisingly coordinated backstep shuffle, punctuated by a barely restrained noise that you really can’t categorize as anything but a “yelp”. The poor man’s hat slips from his head when his back cracks against his own counter in hasty retreat. The kids laugh at his expense – as do you, though less loudly and 100% less jeering.

“You said that you could not be trusted, but I did not think that you would do this right in my face!” “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You hurry up your burst of laughter, getting up and setting the book down. He doesn’t accept any of your help, even when he winces. “Sorry! I’m joking! I swear! I’m joking!”

“Merda!” Oh, now that was a curse word you recognized. So did the kids if the resulting chorus of gasps is anything to go by. “I don’t want any more of your jokes, they are the worst jokes!”

Peppino grunts and hunches over for longer than he should. You feel the fun drain out of your stomach. You got him hurt with your fun and games, overreaction to sarcasm or not. He sits with a heaviness that betrays the pain he’s in.

“That was my fault. I’m sorry.” You catch sight of your bag. You can apologize for it in action, here and now. “Look, cross my heart, no more jokes.”

“Ech, easy to say!”

Your mouth presses into a line before you continue, “I want to make it up to you, but you’ll have to trust that what I make is, indeed, something that will help you.”

His head snaps up to meet you eye to eye. You know that he really has no reason to trust you after three mean jokes in a row, nor any reason to stay nice. The slew of heated words gets chewed behind his drawn-thin mouth, mustache working side to side. It never comes – he waves his hand dismissively.

“Do whatever you want,” he grumbles, “it can’t be worse than what I already have.”

You take the chance before he changes his mind and go back to the booth for your bag, motioning for the kids to keep eating. Your pizza will probably get to a gooey lukewarm by the time you’re done, but that’s the price you pay. Ducking into the kitchen (you can see Peppino almost protest before you get in), you quickly get a small pot, fill it with water, and set to work. Plants, fungi, minerals. Ground, sieved, boiled. It’s easier than the mash you made for Marnie’s hurts from years of experience; still, it never turns out exactly the maroon Aunt Marian tried to push you towards. You pull the pot from the heat, strain it into a coffee mug, and bring it back to Peppino.

He eyes you skeptically. You motion to the white porcelain wordlessly. He sighs, takes its handle, and samples with a small, hesitant sip.

“This is tea,” he deadpans.

“That’s alchemy,” you retort. “If it’s bitter, honey always helps.”

“I don’t even feel better, what is this? You studied to make tea?”

Sarcasm, you realize, does not feel as good when you’re the one being sassed. You feel your own annoyance growing in turn. “I studied to learn what was safe to put into that ‘tea’, in what dosage, and in what combinations. Specifically, so that it will not kill anyone.”

“Oh, I see, yes that is something that is worth a whole school.” Peppino’s back straightens as he goes on rolling you over the coals, draining the mug halfway in a single pull. “Magic tea. I could have gone to school to learn how to cook when I already knew how from learning at home.”

You both realize a moment later what happened. Peppino scowls and slouches again. You regain the upper hand in smugness, leaning over the counter with an elbow for support.

“Magic tea?” You cheerily repeat. “Ok! You made your point.” He gets up, shooing you from out behind the counter. “No customers back here anymore!”

You laugh as you go back to your lukewarm pizza and giggling children.

---

You take Thomas, Aggie, and Marnie back to their homes in the truck after you all retrace your steps through the woods. Incidentally, they happen to live on neighboring farms. Aggie and Marnie’s parents thank you profusely when you drop the girls off. You’re thankful the salve has done its job by the time they go back, neither of them has to explain what never left a mark. Thomas’ mother, on the other hand, gives her boy hell for staying out so late and not telling her, then makes him apologize for making you take him home.

You feel fulfilled after today’s work. Tired from all the hiking but fulfilled. You helped some people, you got some headway in repairing your repute with Peppino, and you got a good meal out of it. There’s even half a pizza for you to heat up later. You're not sure why you keep trying with him, anyways. You don't think on it very long either - chalk it up to liking the food.

“Miao.”

You’ve heard the same pitiful, damnable noise before on your first day here. When you open the front door, lo and behold, the same tabby is sitting on the porch.

“Miao,” it squeaks again.

“I’m not falling for that.”

“Miao.”

“I already told you once, I’m not helping you again. You’ll just tear my trash bags open.”

“Miao.” It looks up at you with sad, wide eyes. You sigh.

“Ok, you make a convincing argument. But this is temporary, got it?”

“Miao.”

Somehow understanding the agreement, the cat weaves through your legs and into the cottage. You follow after it to sacrifice one of your tuna cans for its dinner. Ha ha, you think to yourself for the twelfth time today. Maybe you want to make friends with Peppino because you're a sucker for helping stray animals.

-------------------------------------------------------

is peppino more of a kicked puppy or a wet kitten? vote now, call 555-NOISETV. that's 555-664-7388, NOISETV (totally legitimate number). i'm not entirely happy with this one, but at least you're getting good pizza out of it. enjoy.

[aethersea]

📓

So love potion no. 9, right? Three options here: one for comedy, one for sappiness, and one for angst. 

For comedy, Morgan drops the curse bottle and now everyone’s in love with them. Barnaby and Ohio are suddenly pining desperately. Rex Roofer kidnaps them for a romantic weekend getaway. All their tenants inexplicably have a dozen maintenance requests crop up all at once, just so they can offer Morgan some fresh-baked pastries oh no I just happened to make extra, really it’s no trouble, haha yeah it’s a family recipe, if you wanted to come by sometime I could show you how to make it…?

Alex is busy that weekend and doesn’t notice for a few days, and in fact doesn’t find out about it until Morgan remarks that it’s funny how Alex has been acting completely the same. Maybe they’re immune? Just too powerful for the curse bottle…

Alex freezes. This is it, a voice screams in their head, this is the moment, the universe has crafted this opportunity for you, just SAY SOMETHING and if it goes wrong then you can play it off as being the curse after all! Say something! SAY SOMETHING!!

“Yep!” they squeak. “Immune! Ha! Too strong for that curse!”

Then they teleport themselves into the sun to scream for a while.

.

For sappiness, Alex cracks that thing open, not knowing what it is, and Morgan’s behavior doesn’t change at all. “Huh,” Morgan says when this is pointed out to them. “That’s funny. I wonder if I’m immune somehow? All those jungle adventures with Ohio finally paying off, I guess.”

This is it, a voice screams in Alex’s head. This is your moment. The universe is giving you a gift. 

“I—uh—I don’t think—” Alex takes a deep breath, then stops time for a bit so they can psych themselves up. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” they finally manage. “But I can—Or we can get an expert or something—I think you should—uh—We should scan you for curse immunity. That seems like a—a thing you should know. About yourself. If you have it.”

Morgan gets a bit of a deer-in-headlights look and tries to dissuade them, but Alex has grabbed onto their courage with both hands and will absolutely not be dissuaded. So Morgan breaks down and confesses that yes, they’re in love with Alex, have been for a while, but they can totally be chill about it, really, they swear, so if they could just not make a big deal out of this—

Alex’s brain finally comes back online, and they jump Morgan’s bones immediately.

.

For angst, Alex cracks that thing open, and Morgan falls desperately, dramatically, visibly head over heels for them. And Morgan, of course, knows exactly what that curse bottle does, and so they know exactly why they’re suddenly feeling this way about their best friend. 

So they try to be cool about it. Try to keep a lid on it, keep it under control. “Sorry,” they grimace every time they catch themselves saying anything too sweet, too adoring. “Sorry,” they wince when they realize they’ve been filling the fridge with all of Alex’s favorite foods. “Sorry,” they cringe halfway through leaning in for a kiss.

Morgan is in love with Alex, and they’re doing everything they can to shove it down like it’s some embarrassing disease they don’t want to admit to having. Morgan is in love with Alex, and it isn’t real.

Alex is in hell.

[tctteredwings]

if you’re hearing FLOWERS by MILEY CYRUS playing, you have to know MEI TRAN (SHE/HER; CIS WOMAN) is near by! the TWENTY-SEVEN year old BAKER has been in denver for, like, ALL HER LIFE. they’re known to be quite INFLUENCED, but being OPTIMISTIC seems to balance that out. or maybe it’s the fact that they resemble LANA CONDOR. personally, i’d love to know more about them seeing as how they’ve got those ALL THINGS PINK AND FLUFFY, FRESH FLOWERS IN EVERY SINGLE ROOM, BRIGHTLY COLOURED SUNNIES PERCHED ATOP THEIR HEAD vibes. and maybe i’ll get my chance if i hang out around the MONTBELLO DISTRICT long enough!

tw: parental death, alzheimer's

ABOUT.

Name: Mei Trần Nicknames: Mei Mei Age: Twenty-seven Date of Birth: 21st May 1996 Birthplace: Denver, CO Occupation: Baker/owner of Marvelous Mei’s Cakes & Bakes Romantic/Sexual Orientation: Demiromantic/demisexual

Born and raised in Denver to second-generation Vietnamese American parents.

Mei was a proper Brainiac in school and skipped a grade pretty early on.

During junior high she lost her focus when her dad suddenly passed away due to a brain haemorrhage. It was a shock to the whole family and within a year they were forced to move to a cheaper area instead, suddenly finding they didn’t have as much money as they thought.

Mei was quick to find a way to make money for her mom and started reselling thrift pieces on eBay. She still does it to this day. Her biggest sale was a Louis Vuitton jacket she picked up after someone put a $5 tag on by accident.

Was accepted to The University of Chicago to study law, but only lasted a semester. Her aunt called worried about her mom and she headed home.

Three months later the older woman had been diagnosed with early-onset alzheimer’s and Mei’s potential law career was no more. She turned her attention to caring for her mom full-time instead.

That was when she began baking to make a living and in the space of a year Marvelous Mei’s Cakes & Bakes was born. She runs the business from the family home, constantly running around town delivering extravagant wedding and birthday cakes.

She loves pink and anything fluffy, with a particular passion for flowers. Her favourite fluffy possession is her rabbit, Flower Petal.

Mei is extremely caring, but also a little blunt, she won’t ever pull any punches and says what she thinks. She can be a gossip and a bit of a bitch sometimes, although she claims that part of her personality is purely a distraction from what’s happening with her mom and only comes out when she’d mega frustrated.

Visitors are always welcome at the Trần home, you will be greeted with a cupcake and a sweet artichoke tea.

Has been playing violin since a young age and more recently has found herself as part of a string quartet.

TIMELINE.

1996: Denver, CO. 2014: The University of Chicago, Illinois. 2015: Denver, CO.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

- family; open to any cousins, etc. - best friend/s. - childhood friends. - exes (high school & since then). - neighbours. - regular customers.