#(she found them mildly amusing)

[kates-dump]

WE WATCHED THE SECOND ONE!!!

I LOVED IT AAHHHHHHHHHH I LOVE THE SCENES WHERE THEY CLEARLY SHOW THAT SPEED STRENGTH AND SMARTS CAN AND SHOULD WORK TOGETHER!!!! I LOVE THE REFERENCES EVEN THOUGH THEY'RE CORNY!?!???!!(!!!())!!!(!! I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE SHADOW!!!!!! I was stimmimg the entire time and also this is what I was drinking while watching :3

Also I finally put up the poster I got from an IDW comic I bought in 2023

Mom and I watched the first Sonic movie tonight and for as corny as it is in some moments I loved watching it again and can't wait to see the other two, which I only know so much about. I. love the scenes where he's just zooming. he's so me fr fr

Anyway on a Totally unrelated note I showed Rouge to my mom and told her I wished she was on the third movie and she found her really pretty. like eyes sparkling "this is the prettiest character I've ever seen" and stuff. honestly she is so real for that

[kupidachillea]

Olympians x You (hcs or imagines)

Author note: Geez, it’s been awhile. Sorry, I’ve been in bit of a funk, got both writers block and art block but I just want to drop this. I still have a few things in my drafts, but for now I’ll feed you guys this.

TW (trigger warning):This may have a few Yandere themes in it. And while the Olympians themselves aren’t really yanderes- they do share similar tendencies considering their myths. Please note that this isn’t completely accurate to their mythology- but it’s just a bit of fun so please take no offence and be nice in the comments.

CW (content warning)⚠️: readers either 17-18+ (to read this I mean), light mentions of nudity, molesting and sexual harassment, toxic behaviour. General (hinted) Yandere behaviour. Reader’s discretion is advised.

🏺- You weren’t sure how you got here but somehow you ended up on mount Olympus of all places.

🪡- Your brain was fuzzy and you hadn’t yet registered the 12 + looming faces above you. When you did notice, they were bickering in a language you didn’t understand (or at the very least, understood a little). It was jarring and you were still trying to get your bearings.

-🏺 You noticed one of them, a woman, dressed in garments fit for royalty (in ancient times at least) and had somewhat of a peacock aesthetic to it, yelling and pointing accusingly at a man, presumably her husband. She didn’t seem happy. Hera. Queen of the Olympians..that means the other must’ve been Zeus..oh boy

🪡- Zeus looked as if he was trying to quell his wife’s anger before things got more out of hand. There were a few others in the back that looked bored of the situation- as if a similar thing has happened before, while others looked mildly amused.

🏺- Despite all that- the argument seemed to have turned completely to you. Hera turning her rage towards you. “You! Where did you come from, how did you arrive here!?” She’d ask in anger, it was evident she had very little patience if any at all, thankfully though she was now speaking a language you could understand. You scrambled to answer her, your body trembling slightly at how her voice shook the marble floor you were sat on.

🪡- You tried to explain to her that you didn’t know how you got here. Your brain still fuzzy with images that didn’t clear up or make sense. This obviously didn’t help the Queen’s anger and you could see her patience slipping. She would scoff and turn back towards the other gods, them discussing what they should do with you.

🏺 - Some suggestions were thrown around, some you weren’t so fond of. Multiple times did they suggest either killing you or throwing you off the mountain (which would kill you anyway). However those ideas were shut down immediately by more ‘kindhearted’ gods. This hasn’t happened in centuries- a human spawning on top of their mountain out of the blue..they aren’t really prepared for this.

🪡- They were almost all out of ideas, until one golden haired music deity bent down to your height and took a closer look at you. His eyes shining as he took in your appearance before a smile started to work its way on his lips. “How about we keep them..?” He suddenly asked, his gaze still set on the little (little to them anyway) human in front of him.

🏺- This made everyone pause and even you were shocked by the suggestion. You found it ridiculous and you argued that despite how flattering it was- you didn’t want to stay with them and you wanted to be returned back to your home. The gods only seemed to ignore you, as if you were a child having an unreasonable temper tantrum. They were all considering keeping you here!

🪡- “Well…” Hermes started. You could tell since he was a bit shorter than the others and he had his signature winged sandals. “It has been quite awhile since the gods have had a plaything..” he would mutter reluctantly. He wasn’t entirely sold on the idea, despite how his father and brothers (most anyway) were grinning like idiots. You, obviously , did not appreciate being referred to as a plaything.

🏺- “Then it is settled..this little one shall be our new plaything!” Zeus grinned, a little too happy for both yours and Hera’s taste. You were about to give them a piece of your mind but was swiftly silenced by a threatening gaze from Hera..to your surprise. And thus began your horrible life with the Olympians..

….

🪡- You were stripped of your modern clothing and given a chiton to wear instead. “It’s too modern for our liking..” Aphrodite would say as she felt up your body in ways that made you shiver in discomfort. “We’re use to our people…how should I say this? Showing a little more skin…” the goddess of love would chuckle sweetly, while you would stare at her in embarrassment and maybe even a hint of disgust. While you could understand where she was coming from- it still didn’t stop you personally from being uncomfortable with they way she was touching you.

🏺-You’d also be dressed up in fine jewellery, much to your surprise..anklets of gold, bangles made of bronze, necklaces etc. sweet smelling oil perfumes covering your body- anything to make seem more ‘appealing’ to the gods and goddess. You were their plaything after all, so it made sense for them to dress you how they liked..no matter how much you disliked it.

🪡- They’d occasionally have you pour them wine at banquets or sit on their laps to just sit there and look pretty. The main gods that did this were of course Zeus, Apollo, Poseidon, definitely Dionysus and at some point Hermes. You didn’t really appreciate this, but rejecting their request would result in a ‘punishment’ for you.

🏺- To your surprise..Ares rarely touched you without your permission, but he was a little mean here and there. He along with Athena and Demeter weren’t as…’touchy’ as the others. And Artemis …you appreciated that..though just because they didn’t touch you in inappropriate ways doesn’t mean they weren’t as ‘crazy’ as the rest.

🪡- For example, while Artemis wasn’t big on being a pest in terms of touching you, she did take you out on hunts..which..wasn’t so bad in your opinion. It was much better than being up on the mountain most days..she thought a little more rationally- but of course- her twin, Apollo, would see you hanging out with his sister and get a little possessive about it. Which you didn’t understand- you weren’t any of their lovers (even if they thought so), but even so..most hunting trips were cut short because of him.

🏺- When you finally got moments to breathe away from the gods..you’d spend it out in the garden..hidden away from everyone and thing..it was your quiet time up until one of the gods summoned you. You found out that you weren’t the first human to be in this position (and probably not the last)..according to one of the lesser known gods (maybe Hebe) you were told that centuries before, a young lad was taken into the heavens to serve Zeus but had been placed into the stars as the constellation known as Aquarius.

🪡- You shivered at the thought..you didn’t want that to happen to you. To be placed in the stars? Doomed to forever look down on earth and watch your family and friends grow? It may have been an honour back then but to you it was almost like a death sentence.

🏺- Either way, life with the Olympians got harder to cope with. Your privacy was always compromised and you were forced to many things you didn’t like. Sometimes the gods would be as bold to sneak up on you while you were bathing and either join you in the pool or touching up your nude body.

🪡-Often giving excuses for why they would do so, or simply ignoring your protest. It wasn’t hard to manhandle you after all..they were gods, and you were a puny human. Why should they care about your thoughts and feelings. It progressively got worse with them kissing your neck or cheek without your permission too- Apollo was the main culprit of that..

🏺- Sometimes you found yourself crying in a corner by yourself at the situation you were in. The only person willing to comfort you being Hestia. She obviously didn’t approve of this but she couldn’t do much besides being a safe space for you to turn to, which you appreciated.

🪡- But no matter how you protest, run, hide, or try to defy them; you are still theirs. That how they see it anyway, and they won’t change their mind..

[klausysworld]

hey, so i’ve been having this scene in my head for days where y/n and klaus are kidnapped by some witches and they are put under a sex spell that makes both of them really horny. they gotta have intercourse for the witches to draw the energy that comes from simultaneous orgasms or something like that. they are reluctant at first especially y/n but klaus manages to convince/seduce her and they end up having the best sex of their life. could you write something like that pls?

Timeless Desire

Klaus groaned softly, rolling onto his back and peeling his eyes open. The light stung at his pupils making then shrink momentarily before they expanded beyond their usual diameter.

His body ran hot and a familiar but much more intense ache rolled through his body, his lower body especially. With a stiff grunt he placed his hand over his crotch, an immediate cry leaving him with how incredibly hard he was.

"Fuck" He breathed, lifting his spinning head and forcing himself up onto to find himself in a plain, bright room. He was fully dressed but he felt the need to tear each material from his skin. Just as he started to tug at the hem of his shirt his attention was pulled to a soft moan, one that made his loins stir.

Klaus spun round to see a vaguely familiar girl curled up in the corner. Dressed in a floaty dress that meant that the delicious scent of her arousal spread through the room like a wild fire. His eyes found hers, she was afraid that much was clear and if he were honest, he was also a little nervous but she looked scared of him and he didn't understand why.

His lips parted to speak but before he could, someone else's voice piped up.

"Perfect. You're both awake!" The voice was cold and mildly amused. Klaus felt his anger spike, he knew this witch. Not personally but he knew who it was and the type of shit this guy did. But the girl didn't, Klaus could tell that she was lost. "Now I know you're a little scared honey, but don't panic, I'm not here to hurt you." The guy grinned, adressing the girl before gesturing to Klaus "But he might" He whispered to her and Klaus frowned, confused. Did he know her? "Now you should recognise each other just a little bit. This, honey, is Klaus Mikaelson" He smirked and she sniffed, backing further into the corner, "And this is Y/n Y/l/n, you met once, she's part of Jackson's or I suppose now it's Hayley's pack" The witch explained and Klaus's eyes went wide. Hayley had introduced them, once, and he had liked her. He had flirted and teased but nothing came of it, so why was she here? Why was he here?

"What is this, exactly?" Klaus questioned, brows furrowed and eyes darting to Y/n who was squeezing her thighs together tightly.

"You know what it is and you're not gonna fight it. There are dozens of us who will benefit from this ritual and you will complete it by the next full moon." The witch told him sternly and Klaus's expression darkened.

"You're sick" He spat, he knew the ritual he meant. It was a power draw. Two supernaturals, when simultaneously orgasming would release a specific type of power that could be used and twisted to perform some of the biggest spells. Werewolves especially, their hormones are so high. And Klaus? He was perfect for this type of sorcery.

"Sick or not, It's necessary. You have a month, get to know each other if you have to. Or if you want to get back to your daughter them make it happen as soon as you can, hm?" He snapped and Klaus growled.

He knew what the witch was suggesting and based on how Y/n cried "No" , she knew too. The magic wielder left and Klaus looked to Y/n who was shaking her head.

"Please don't" She whimpered and Klaus sighed, brushing his hand over his hair and groaning at the sweat that coated him from how his skin boiled.

"I'm not...I won't make you do anything" He told her, trying to keep his distance but suddenly the room felt so much smaller.

They stayed in opposite corners, silent and uncomfortable. Sometimes she would cry and he would whisper that it was okay and they would get out but he knew it was useless.

When night came it was freezing, unbelievably and her body trembled. He knew what they were doing. They wanted them to lay together to conserve their heat, to touch. Instead, klaus pulled his henley over his head and pushed it over to her so she may warm up.

They stayed silent for days before Y/n began to struggle. His eyes had met her fading ones in the centre of the night and he nodded, getting up and coming over to her.

"It's okay" He whispered, laying down beside her and spooning her delicate figure against him. His cock was solid and pressed right against her ass but he didn't grind himself or say anything, he just needed to keep her warm and alive until the night was over.

But in the morning, the temperature was all the way up and their bodies were practically stuck together. Y/n was dragging the henley over her head, her body pressed against Klaus's and it made him bite down on his tongue hard. Her hips shifted without meaning to and Klaus groaned, bucking his hips against her firm ass. A whine left her and he grunted.

"Fuck, I'm- I'm sorry" He muttered, crawling away from her. He felt like a dog, a weak, panting dog that was desperate for water. His mind was hazy with her so close, he wanted her. He wanted to taste her, to feel her, hear her. Y/n looked so soft, so perfect.

She had curves, he could see them through the dress when she laid and he needed them.

But he couldn't, she was still scared and he couldn't make her. He would do a lot of things but he would not force her.

Klaus tried to stay away from her in the day, only touch at night for heat but then they started to get hungry, physically. Y/n needed food and Klaus needed blood. The witches said Klaus must feed from her and if Y/n wanted food then she would have to earn it. The deal was that for each minute they kissed, she would get a pice or a slice of something. No specifications, just something to entice her.

She was famished when she looked up at him, eyes wet with tears that hadn't yet fallen. Klaus softened, again, and let her shuffle over. His arms wrapped loosely around her waist and whispered gently in her ear. "It's going to be alright sweetheart, just a minute so you can get something okay? I won't hurt you"

Y/n leaned close to him, needing to feel safe and he could do that. She knew the witches were watching and it was unsettling but she also knew that she needed to eat.

So she closed her pretty eyes and let their lips collide. It was supposed to be closed mouth and quick but once they both got a small taste, they yearned for more.

Y/n broke first, surprisingly, and moaned against his lips. As soon as her mouth opened, his tongue was inside and their little kiss became an intense make out session. The heat was too much again and Klaus was pulling her to straddle his lap whilst his tongue fucked her mouth passionately.

They were both blissfully unaware of the time passing by as their bodies rubbed together desperately and her legs spread invitingly for him to lay between as he pushed her onto her back and bunched her dress up. His cock was so close to tearing through his boxers as he dragged his jeans down his hips roughly. Y/n was tugging at him overly eagerly, needing him inside her.

However as soon as he hand grabbed at her panties, her eyes flew open. A gasp leaving her throat and her face pulled away making his wolf growl and hers whine. The fear was back and he could smell it. He panted and let go of her underwear. His eyes listed to meet hers and she whimpered, but she didn't look too scared, she was still lustful.

But they didn't have time to talk about it. Not when a tray had appeared in the opposite corner. Y/n had scrambled over there, grabbing at the pieces of pancake and the berries. Klaus cleared his throat and pulled his trousers back on, he felt embarrassed but he knew he couldn't be due to the circumstances.

He came and sat by her whilst she ate, he was watching over her. Klaus had become protective. The witches had come in one night and tried to take her clothes, to speed the process and since that night he made sure to stay close. He had to fight them off, he almost turned and they knew not to touch her again. He knew that they were still winning, they wanted him to feel possessive and it was working.

He would look around the room, searching for where they were watching them from. He could never find it. In the end his attention would end up back on Y/n.

Once she had devoured everything on her plate, she was snuggling up to him and ready to sleep. There wasn't much to do bug struggle and sleep. The only issue was when she needed to sleep in the daytime. In sunlight hours, it was far too hot to be touching, as the next week came by Klaus ended up sitting in just his boxers during the day. Y/n had torn her dress so it was shorter but eventually it was shredded entirely and she was left in her bra and panties.

It felt so much better in the day but at night? Klaus often worried she would die. Even with their werewolf bodies generating heat, she wasn't strong enough for the temperatures they were putting them through. He would be wrapped around her, on top of her, holding as much over her as possible so that she was as warm as he could have her. It was in the night that he would feed from her. It felt so intimate, too intimate and he couldn't have the witches seeing and he couldn’t have the combination of the heat, her body and feeding all at once so he did it in the cold and dark.

Sometimes, his hands would stroke her skin whilst he fed and when he pulled his mouth away from his neck he would give her little kisses as a thank you. But little kisses weren't a thing. They got sloppy fast and they would be dry humping in minutes.

Too many times one of them had cum in their pants. It resulted in them both completely naked. Y/n had clung onto her bra but he had torn it off her when in a frenzy.

Their lack of clothing made everything difficult.

Klaus wished that the witches could've drawn power from the times he had cum against her leg in the night but he knew that had to be inside her and they had to do it in unison. It was the only way.

He missed his family. He needed to get home, Hope probably thought he had left her but whenever he looked at Y/n, he couldn't ask her to do it. How could he? In the span of weeks he felt that he loved her, he couldn't hurt her.

They had been lead together all night and all day, despite the heat. Their mouths seemed permanently attached, always kissing, licking, loving. Klaus didn't realise how it would feel to cum without any friction. To simply get so hard that he couldn't hold it in. His cock felt like it had exploded with ecstasy. Y/n had giggled when it went all over her stomach, she had stroked his hair gently while he panted and let her kiss his jaw.

"I love you" He whispered to her one day, it was on the fourth week but they didn't know that. Time wasn't real to them. It felt like months had passed with the amount of time they had spent together.

Y/n didn't reply, it hurt him but he understood.

"Would you lie to me...so that you could get out of here?" She asked him a while later, voice weak and eyes avoiding him.

"No" He whispered. "If I were ever going to do that, I would have done that in the first few days. I promise you, I won't ever hurt you. That full moon and come and go, they can torture me but I will never-"

"We have to...I know we do...I just- I"

"I know" He murmured, stroking her arm. "I'll take care of you" It was a promise.

"They'll watch..." She whispered, and he could see that inkling of fear again. It only appeared when the witches were mentioned or showed themselves.

"I'll hide you" He whispered, he pulled her into his hold. "We can be right up in the corner, they'll only see me."

"They've already seen me" She uttered and his heart broke, he was sure of it. He cupped her face and pressed their foreheads together.

"I'm going to rip their eyes from their heads as soon as we get out of here, I promise you" He told her, his voice incredibly low so that they couldn't hear. Y/n nodded silently and sighed softly.

"Maybe just...try something smaller first?" She questioned and he tilted his head but caught on when she shyly touched his hand, his fingers.

"Yeah...we can do that" He whispered, caressing her hand gently and lifting it to kiss her palm. "I can do that for you" He nodded whilst his hands glided down her sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Y/n whimpered softly and closed her eyes, focusing on the intoxicating sensations he created.

His lips pressed to her cheek before scattering down her neck, sucking briefly to make her moan whilst his hands massaged her thighs. Y/n pressed herself right to him, her skin on his and her breath against his ear whilst he brushed his touch between her legs.

A low groan left him when he felt how wet she was, not that he expected less. She had been permanently soaked since they were put here. He had felt it through his clothes at the start, when they would move against one another; more recently she would grind on his thigh but he hadn't been able to really touch her how he wanted. She was much more aware than he was which surprised him with his years of restraint and experience.

Many moments of weakness had struck him. He would stroke himself as quietly as he could but he knew that she knew. They were both far too physically sensitive to feel the psychological shame. To begin with they did but now? They had accepted the desperation. They were submitting to it.

That was obvious when his forefinger slipped inside her with ease. Y/n whimpered and curled her fingers against his shoulders whilst her pussy clenched. Klaus pushed a second finger in with only slight resistance and slowly moved them in time.

"It's alright" He mumbled, kissing the side of her head "You're nice and wet for me" He whispered and she moaned softly. Her eyes squeezed shut and her head rest against his neck to muffle her sounds. His thumb hovered over her clit, encouraging her to move her hips in time with his hand.

They started tentative and gentle but the heat took over soon enough. His digits moved inside her as quickly as physically possible, her hips bucked in a frenzy and her moans were no longer hidden and quiet. She was loud, desperate, hungry for him.

Klaus bit down on his tongue to shut himself up as he pumped three fingers into her enthusiastically. He was certain he could stretch her wide enough for his whole hand but he didn't need to. She bit down on his shoulder when she came around his hand with no warning other than a broken cry.

He expected her to be exhausted but she only seemed more eager for him to finally fuck her. Her mouth was on his in seconds, begging him to take her. His fingertips rubbed her clit, trying to bring her down from her high but it only riled her up further.

"Love" He mumbled, a groan to his voice, "Sweetheart"

Eventually she stopped and looked up at him. Her pupils were blown and he fought against every instinct as he cupped her sweet face and kissed her forehead.

"I'm sorry" she whispered "I got carried away"

Her cheeks were blushed red and it made him smile. "It's okay, I just didn't want you to keep going if you didn't actually want to" He murmured, knowing that the intensity of the witches magic was sending their bodies into overdrive.

Y/n nodded and glanced down at his hand with embarrassment.

"Why don't you go see if they've filled your tray?" He suggested softly so that her attention shifted. Y/n went to her feeding area and was able to relax and eat her only meal of the day whilst Klaus went to their usual sleep area. The remains of their clothes worked as some sort of bed and he sighed softly at the reality they were living in.

He promised himself that he would have her wrapped in the finest silk sheets, clad in the softest of clothes and fed the most exceptional of meals. He would care for her, he would get to care for his daughter again and see his family. He hoped they'd be happy to see him.

Similar thoughts swirled through his mind each night as he lay with her curled in his arms. Sometimes she would ask what he was thinking and he would tell her whilst she silently hoped that she would get to stay with him once they escaped.

As the full moon neared their scents became stronger and each little, harmless touch became much more intense. They both became more animalistic. Touch, food and sleep was all they wanted and it was all they got.

Klaus was far too happy with the recent development of being allowed to touch that sweet pussy of hers. His fingers were always inside her however after hours of having her fall apart on her hand she needed more. Which was how Klaus ended up with his mouth attached to her cunt for an entire night.

Much to his embarrassment Klaus had borderline begged her to touch his cock. Y/n had felt guilty for letting him struggle and stroked him until he was as much a mess as she had been.

They weren't aware that it was the night of the full moon when their lust overpowered them both.

The witches had the rest of their ingredients ready to draw from the two wolves once the moon hung high.

Klaus's mouth had moved up and down her body three times mover before his cock finally spread her pussy lips open. Her hands grabbed at his skin, her nails dragging up his back to pull him closer.

"Are you sure?" He breathed though he wasn't sure if he could actually stop himself if she said no. Thankfully she was all the more eager.

"Please Klaus, I'm sure, I'm ready" She begged, her eyes pleading with his and making him nod subconsciously and push into her.

The first few thrusts were as slow as he could manage as his fingers curled to grasp at the ground beneath them. His claws extended without him knowing whilst his cock thickened inside her and pushed against her soaking walls.

His head fell forward whilst hers went back and her own claws sunk deep into his flesh.

It only took a minute before control was tossed and Klaus's mind went into overdrive. His hips started to snap aggressively to hers, his ears longing to hear that harsh slap of their skin meeting and the immediate moan that left her lips.

His hands slid under her back to hold onto the back of her shoulders to get a good grip on her whilst he thrust into her roughly. Her legs were up around his hips and he could feel the heels of her feet hit against the base of his back with each thrust.

"God, I love you" He panted, his eyes burning gold as he clung to her tightly and pressed his lips to her jaw. Her cunt was so wet and hot, he never wanted to leave. She squeezed him so delightfully that his vision would go for a moment here and there.

Y/n couldn't close her mouth for even a second, her sounds were endless whilst she begged.

"Harder, Klaus. Please!" She cried, her claws shredding the skin of his back. He obeyed her demands and bucked his hips harsher, hitting that spot with more force.

Klaus watched her eyes roll back whilst her body tensed and tightened.

"Not yet, love" He murmured through a strained voice. He gripped her tighter and moved faster, chasing what his body desperately needed. Klaus groaned loudly, his mind was on fire, his body too. A fire of desire set them both aflame.

The witches gathered in a circle, their chanting synchronised as they felt the power start to flow.

Klaus held himself up with one hand whilst the other slide down the front of her body to dip between her legs. His cock continued to slide back and forth roughly within her whilst his fingertips began to circle her swollen clit.

Y/n was borderline screaming for him when she came undone, her jaw open when he sheathed himself to the hilt and released inside her.

Their foreheads pressed together, sticking with sweat as they panted warm air against each other's mouths.

Y/n felt the weakening first. It hit hard, as though every ounce of her energy was dragged out of her soul.

Klaus noticed her skin paling and worry settle dover him before he felt the same struggle. He muttered incoherently, trying to tell her it was okay but his mind went fuzzy but this time it wasn't due to pleasure.

He knew that the witches had completed their ritual but he hadn’t expected the effects to happen so quickly or be quite so intense. Unfortunately his thoughts were cut short when everything went dark.

It felt like days had passed when he woke again.

His head rang and his arms shifted to hold onto Y/n but she wasn't there.

Immediately he pushed himself up, ignoring the blaring ache throughout his muscles. His eyes were wide when he saw the familiarity of of his bedroom. Relief flooded him before the confusion and the worry.

"Y/N!" He yelled, his throat raw. Elijah appeared in the doorway, rushing over to his brother.

"Niklaus-" He spoke, voice clear as he put his hands on the hybrids shoulders. "It's alright- we got the coven, the majority are dead. We kept the leaders back for you to deal with and-"

"We have to go back right now!" Klaus told him, eyes wide. "Y/n's still there, tell me you didn't hurt her-" He yelled before a throat cleared and Klaus pushed Elijah out of the way.

Y/n was stood slightly behind Hayley, dressed properly for the first time in weeks and looking up at him with a tired but genuine smile.

He took fast strides before pulling her into his chest and smelling her now clean hair. He looked ahead of him and smiled when Rebekah came into view with Hope on her hip.

Y/n pulled away so that Klaus could hold his daughter and she rubbed her eyes. Hayley placed a gentle arm on Y/n's shoulder and gave her a smile.

"Welcome to the family" She told her, a lighthearted tone to her voice in hopes of keeping the positive energy of their rescue alive rather than the haunting memories of their time in the room.

[the-oblivious-writer]

A Loving Distraction

Wednesday Addams x Reader

One-shot

Summary: Wednesday attempts what’s meant to be a study session, but being the distraction you are, you had other plans in mind.

Warning(s): kissing, established relationship, and no pronouns

Notes: dedicated to @101rizzlrr - ask and I shall deliver

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the text you're about to send to Wednesday. The message reads: "Meet me in the library? Promise to actually study this time."

The memory of your last "study session" brings a smile to your face. You'd spent more time debating the merits of different torture methods throughout history than actually reviewing for finals. Not that you minded - Wednesday's passionate defense of the rack over the iron maiden had been oddly endearing.

Your phone buzzes with her reply: "Bold of you to imply I was the distraction last time. But fine. West wing, third floor. Don't be late."

Twenty minutes later, you're climbing the worn stone steps of Nevermore Academy's library. The afternoon light filters through the Gothic windows, casting long shadows across the floor. You spot Wednesday at her usual table, surrounded by a fortress of leather-bound books. She's wearing her signature black dress, white collar crisp and perfect despite the late hour.

"You're four minutes late," she says without looking up from her notes.

"I brought a peace offering." You place a steaming cup of black coffee - no sugar, no cream - next to her elbow. "And I was delayed by Principal Weems giving her weekly lecture about proper uniform length to some poor first year."

"Excuses." But she takes the coffee, and you catch the slight softening around her eyes that passes for a smile in Wednesday's world. "I assume you're here because you're still struggling with Advanced Poisons?"

You slide into the chair across from her, pulling out your own textbook. "Some of us didn't grow up taste-testing deadly nightshade."

"Your loss. Mother always said it builds character." She reaches for your notebook, scanning your latest attempts at categorizing toxic fungi. "Your classification system is almost painfully wrong. Look at this - you've put death caps under 'slow-acting.' They can kill within 48 hours."

"Not everyone shares your enthusiasm for mortality rates," you tease, leaning closer to see where she's marking corrections in precise red ink. Her hair smells faintly of rain and graveyard dirt - a scent you've come to associate with comfort, oddly enough.

"Clearly. Which is why you need my help." She pauses, dark eyes flickering to yours. "Though I suppose there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than ensuring you don't accidentally poison yourself with basic mushroom identification."

"Aw, you do care."

"Don't be ridiculous." But her knee bumps yours under the table, and stays there.

The next hour passes in a comfortable rhythm of studying and bickering. Wednesday corrects your work with cutting efficiency, while you try to distract her by suggesting increasingly outlandish uses for non-lethal poisons. ("Think about it - just enough to make the entire school board mildly nauseated during budget meetings.")

"Focus," she chides, but there's amusement lurking in her voice. "Unless you want to explain to your parents why you failed this semester."

"They'd understand. I'd just tell them I was distracted by my brilliant, beautiful girlfriend who happens to be a walking encyclopedia of death."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." She turns a page with deliberate precision. "And that's not even close to my most impressive quality."

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. "Oh? Do tell."

"I can name at least fifteen ways to incapacitate someone with items found in this library alone." Her eyes meet yours, challenging. "Would you like a demonstration?"

"Tempting, but I think the librarian is still mad about last time." You reach across the table, fingers brushing her wrist. "Besides, I can think of better uses for our time."

Wednesday arches an eyebrow. "Can you now?"

The tension shifts, electric and familiar. You stand slowly, walking around the table until you're beside her chair. She turns to face you, expression unreadable but for the slight catch in her breath when you lean down.

"Much better uses," you murmur, and then you're kissing her. Her lips are cool against yours, tasting of coffee and secrets. One of her hands finds its way to your collar, pulling you closer with that controlled intensity that is so uniquely Wednesday.

You break apart at the sound of footsteps approaching, though you don't go far. Wednesday's normally pale cheeks have the faintest hint of color, and you can't help feeling a bit smug about that.

"That was…" she starts.

"Distracting?" you offer with a grin.

"Entirely inappropriate for a study session." But she's fighting a smile now, the real kind that makes her look almost human. "We have an exam tomorrow."

"True." You brush a strand of dark hair from her face. "But I'd argue that was an excellent practical demonstration of biological responses to stimuli."

Wednesday rolls her eyes, but she's definitely smiling now. "Your scientific method needs work."

"Then I suppose we'll need more practice." You gesture to the towering shelves around you. "We have the whole library."

"You're impossible." She stands, gathering her books with precise movements. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To find somewhere more private for your… research." She gives you a look that makes your heart skip. "Unless you'd rather stay here and actually study?"

You grab your bag, already following her toward the stacks. "Lead the way."

-----------

A/N: nice little one-shot before I post more angst

[moonselune]

Bg3 companions and a reader who is ridiculously into them? like can't be around them without blushing, stuttering over words, etc.

Love your writing ♥️♥️♥️

ahhhhh thank you so much, this was a pleasure to write !

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

Breakfast in camp had become a small but daily ordeal. Sitting across from Karlach was as thrilling as it was nerve-wracking. She always looked so effortlessly radiant—her wide smile lighting up her face, her hair messy from sleep, and that laugh that came from deep within her chest. You, meanwhile, were a nervous mess, barely able to lift a spoon without fumbling it in her presence.

This morning, you were attempting to slice an apple while also trying to sneak glances at her, as usual. But, distracted as you were, you barely noticed when she caught you looking. She grinned, that flash of teeth making your heart skip about five beats.

“Hey, you want some?” she asked, holding out a plate piled high with a variety of fresh fruits. You stammered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

“Uh—y-yes! I mean, no! I mean—” You fumbled for the right words, your voice a bit too loud in your panic. Karlach looked at you, mildly confused but amused.

“Alright then, you let me know if you change your mind,” she said, winking, before going back to her breakfast. The little wink nearly killed you on the spot, and you dropped your apple, which rolled dramatically across the table and plopped off the other side.

Wyll, sitting beside you, tried to hide a snicker behind his hand. He’d been noticing your flustered behavior around Karlach for days and had clearly reached his breaking point. As Karlach turned away, Wyll leaned in close to you, smirking.

“Oh, this is painful to watch,” he muttered, barely containing his laughter. “When are you going to do something about it?”

You gave him a quick, desperate glare, feeling the blood drain from your face.

“Do something?” you whispered, panic lacing your voice. “Wyll, I can’t even string a proper sentence together around her without sounding like a fool!”

Wyll rolled his eyes, still grinning.

“Trust me, I can see that,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “But if you keep this up, it’s going to get unbearable for both of us. You’re absolutely lovesick, and she’s completely oblivious.”

“Lovesick?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice low but also scandalized by the word. “That’s… that’s not…”

Wyll arched an eyebrow, giving you a pointed look that read, Really?

You sighed, knowing he was right. Every time Karlach entered the room, you either found an excuse to leave or wound up a blushing, stumbling mess. Just this morning, she’d brushed a crumb off your shoulder, and you had nearly collapsed on the spot.

Wyll laughed, patting you on the back a little harder than you would have liked. “Look, if you don’t do something soon, I will. Maybe I’ll tell her for you—‘oh, by the way, did you know you’ve got someone so smitten with you, they can’t even eat breakfast right?’”

Your eyes went wide. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” he smirked, raising an eyebrow with challenge.

“Fine,” you whispered, heart racing at the thought of actually doing something about it. “What do I… say?”

Wyll shrugged, his expression softening a bit. “Just talk to her. Be honest. If there’s one thing Karlach respects, it’s bravery. And if there’s one thing she loves, it’s someone who cares as much as she does.”

But as you mulled it over, you looked across the table and saw Karlach laughing at something Astarion was saying, her eyes bright with amusement, her entire face aglow with the life and warmth she carried effortlessly. You swallowed, trying to imagine how you’d ever muster up the courage to tell her anything.

The rest of breakfast went by with your heart hammering and Wyll occasionally sending you smirking looks. You felt like you were on fire, thoughts racing as you considered his words.

Finally, as camp was beginning to break up and everyone was scattering to their daily tasks, you decided to follow Wyll’s advice. Taking a deep breath, you gathered every bit of courage you could find and made your way over to Karlach, who was busy folding up her bedroll. She looked up, surprised, as you approached.

“Oh, hey! Need something?” she asked, her grin warm as always.

You cleared your throat, feeling the words get caught. “I… um…”

Karlach tilted her head, watching you patiently. “Everything okay?”

And there it was, the opening. The chance to say something. Be brave, you reminded yourself. You took a deep breath and tried again.

“I just… wanted to say…” you stumbled, unable to look her in the eye. “I really… enjoy spending time with you.”

The corners of her mouth turned up in a soft smile, her eyes studying your face, but still, she seemed blissfully unaware. “Well, good! Same here! You’re a lot of fun, you know. Brave in your own way, even if a bit shy,” she teased lightly, giving your arm a light squeeze.

You couldn’t help but laugh nervously, feeling your cheeks burn. Maybe Wyll had a point—Karlach appreciated bravery, and here you were, looking like a fool again. But as her hand lingered just a moment longer on your arm, you felt a surge of determination. This was only the beginning.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

You’d found Minthara’s sword on the outskirts of camp that morning, half-buried beneath some tangled roots. It was unmistakably hers—dark metal with a wicked curve, and elegant engravings tracing the hilt. You’d only seen her use it from afar, but even then, there was something mesmerizing about the way she wielded it, about the way her gaze sharpened whenever she held a blade. You were already a bundle of nerves at the thought of returning it to her, and that only got worse the closer you got to her tent.

She was sharpening a dagger when you approached, her expression focused, so much so that for a moment, you thought about turning back. But then she noticed you, her eyes snapping up to meet yours with a glint of curiosity.

“You’re looking rather… tense.” Her eyebrow arched slightly as she took you in.

Your heart thudded painfully, and you swallowed, forcing yourself to hold up the sword without dropping it. “Uh, I… found this for you. Your sword, I mean. It was… um, outside camp, and I thought you might want it back?”

Her gaze softened, a small smirk playing on her lips as she reached for the sword, her fingers brushing against yours. You nearly jumped at the contact, face burning, feeling like you might explode from embarrassment. You tried to say something else, but the words came out as a strangled squeak, and you practically forced yourself to look at the ground to avoid those piercing eyes of hers.

“Hmm,” she murmured, glancing over the sword, and then back at you. “Thank you. It's… refreshing to see someone with a sense of respect.” She held your gaze for a moment longer, and then, with an amused nod, she went back to her sharpening.

You quickly walked away, all but stumbling as you escaped, only to find yourself practically nose-to-nose with Shadowheart, who looked far too amused.

"Gods above," she snorted, crossing her arms. "I've never seen someone turn so red while returning a weapon."

You stammered, looking anywhere but at her. "I was just… trying to be polite!"

"Polite? If that's your version of polite, then I’d hate to see you actually try flirting," she teased, unable to hide her grin.

“Oh, please,” you huffed, looking away and trying to calm the blush still heating your face. “It's just… I don’t know. I like her, alright? Even if she’s… well, she could probably kill me without a second thought.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. "Good to know you’re aware. And yet you still act like a lovesick fool around her, it's almost like you want her to kill you."

“I would die happy!” you blurted out, throwing your hands up. “Minthara could do anything she wants to me—absolutely anything at all—and I’d thank her. She could stomp me into the dirt, call me a fool, hex me, curse me, make my life a living hell, and I'd still probably thank her with my last breath!”

Shadowheart laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. "You’re hopeless."

But you were too caught up in your rant. "I’d let her do anything—anything at all! She could make me fetch her supplies every morning, have me clean her sword every night, stand guard for her at dawn and dusk, and I’d still think it was the best thing to ever happen to me!”

"Ahem."

You froze, mid-rant, and turned slowly to find Minthara standing directly behind you. She looked deeply amused, one eyebrow raised, her eyes glittering with dark humor. Her smirk was even more wicked than usual, and her gaze held you captive as she stepped closer.

“Good to know,” she said, her voice smooth and cool, her smirk only growing. “I may have to test that loyalty sometime.”

She winked at you, and then, just as easily as she’d come, she turned and sauntered away, leaving you standing there completely speechless, your face redder than ever.

Shadowheart burst out laughing, clutching her side as she watched you sway in shock. “You really have a gift for making a fool of yourself, you know that?”

You sank to your knees, stunned, still processing that Minthara had heard every single word. Shadowheart’s laughter rang in your ears, but you were simply too dazed to care. Perhaps that death would come quicker than expected - if your own heart didn't give out first.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

Every time Lae’zel looked your way, you felt like a live wire, a rush of heat filling your face. She seemed to command every space she entered, her presence sharp, unapologetic, and utterly captivating. But whenever you were around her, every sentence became a tangle of stammered nonsense, and all you could do was blush helplessly. Today was no different.

You were fumbling with your supplies near the fire when Lae’zel walked over, her gaze scrutinizing as always.

"You’ve been acting strange,” she declared, crossing her arms and eyeing you critically. “Weakness of any sort is unacceptable. Are you unwell?"

Her bluntness only made you more flustered, words tripping over each other as you tried to respond. "No, I… I mean, yes, but not in that way. I mean, I'm fine. Completely fine.”

Lae’zel’s eyes narrowed, unconvinced. “You are not fine. You stammer, you lose color and gain it again. See Halsin or Shadowheart—this weakness needs mending.”

Desperate to reassure her, you tried to explain further, but each attempt seemed to make it worse. “I’m not… it’s not that kind of weakness, I just—well, around you, I—uh…”

She fixed you with a glare, her frown deepening. "Enough. Your words make less sense with every second. Perhaps you’re more ill than you realize.”

Your cheeks burned as she turned sharply to fetch Halsin, all but barking his name across camp. He arrived quickly, taking in the scene with a look of amused understanding.

“She is in poor health,” she said, gesturing at you. “They are losing control over their words and show clear signs of a fever. You will attend to them.”

Halsin’s brows lifted slightly, and with a knowing look, he glanced from you to Lae’zel. He gave a slow, considering nod. “Yes, I believe I see the trouble. An ailment, certainly… though it appears to be more of the heart than of the body.”

Lae’zel scowled, gripping her weapon as if ready for battle. “Explain this ‘heart ailment.’ What creature has inflicted it upon them?”

Halsin chuckled softly. “They’ve been bitten by a lovebug, Lae’zel. That’s all.”

Lae'zel let out a string of sharp Gith curses, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "A lovebug. Where does it lurk, this creature? If it is preying upon our camp, I’ll hunt it down myself and crush it beneath my blade."

Her fierce determination, though absurd, only made your heart race more. Halsin stifled a laugh, giving you a sidelong look of utter amusement.

“I think you’ll find that hunting it will be… difficult,” he said, barely hiding his grin. “The lovebug often prefers stealth, hiding within feelings rather than form.”

“Feelings, a psychic offender,” she repeated, her brow creasing in thought. After a moment, she nodded decisively. “It is trickier prey, then. But I will find it nonetheless.”

And with that, she strode off, muttering to herself about unknown threats to the camp. As soon as she was out of earshot, Halsin let out a laugh, clapping you on the shoulder. “You know, I think you may have just made a miraculous recovery.”

You let out a groan, pressing a hand to your flushed face. “Do you think she’ll ever realize?”

“Not any time soon, I’d wager,” he chuckled. “But watching her hunt for a creature that doesn’t exist… that’s something we’ll all enjoy.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart’s approach had been so unassuming, yet it immediately set your heart racing. You’d been minding your own business by the campfire, trying not to glance her way too much, when she’d walked over, looking perfectly calm and utterly oblivious to the effect she had on you. She needed help with a spell—one that apparently you could explain better than anyone else at camp. You tried to play it cool, managing a quick, slightly-too-high “Sure!” and hoping your pulse wasn’t visibly hammering in your throat.

Standing beside her, you began explaining the spell, hands trembling ever so slightly as you demonstrated the incantation.

“So…uh…you’ll want to focus your energy here, at the core…” you muttered, gesturing to the focus stone. You held it out for her to see, only to have her fingers brush yours, sending a jolt through you that nearly made you drop the thing.

“Like this?” Shadowheart asked, her gaze flicking up to meet yours. Her dark eyes held that same thoughtful curiosity, and your voice caught in your throat. It was hard enough trying to form sentences with her this close, let alone explain a complex spell.

“Y-yes. Like that,” you managed, each word coming out slightly unsteady. “And, uh, then you just…channel it gently, but with intention.” She tilted her head, leaning closer, following along with perfect focus.

Meanwhile, just behind her, Karlach was all but dying, barely containing her laughter as she watched you fumble. Her amusement was clearly at your expense, and it took every ounce of willpower not to glare at her. Your attention drifted back to Shadowheart just as she turned her attention to the final gesture of the spell.

Her hand rested over yours for a second too long, her voice soft as she asked, “Does this look right?”

You nodded dumbly, your brain too overloaded to form a coherent reply, and somehow muttered, “It’s, uh…very…graceful.” Internally, you cringed. Graceful?

Shadowheart, apparently too engrossed in the spell to notice your red cheeks, gave a small, content nod. She released your hand, oblivious to the way you quickly hid your trembling fingers.

“Thank you,” she said with a rare smile, her voice calm and warm. “I think I understand it now.”

She turned to leave, casting one last glance over her shoulder, which made you feel simultaneously light-headed and weak in the knees. You stared after her, still processing, trying to shake off the ridiculous butterflies. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until she was already out of earshot.

The second she was gone, Karlach burst out laughing, dropping her head back in utter delight.

“Gods! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were spellbound yourself,” she teased, unable to wipe the grin off her face. “That was one of the best things I’ve ever seen. Hopeless,” she declared, shaking her head at you with a mischievous gleam.

Heat flooded your face all over again as you groaned, rubbing the back of your neck.

“I know, okay? It’s…utterly hopeless,” you admitted, voice thick with defeat. Before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed her mug of beer straight from her hand and downed it in a few quick gulps, hoping it would somehow wash away the mortification you felt. Setting the empty mug down, you sighed deeply. “She didn’t even notice anything.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re very, very wrong,” Karlach countered, her smile twisting into something sly and secretive. She crossed her arms, leaning in as if sharing a precious secret. “Because she was definitely checking you out while you were showing her that spell.”

You froze, turning slowly to look at her, heart skipping a beat.

“You’re joking,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper. There was a spark of hope, ridiculous but undeniable, blooming somewhere deep in your chest.

Karlach grinned wider, shaking her head. “Oh, no. She was stealing glances at you the entire time,” she said, sounding far too pleased with herself. “She’d peek up at you just when you weren’t looking, trying to act all serious, but she couldn’t quite pull it off. You might be as oblivious, but I’ve got eyes.” She winked, patting your shoulder in encouragement.

Your mind raced, playing the whole interaction back. You remembered how Shadowheart’s gaze had lingered, her voice soft, her questions coming slower, almost careful… Could Karlach really be right? Was it possible that Shadowheart had actually been…interested?

“Maybe there’s hope after all…” you mumbled, feeling that glimmer of excitement grow.

Karlach clapped you on the back with a laugh, nearly knocking the air out of you. “There you go! Just keep stuttering and blushing—seems to be working like a charm.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Guess I’ll just have to keep embarrassing myself, then,” you said, grinning despite yourself.

Karlach’s laughter echoed across the camp, but her eyes held a genuine warmth as she said, “Well at least it’s a start. You’ll get there.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheira:

Jaheira's gaze was focused, unrelenting as she adjusted your grip on the scimitar. Her hands, warm and confident, guided yours over the hilt, showing you the correct angle, the precise strength you should use. Every time her hand brushed yours, you felt your heart stammer. You hoped she didn’t notice your flushed cheeks or the way your breath caught every time she leaned closer.

“Here,” she said, her voice calm but commanding. She moved to your side, adjusting the angle of your stance with the barest brush of her hand along your back. “It’s not about brute force,” she murmured, her voice so close it felt like a whisper. “It’s about control, understanding where the balance lies in every movement.”

You nodded, barely able to find your voice, managing only a stuttered, “Y-yes, of course.” But you were far more focused on her proximity than any of her advice.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Astarion lounging a few paces away, arms crossed and a devilish grin spreading across his face. He had noticed, of course—there was no hiding it from his all-too-keen gaze. Before you could silently beg him to go easy on you, he stepped closer, feigning a helpful tone.

“Stick your rear out more,” he suggested, his voice laced with amusement. “Helps with balance. And I’m sure Jaheira would agree.” He flashed you a wicked grin, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Your face flamed, and you shot him a withering look.

“Thanks, Astarion,” you muttered under your breath, attempting to ignore him. But his smirk only widened, and he continued to watch, pleased with himself.

Jaheira, still adjusting your stance, gave you a quick nod, oblivious to your flustered state and Astarion’s antics.

“There you go,” she said, stepping back just enough to observe your form. “Much better.” She gave a satisfied nod and went on to demonstrate a quick series of strikes, her movements fluid and sure, each slash a picture of precision and elegance.

You could barely pay attention, completely distracted by the grace with which she wielded her weapon, the easy strength in her every move. As she looked back at you, catching you gawking, you fumbled to regain focus.

“Uh—yes! Right, like that!” you stammered, hurriedly attempting to mimic her motions.

Jaheira gave a small, amused smile before nodding approvingly. “Keep practicing that sequence. It’ll help build your control.”

As she left the clearing, giving you one last nod of encouragement, you could hardly breathe. You waited until she was out of sight before collapsing against Astarion, running a hand through your hair with a groan.

“I’m hopeless,” you muttered, shaking your head. “She probably thinks I’m a complete mess.”

“Oh, she definitely does,” Astarion said, his grin impossibly smug as he gave you a playful shove. “But she won’t have to wonder about it for long.”

You shot him a look, eyebrow raised in confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

Astarion’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I may have left your journal in her tent. You know, the one with the little poems in the margins?” He waggled his eyebrows, feigning innocence.

Your eyes went wide, horror settling over you as you gaped at him.

“You didn’t,” you whispered, dread turning your stomach. The journal held every embarrassing thought, every scribbled confession, every starry-eyed rant about Jaheira that you hadn’t dared speak aloud.

“Oh, but I did.” Astarion’s voice was light, mocking even, but his eyes held a teasing warmth. “Look on the bright side. At least now she’ll know how much you ‘admire her scimitar technique.’ among other things..”

You shrieked in exasperation, though a traitorous part of you couldn’t help but feel the faintest spark of excitement at the idea. You shoved Astarion, who merely laughed, delighted with himself, as you stood there in helpless anticipation, wondering how you’d ever face Jaheira again.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

Trying to stay composed around Gale was becoming increasingly impossible. You could barely string together a coherent sentence whenever he was nearby, your cheeks burning and your heart racing so loudly you were sure he could hear it. It had gotten to the point that, during one of his magic lessons, you’d accidentally projected a very vivid thought about kissing him far into the Weave—and while he hadn’t directly addressed it, you had felt your face go scarlet the moment it happened.

Yet, despite that blunder and all your clumsy attempts to communicate the depths of your affection, Gale remained completely oblivious. And this state of suspended longing, this fruitless crush, was starting to drive you mad.

After another awkward lesson with Gale where you stumbled over your words and blushed at the mere brush of his hand over yours, you found yourself venting to Minthara, though you knew her to be an unlikely confidante. Her eyes held little sympathy, her arms crossed as she gave you a hard, skeptical look.

“Just grab the wizard and use him for your pleasure,” she suggested bluntly, as if it were the obvious solution. Her gaze was sharp and impatient. “You’re a warrior, not a blubbering fool.”

You shook your head quickly, horrified. “No, no, it’s not like that! I don’t just want him in some shallow way.” You sighed, your heart feeling tight. “I want to… to adore him. To look after him. To treasure everything about him, every small thing, every story he tells and every spell he casts. I want to worship him like he deserves.” You leaned into your words, almost forgetting who you were talking to in the rapture of your lovesick confession. “I want to make him feel like he’s the most cherished person in the world.”

Minthara recoiled as if you’d offended her sensibilities with such sentimentality, looking visibly revolted by your romantic ramblings. Her lips curled in distaste.

“By the darkness, are you even listening to yourself?” She gave an exasperated huff, then, with a roll of her eyes, she called across the camp, her voice clear as a bell. “Wizard!” she yelled, her tone commanding and fierce. “They want to go on their knees for you—are you going to do something about it, or will I have to rip out their tongue to stop their endless lovesick whining?”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, and before you could process the horror, Gale turned, an expression of curiosity mixed with surprise crossing his face as he started to walk over. You immediately whacked Minthara on the arm, panic rising as you whispered, “What are you doing?!”

Minthara looked at you with a smug indifference, ignoring your frantic scolding as if she’d done you the greatest favor.

“A strange way to show your gratitude,” she remarked drily, “given how much assistance I just rendered.”

By then, Gale had reached you both, his brows lifted in confusion, a hint of pink on his cheeks.

“What’s all this about… someone going on their knees?” he asked, looking between you and Minthara, though his gaze lingered on you. His voice was gentle, though you could see the glimmer of curiosity—and something else—in his eyes.

You shot Minthara a glare, your face flaming, then took a steadying breath, turning to Gale.

“I—um,” you stammered, realizing there was no dignified way to explain this away. “I think… what Minthara was so eloquently trying to say is that I… might, uh, harbor feelings for you.” You paused, swallowing. “Quite a few of them, actually.”

Gale’s face softened, and a warm smile played at his lips, his hand reaching to touch yours with a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice dipping low, “it’s wonderful to know I’m not the only one who’s felt that spark.”

Minthara turned away, clearly satisfied, muttering something about lesser beings and their foolish emotions, but you hardly noticed her departure as your heart beat out of your touch, your greatest fantasies finally coming true.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

Dinner had been an ordeal. Astarion sat beside you, closer than usual, his presence a tangible, almost overwhelming warmth. Every time he reached for something or murmured a comment, you felt yourself freeze, stumbling over your responses, blushing so furiously you’d started to worry it was noticeable. You could barely bring yourself to eat, much less speak, and by the end of the meal, you were sure you’d only embarrassed yourself.

That might have been manageable if it ended there. But just hours later, as the party approached a fortress with heavy guards stationed at the gates, Astarion took the lead, slipping into his charming, roguish element. He approached the security with a smooth, confident swagger, flashing that insouciant smile of his, every word a practiced melody of flattery and wit. He left them captivated, helpless to deny him as he led the party in with ease, his charm so intoxicating it almost felt like magic.

And while the others chuckled at his skillful maneuvering, you felt an unexpected ache in your chest. Watching him sway them so effortlessly stirred a pang of jealousy you hadn’t expected. Did he even notice the way you pined for him? The way every stray touch or knowing look from him seemed to linger long after he’d moved on?

Caught in your thoughts, you didn’t realize Gale was watching you with a raised brow. He leaned over, studying your expression with mild amusement and maybe a bit of pity.

“You look,” he began in a soft murmur, “like someone just killed a displacer kitten right in front of you.”

Startled, you forced a tight smile, trying to wave him off. “It’s nothing, Gale.”

“Nothing?” He crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Please, you’ve been fawning over Astarion for ages now, your heart practically on display.”

There was a pause as you grappled with the admission, your face heating up, but at last, the dam broke, and you began to pour out your feelings in a quiet, hushed ramble.

“It’s just… my heart beats for him, Gale. Every time he speaks, I hang on his every word. I want nothing more than to just reach over, brush his hair back, and listen to him talk about all his little grievances—his so-called ‘inconveniences,’ his charms, all of it.”

Gale nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment. And then his lips curled into a wry smile as he leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, I suppose your dilemma is solved, then.”

Confused, you blinked, feeling a twist of dread. “What do you mean?”

“Oh,” he said, chuckling, “just that you happened to be projecting that over the tadpole connection. Quite eloquently, I might add. The entire party heard every word by my predictions.”

You froze, horror dawning as you processed what Gale had just said. Every word, you realized, echoing faintly through the magical thread you shared. You dared a glance at the others, only to see Karlach giving you an encouraging thumbs-up and Shadowheart hiding a smirk behind her hand.

Then, to your ultimate mortification, Astarion strolled past, pausing just long enough to catch your eye. A sly grin played on his lips as he gave you a long, lingering look, his gaze glinting with amusement.

“Not to worry, darling,” he murmured, a teasing warmth in his voice, “I have plenty of inconveniences—and a few conveniences—to tell you all about. Shall we start tonight?”

His words sent a rush of heat up your spine, leaving you speechless as he gave a little wave, disappearing down the hallway. Gale patted your shoulder with a grin.

“See?” he said cheerfully. “All handled.”

You were left rooted to the spot, barely able to breathe, knowing that somehow you’d been caught, exposed—and that Astarion was, indeed, fully aware of the fact that your heart belonged to him.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

Wyll’s presence seemed to have a gravitational pull all its own. Every time he smiled at you, every chivalrous gesture—offering his hand to help you up a steep path, or casually brushing a stray lock of hair out of your face—felt like a dream. A warmth filled your chest, so intense you could hardly look him in the eye, your words dissolving into stammered half-thoughts that trailed into silence. Each interaction left you breathless, embarrassed, and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he noticed how flustered he made you.

Training, however, was another story. Lae’zel was as intense as ever, barely giving you time to catch your breath between strikes. She was quick, sharp, and relentless, and it would have been more manageable—if you could actually focus. But each time she demanded your attention, your eyes kept wandering back to Wyll, who was a few feet away, talking to Shadowheart as he polished his sword. The way he moved, the way he spoke, that disarmingly warm smile…

It was only a matter of time before Lae'zel had enough.

She stepped back, arms crossed, leveling you with a look that could freeze lava.

“You’re distracted. Useless,” she declared, throwing down her sword with an exasperated sigh. “You pine like a hatchling, and it disrupts our sparring.”

You flushed, scrambling to come up with an excuse, but Lae’zel was already stomping off toward Wyll. You moved to intercept her, knowing she was the absolute last person who should reveal any of this. “Wait—Lae’zel, don’t!”

Lae’zel ignored you, her voice booming as she closed in on a bewildered Wyll.

“You,” she pointed at him, “this one wants to share their body with you.”

Wyll blinked, his eyes widening as he looked between you and Lae’zel, clearly trying to make sense of what she’d just said.

“I—what?” He looked at you, a blush rising to his cheeks as he fumbled for words. “I mean, I didn’t—wasn’t aware—”

Mortified, you didn’t think, you just acted, flinging yourself at Lae’zel with a force you hadn’t known you possessed. You tackled her to the ground, landing with a clumsy thud, and slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Not…what I meant!” you stammered, trying to laugh it off to Wyll, who was still looking down at the both of you in complete bafflement. “What she means is—uh, we’re just, um, sparring partners! She’s…dramatic.”

Lae’zel raised an eyebrow, and with her typical stoicism, she bit down—hard—on the hand you’d used to cover her mouth. You yelped, jerking your hand back, and Lae’zel smirked, a silent satisfaction in her gaze as she sat up, looking entirely unapologetic.

Wyll was still staring, one eyebrow raised, lips quirking slightly in what looked like a restrained grin.

“I’m… not entirely sure I understand what’s going on here,” he said, his eyes bright with amusement. “But whatever it is, I’m flattered.”

You scrambled to your feet, rubbing your bitten hand, and tried to put together a coherent explanation, but every time you met his gaze, words seemed to fail you.

“Well… right,” you mumbled, feeling heat rise to your face as you threw a quick glare at Lae’zel, who simply shrugged, as if completely innocent of any wrongdoing.

Wyll’s expression softened as he watched you struggle to speak, and he smiled gently.

“It’s alright,” he said, stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to make things difficult for you and Lae'zel.”

That simple gesture—his kindness, the warmth in his voice—made you feel as if you’d forgotten how to breathe. You managed a nod, barely holding onto your composure, while he looked at you with that disarming sincerity that always left you reeling.

Lae’zel, watching the exchange with an air of smug victory, dusted herself off. “There. See? Problem solved. Now maybe you’ll stop sparring like a weakling.”

You shot her a glare, but Wyll chuckled softly, meeting your eyes with a spark of curiosity.

“If you ever want to train together,” he said, his voice low and warm, “you need only ask.”

And with that, he gave you a wink, leaving you in a breathless, heart-pounding daze as he walked back to his gear.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

Every time you were around Halsin, it was like the ground slipped out from beneath you. His voice, that low, warm rumble, made your heart pound, and every casual touch seemed to ignite sparks across your skin. He was utterly unaware, of course; his gentle smiles and steady hands never betrayed a hint of understanding that he sent you reeling. You were sure that was the only reason you hadn’t completely given yourself away.

So when you returned to camp with an injury—a jagged cut on your arm from a goblin's arrow—you hoped it might go unnoticed. Shadowheart was busy, deep in her meditation as she restored her energy, and you thought you could handle the wound alone. But Jaheira spotted the blood trailing down your arm almost immediately. She arched a brow, her eyes flashing with a mix of annoyance and amusement as she approached.

“Let’s have a look,” she said, but as she examined your arm, she shook her head with a soft sigh. “This needs a proper healer. Come on.”

Before you could protest, she’d already begun steering you toward Halsin’s corner of camp. Your heart dropped to your stomach, and a familiar warmth crept up your face. “Jaheira, no, really, I’m fine. It’s not even that deep. You could probably just—”

“Are you afraid of a little attention from the First Druid?” she teased, smirking as you stammered. “If you’re so sure you can handle it alone, why is your face turning as red as a blood hawk?”

You barely managed a protest before she’d called out to Halsin, who looked up from his work, his eyes sharpening with concern the moment he saw the blood seeping through your sleeve.

“Come here,” he said, his voice a blend of calm authority and quiet worry. He rose to meet you, his eyes never leaving the wound as he reached out, guiding you to sit down on a low stool beside him. His hands were warm, gentle but firm, and you felt heat flush up your neck and into your cheeks as he examined the wound.

Jaheira, leaning against a tent post with her arms crossed, watched the scene unfold with an amused glint in her eyes, a smile curving her lips as you struggled to steady your breathing. But Halsin didn’t notice; his focus was fully on your arm, his brow furrowed with concentration as his fingers brushed softly along the edges of the wound, checking its depth.

“It isn’t too deep,” he murmured in his gentle, rumbling voice. “But we don’t want to risk infection. I’ll clean it and make a poultice to help it heal.”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure, but the feeling of his hands—steady, reassuring, and just a little too close—sent your mind reeling. “Y-yes, of course. Whatever you think is best.”

Halsin gave you a soft smile, the kind that seemed to reach into your chest and make your heart skip.

“Are you feeling alright otherwise? You look a bit flushed.” His eyes studied your face, brow creased in genuine concern. “Are you feverish?”

You blinked, thrown off by the question, and felt your face grow impossibly hotter. “No! No, not at all. I’m… I’m perfectly fine. Really. Just, um… It’s just… the wound.”

Jaheira couldn’t contain her amusement any longer; she snorted softly and rolled her eyes, muttering, “It’s certainly not the wound that has you blushing.”

You shot her a quick, desperate glare, but she only smirked, clearly enjoying your struggle.

“A shame that our healer here clearly can’t see that particular ailment,” she added, just loud enough for you to hear.

Halsin looked between you and Jaheira, a slight confusion flickering in his eyes before he turned back to you with a gentle, almost affectionate smile. “Well, you should rest nonetheless. Even a small wound can bring on a fever if not treated with care.”

He placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, his thumb tracing light circles just above your collarbone as if to soothe you. It was a simple, instinctive gesture, but it sent a wave of warmth through you, and you fought the urge to lean into his touch, to linger in the quiet strength he offered.

“Let me just…” His voice was soft, his attention focused on preparing the poultice as he worked with deft hands. But every so often, he’d glance up, catching your gaze with that calm, reassuring smile that made your heart race all over again.

Beside you, Jaheira leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He truly has no idea, does he?”

You felt a flicker of panic, but there was no use hiding it now. You muttered, barely audible, “Not the faintest clue.”

She chuckled, shaking her head with a mix of sympathy and sarcasm. “To be fair, you’re not making it particularly obvious.”

Before you could retort, Halsin returned with the poultice, carefully applying it to your wound with practiced gentleness. The sensation of his fingers brushing against your skin, his hands steady and warm, sent another wave of nervous energy through you. He worked in silence for a moment, his gaze focused, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you like a comforting embrace.

“There,” he said softly, finishing the bandage. “That should hold for now. And I’ll make more of the poultice tonight to ensure it heals properly.”

You managed a shaky nod, trying to form words but only managing a faint, “Th-thank you.”

Halsin’s smile deepened, and he placed a final, reassuring hand on your arm. “It’s my pleasure to help. But if you do start feeling feverish, promise you’ll come to me immediately.”

“Yes. Of course,” you stammered, hardly able to meet his gaze. Jaheira watched you, her smile widening as she shook her head in mock exasperation.

“I think it’s safe to say you’re sick with something,” she muttered, just loud enough for Halsin to hear.

Halsin’s brow furrowed in mild concern, and he tilted his head toward her, curious. “Sick with what, precisely?”

You shot Jaheira a desperate look, but she only shrugged, that teasing glint in her eye.

“Nothing a nice cold dip in the river can't fix.,” she said, her voice laced with amusement as she turned to walk away, leaving you to face Halsin’s warm, questioning gaze.

“If you’re certain you’re well…” he said, his thumb brushing lightly along your hand in a final gesture of reassurance before he let go. “But do take it easy tonight. I’ll check in on you later, just to be sure.”

As he stood and walked away, you sat there, still reeling, the warmth of his touch lingering on your skin. You wanted to stay in that moment forever. Perhaps during his check in later, you would actually do something about it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

This was actually so cute to write aha, I hope you guys enjoyed this ! - Seluney xox

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[reiderwriter]

ACK I'm so excited that your requests are open again! Um okay, this one feels a bit silly but I'd love a fic where fem!bau!reader is really attracted to Spencer and the way that he smells? (I just KNOW that man smells like cinnamon and a Scholastic Book Fair.) Like, she's been doing a good job hiding her crush from the team, until Spencer catches her eyes dilating at him when he's standing close. And he's an oblivious king, so he's trying to figure out why they were dilated. If it could be race blind like my last request, and from Spencer's POV, that'd be great. (Or split POV, if you'd rather). I really see this as fluff, but if you want to include angst or smut go right on ahead! Thank you for reading my request! Your writing makes my day.

-❤️‍🩹

A/N: This was so fun and silly, and I love writing awkward, puppy love Spencer because sometimes you just have to let yourself become mildly infatuated with a coworker. For the plot. Or at least character development. I hope you like this one!!

Warnings: none.

Masterlist

You thought you'd settled into work well in your first few weeks as a member of the BAU. You thought you were up to speed about everything going on in the office. There was just one mystery left to solve.

“Where is that smell coming from?” You whispered to yourself, frustratedly sniffing the air for the second day in a row as you attempted to locate the warm, delightful smell that seemed to follow you whenever you were in the office.

“Could be one of Garcia's scented candles. They tend to linger,” JJ said from her corner of the bull pen.

“No, I checked earlier and she said they made her throw those out weeks ago.”

Honestly, it was not knowing that was driving you insane. If you knew what the smell was, you could bottle it, spray it all around yourself, and wrap yourself in it like a little blanket. It somehow reminded you of home and of the public library you'd spent much of your childhood in.

After another day of being able to figure out whoever had bought the scent version of the Scholastic Book Fair mixed with homemade cinnamon buns, you gave up. 12 hours of paperwork, and you were just as excited to get away from the sight of brown folders as ever, and as everyone else in the bureau, evidently.

Grabbing your bag, you got in the line for the elevators alongside your team.

“Ready for the crush?” Derek said, punching Spencer Reid on the arm as they waited ahead of you.

“Ow,” the younger man muttered and you tried to hold your giggles back, rolling your eyes as you watched them in amusement.

Derek’s words were true, though. Every day at home time, the elevators packed up quickly, and being on the middle floor meant that it could often take a while for the elevator to come back to you. You swore it was half the reason Hotch stayed late most nights, just to avoid the crush of the trip home.

“I've been taking the DC public transport since I got this job. You think the elevators are bad. Try 8 am subway on a Monday morning.”

The doors opened, and the three of you climbed into the barely there space of the elevator. With a quick side step, you found yourself against the left wall of the elevator. But to your shock, the scent you'd been searching for for three weeks didn't dissipate as it usually did when you got on the elevator.

It was here. The source of the scent was here.

You tried to stay calm as it grew more potent, tried not to frantically look around searching for whatever man or woman was perfumed in heaven. The doors opened again, and more people squeezed in, and suddenly, you found yourself buried nose-first in whatever sensory heaven existed here on earth.

“Sorry,” you heard a mumble in front of you as Spencer held his hand against the wall above your head, trying to keep a polite enough distance so as not to squish you any further. Your mismatching heights, however, led to your face being just about level with his neck.

You really weren't trying to smell him, but you had to inhale, and each time you did, it was a sensory overload.

It was him. Dear God, it was him.

The proximity and his scent really weren't helping your brain stop short circuiting in that moment, and you had to remind yourself after a minute or two or three that you were staring.

Though evidently Spencer had already noticed, and was looking at you with some concern.

“Are you okay? It's pretty tight in here, but I can try and move back if you're uncomfortable.”

“No! No, it's okay,” you did your best not to shout the words out, suddenly wanting his smell and his body close forever.

You hadn't been looking before, but like a freight train at maximum speed, the weight of his attractiveness hit you all at once. There was a slight stubble peppering his jaw, his hair hanging slightly loose, eyes big, and brown, and beautiful. He was tall, and you knew he was strong from watching him manhandle unsubs each week.

To put it blankly, you spiralled. Hard. Straight into infatuation and attraction, and you felt your head growing light with the tipsy feeling of a girlish crush.

You were fucked.

Spencer was concerned about you for the next week.

For starters, he knew that most new hires pushed themselves to the extreme over the first month and ended up quickly burnt out, mentally and physically. He may not have the best physical stamina, but he knew the lengths he had to go to to maintain his mental and physical wellness while working the job.

Which was why he started looking out for you a bit more. Every time he looked at you, you were staring off into space, somewhere just past him, or around him, face glazed over.

He wondered if you had a fever a few times, subtly touching your forehead - wiping away some sweat or a strand of hair - to feel you, and you did always feel hot.

You insisted you were fine though. But the nervous panic, and the constant insistence made him wary enough to pull you aside one day and ask you straight to your face.

“Do you need something?” He said, having unassumingly lured you off to the meeting room without arousing suspicions.

“What? What do you mean?” You said, instantly defensive. You'd hoped you hadn't been as creepy as you knew you had and that he hadn't caught on to your stolen glances and sudden close proximity.

You really couldn't help it. The man smelt too fucking good.

“If you're feeling sick, no one is going to think any less of you for taking a half day, you know.”

His voice was so gentle, you almost didn't die from sheer embarrassment. Almost.

“Oh! Oh, oh no, I'm fine, I'm totally healthy. As a cow!”

“A cow?”

“Yes, I'm as healthy as your average farm animal. Can I go back to work?”

You made to leave, but he grabbed your wrist gently as you brushed past him, and it was like sparks travelled up your arm and pierced your heart directly.

“Spencer!?” you squeaked.

“Your heart rate is elevated, and you feel hot and clammy,” he said, which was exactly the kind of compliment you were aiming to receive from men you were falling for. “You should go see a doctor and then get some rest.”

“No, Spencer, that's not-”

“Everyone pushes themselves in these first few weeks. I had to take a week off after two days in the field from the weight of holding a gun up for so long, which is more embarrassing than it sounds, and Derek-”

“What cologne do you use?” you snapped, desperately hoping to both shut him up and also detangle yourself from this situation with at least one win under your belt. If you found out whatever the smell was he used, you could buy it, grow accustomed to it, and grow out of whatever phase you were going through before you out your job in jeopardy.

“What?”

“You smell… really good. I was wondering what cologne it is.”

“I don't… I don't really use cologne.”

You baulked, unable to stop your face from dropping as your dreams of detaching yourself from your little crush on Spencer Reid faded before your very eyes.

“Shower gel? Shampoo maybe?”

“They're both unscented.”

“So you just… you just smell like that naturally?”

It was his turn to flush then, though the panic never left your head fully.

“Sorry, is it… distracting.”

“Yes,” you whispered, but with such an exhausted exhale, it sounded like a dreamt sigh. You wanted to kick yourself. You wanted to open his jacket, step inside, bury your face in his chest, and fall asleep.

“I see.”

“Mhmm.”

A minute passed in awkward silence, and you wanted to kick yourself for blurting everything out. Quickly turning to leave again, you wished so dearly to erase the last five minutes of your life, sending up enough hail mary’s to absolve you of any sin.

“Lavender. And sometimes patchouli,” he called from behind you as you took your first steps to the door.

“Hmm?” you said, turning back around against your better judgment.

“What?”

“That's what you smell like,” he explained, hands suddenly very preoccupied with his jacket buttons. “I'm not great with scents, but you also smell… nice. Sorry, that was weird.”

“No, not at-”

“You know, the major histocompatibility complex genes are important for the immune system and appear to play a role in sexual attraction via body odour. Studies have shown that body odour is strongly connected with attraction in heterosexual females.”

“Oh. I didn't know that…”

“Do you want to grab dinner with me?”

The words almost knocked you back into the door, as sudden as they were. Had he just asked you on a date? Or was it a friendly coworker thing? A friendly coworker thing where he acknowledged your attraction to his scent and then invited you out on a date.

“Yes?”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Yes, I would like to get dinner with you.”

He did his best to suppress the smile, and you tried hard as well, though neither of you succeeded.

“Great, perfect,” he said, circling you as he made his way to the door, his eyes always turned to you no matter what. He likely regretted that as he bumped into first the edge of a table, then a chair, and then hitting the door with his back, but in your state of puppy love, you didn't care.

“It's a date,” he said, opening the door and walking away, cheeks flushed with heat.

[darksturnz]

COMFORT IN THE CHAOS

CONTENTS:・emotional distress-heavy plot ・star!reader ・mild language ・sleeping in the same bed・artist!chris ・piercing discussion (self-piercing mentioned) ・fluff/found family vibes :3 + more WC: 11.5k masterlist: here

You’re sitting cross-legged at the edge of the trailer park playground, a cigarette dangling between your fingers, watching the sky bleed into a bruise of purples and greys. The swings creak in the breeze, empty but moving like ghosts are riding them. It’s the kind of silence that makes you feel like you’re the only one alive here.

Then you see her.

She’s small—probably no more than six—and she’s making a beeline straight for you. Loose curls of brown hair bounce against her shoulders, the kind that’s already starting to frizz in the sticky air, and her greenish-brown eyes look determined. You recognize her before she’s even close: Chris’s sister. Lila.

She’s clutching something to her chest, tiny fingers wrapped tight around it. As she stops in front of you, she presses her lips together, like she’s sizing you up.

“Uh… hey,” you say, because what else do you say to a kid who comes up to you unprompted? “You lost or something?”

She shakes her head solemnly. “You’re Star.”

It’s not a question.

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Satisfied, she drops her hands, holding her stuffed bunny up for you to see. You notice the torn ear right away, the uneven stitching like someone—probably Chris—tried to fix it but gave up halfway through. The poor thing’s been through hell.

“This is Bunny,” Lila says. “He’s tired.”

You tilt your head, amusement flickering across your face. “Same.”

Lila’s smile is shy but pleased, like you’ve passed some secret test. Without waiting for an invitation, she plops down next to you on the gravel, the stuffed rabbit settling into her lap like a living thing.

For a second, you just watch her, mildly bewildered. You don’t exactly scream kid-friendly, not with the cigarette stubs and piercings and eyeliner smeared under your eyes. But she seems unbothered, picking at a loose thread on Bunny’s paw as she leans back like she’s been planning to hang out with you all day.

“You’re not supposed to talk to strangers, you know,” you tell her, nudging a pebble with your boot.

“You’re not a stranger,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah? Who told you that?”

“Chris.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, surprised. Chris talks about me?

You’re about to ask what he said when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of someone calling her name. Sharp. Frantic. You glance up just in time to see Chris stalking toward the playground, panic written all over his face, his hood pushed back and his dark hair a mess like he ran all the way here.

“Lila,” he calls again, his voice edged with something rougher than worry, and she perks up like nothing’s wrong at all.

“Over here!” she chirps, waving one small arm above her head.

Chris’s gaze snaps to her—and then to you. He freezes mid-step, his shoulders stiffening as he takes in the scene: Lila sitting cross-legged beside you like you’re old friends, her bunny nestled in her lap, and you sitting there with your half-smoked cigarette and black nails tapping idly against your knee.

His face goes a shade darker, embarrassment settling in as he swipes a hand over his jaw.

“Lila,” he mutters, striding over and crouching down in front of her. “You can’t just run off like that. I told you to stay inside.”

“I wasn’t far,” she insists, all innocence. “You were sleeping.”

Chris shoots you a look like this is somehow your fault. You hold up your hands in surrender, amused. “Hey, don’t look at me. She found me.”

He doesn’t answer, just exhales sharply as he runs a hand through his hair. “Come on,” he says quietly to Lila, his voice softer now. “Let’s go.”

Lila pouts, clinging to Bunny. “But I like Star.”

Chris’s ears go pink, and he shoots you a glare like you’re going to make this worse somehow. You smirk, leaning back against your palms. “I didn’t kidnap her, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re still smoking around her,” he mutters, standing up and brushing gravel off his jeans.

You roll your eyes but drop the cigarette, grinding it into the dirt with your heel. “Happy?”

He doesn’t answer, just mumbles something under his breath as he grabs Lila’s hand. She stares up at him, unimpressed. “Chris, you’re being weird.”

“You’re being weird,” he mutters back, then freezes, realizing how stupid that sounds. He shifts uncomfortably, eyes flicking to you like he’s hoping the ground will swallow him whole.

You grin. “You guys make a good team.”

Chris glares, but it doesn’t hold much weight. He just looks tired, embarrassed, and maybe a little grateful that you didn’t make this into a thing. “Let’s go, Lila,” he mutters again, tugging her hand gently.

“Bye, Star!” Lila calls as they turn away, her curls bouncing again. “Say bye, Chris.”

Chris doesn’t say anything—he just shoves his hands in his pockets, his face turned down. But as they walk off, you think you see him glance back once, just for a second.

You don’t wave. You don’t say anything. You just smile to yourself and lean back into the silence, watching the empty swings sway in the wind.

The trailer feels smaller than usual tonight. The kind of small that presses against your ribs, suffocating you even when there’s no one in the room. But there is someone in the room—him. Sitting in his stained recliner with a half-empty beer can on the armrest, his voice a low, slurred hum of irritation that’s been building for the last ten minutes.

“Where the hell were you all day?” he spits, his words slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to corner you with each one.

You stand by the counter, jaw tight, arms crossed over your chest. “Around.”

“Around?” He laughs—short and humorless—and smacks the arm of the chair with his palm. “What’s that mean, huh? You think you can just disappear whenever you feel like it?”

“It means it’s none of your business,” you fire back, the edge in your voice sharper than you intended. You regret it as soon as his head snaps up.

His face darkens, brows pulling together as he points a finger at you. “Don’t start with me, Y/N. Not tonight. I work my assoff to keep a roof over your head, and you—”

“You sit around drinking all day,” you interrupt, your voice cracking slightly. “That’s not working your ass off, and we both know it.”

The silence that follows is loud. Too loud. He stares at you for a moment, his eyes cold and mean in the lamplight. Then he stands—slow and deliberate—and you feel your heart slam against your ribs.

“You’re lucky you’ve got a roof at all,” he growls, the words low but thick with anger. “You think anyone else would put up with you? Huh? Look at yourself. You’re a goddamn mess.”

The words hit you harder than they should, and you can’t stand to hear another one. “Screw this,” you mutter, grabbing your jacket off the back of a chair and shoving your feet into your boots.

“Where are you going?” he barks, but you’re already at the door.

“Out.”

“You come back in this house when I say—”

The door slams behind you before he can finish, the sound shaking through the frame. The cool night air hits you like a shock, sharp and sobering. You take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs, trying to push his words out with it.

The trailer park is quiet at this hour, most of the lights turned off, the gravel beneath your boots crunching as you head toward the road. Your hands are shaking. You jam them into your jacket pockets and keep walking, letting the dark swallow you whole. You don’t know where you’re going—just that anywhere is better than here.

The gravel crunches under your boots as you storm across the trailer park, the sharp chill of the night air biting at your cheeks. Your ears are still ringing with the last echoes of your father’s voice—mess, lucky, roof—words you didn’t want to hear but couldn’t shut out.

You don’t stop walking until you see the faint orange glow of a joint flickering in the darkness.

At first, you think it’s nothing—just another shadow against the trailers—but then the low creak of metal catches your attention. A figure bends over the open hood of a car, lit faintly by the weak yellow light of the porch bulb. Chris.

His once-white wife beater is smeared with grease and oil, clinging to his skin in places where sweat’s soaked through. A red bandana—darkened with its own share of stains—hangs from the back pocket of his jeans, forgotten as he works. His dark curls are matted against his forehead, slick with sweat, and his jaw tenses slightly around the joint wedged between his lips.

You slow down without meaning to, your anger cooling just a little as you take him in. He doesn’t look up, not at first—too focused on whatever’s under the hood. But there’s something in the set of his shoulders, the way his movements seem heavy, like even this takes more energy than he has.

You clear your throat, just enough to let him know you’re there. He straightens up immediately, turning toward you, brows pulling together in that guarded way of his.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The glow of the joint brightens as he takes a drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke before muttering, “You lost or something?”

His voice is rough, gruff in the way it always is, but tonight there’s a softness under it—like he doesn’t have the energy to put up too much of a front.

“No,” you answer, shoving your hands deeper into your jacket pockets. “Just… walking.”

He eyes you for a moment, his dark blue gaze lingering on the way your shoulders are hunched, the tension still obvious in your frame. He doesn’t ask any questions, though. Chris doesn’t ask questions.

“You look like shit,” he says finally, blunt as ever, but there’s no malice in it.

“So do you,” you shoot back, motioning to his grease-streaked shirt and the curls sticking to his forehead.

That earns you a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. He shakes his head slightly, pulling the joint from his lips and tapping the ash onto the ground. “Fair enough.”

The two of you fall quiet again, the only sounds the faint hum of crickets and the soft ticking of the car’s engine as it cools. Chris turns back toward the hood, wiping his hands on the bandana before tucking it into his pocket again.

“Your car broken?” you ask after a moment, just to fill the silence.

“Always is,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder at you. His eyes still hold that tired, distant look, like he hasn’t really slept in days. “Gotta keep it running somehow.”

You nod, even though you don’t really know what else to say. He seems fine with the silence, though. Chris always does.

“Where’s Lila?” you ask softly, surprising yourself with the question.

“Inside,” he says, his voice losing some of its edge. “Sleeping.”

“She’s cute,” you offer. “She told me about Bunny.”

That earns you something—a short, rough chuckle as he runs a hand through his hair, smearing a little grease into the curls. “Yeah, she would.”

You watch him for a moment longer, his silhouette outlined against the dim light. He doesn’t look at you again, but you can tell he knows you’re still there, lingering like you’re not ready to go back yet.

“You’re out late,” he says suddenly, though his tone is careful, like he’s not trying to pry.

“So are you.”

He snorts, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

There’s something in the way he says it—a kind of resignation that makes your chest feel heavy. You look at him then, really look, and for a second it feels like neither of you have a choice. Like you’re both stuck here in this trailer park, leaning on broken cars and broken homes just to make it through the night.

“You want me to go?” you ask, though you don’t really want him to say yes.

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He takes another slow drag from his joint, staring at something in the distance before finally shaking his head. “Nah. You’re good.”

You nod, sinking down to sit on the edge of the gravel, your knees pulled up to your chest. You don’t talk. He doesn’t either. But the silence feels different now—not suffocating, not angry. Just quiet.

The quiet settles in, not quite comfortable, but not suffocating either. Chris keeps his focus on the open hood, the occasional clink of metal and soft murmur of frustration breaking the silence. You sit perched on the gravel a few feet away, elbows on your knees, your boots scuffing against the dirt. From where you are, you can see the way his arms flex as he works—lean, tense muscles moving under skin smudged with oil and sweat.

“Pass me the—” he pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Shit. The socket wrench. Small one.”

You blink, staring at the scattered mess of tools in the box next to you like they’re written in another language. “Uh… sure.”

Grabbing the first thing that seems like it might work, you hold it up for inspection. Chris barely glances before shaking his head. “No. Not that. The other one. Looks like a ratchet.”

“A ratchet?” you echo, scowling at him. “I don’t know what that means.”

He sighs, muttering something under his breath before jerking his chin at the toolbox. “Silver handle. Little head. Spins.”

You frown down at the tools again, narrowing your eyes as if that’ll help. After a few seconds of trial and error, you grab one and hold it up like you’ve won a prize. “This?”

Chris finally looks up, his dark blue gaze sweeping over it before nodding once. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

You toss it to him underhand, and he catches it without breaking stride, sliding back under the hood like the conversation never happened.

“That was a total guess,” you admit, smirking a little to yourself. “I’m basically a mechanic now.”

“You’d be a shitty mechanic,” he mutters, but there’s the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.

You rest your chin on your knees, watching as he works. There’s something about the way he moves—steady, deliberate—that makes you feel calmer just sitting there. It’s like every motion has a purpose, every clink of the tools against the metal a reminder that he knows what he’s doing. You don’t see much of that in Pine View—people who actually dosomething instead of just saying they will.

After a while, he asks again. “Need the pliers.”

You hand him the needle-nose pliers without hesitation this time, earning you a glance from under his sweat-damp curls. “Quicker that time.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.

He keeps going, a low hum of focus settling around him as the minutes stretch on. You lose track of time out there, the night growing darker, the trailer park falling into a heavy kind of quiet. Every now and then, Chris adjusts his joint between his lips, inhaling slow before letting the smoke curl up into the humid air. The smell of it mixes with the sharp scent of oil and metal—something oddly familiar and grounding.

“Why’d you start working on cars?” you ask eventually, your voice low enough not to break the stillness.

Chris pauses just long enough to swipe his bandana over his forehead, leaving a darker streak across the fabric. “Didn’t have a choice,” he says simply, leaning back to check something under the hood. “Car broke, no money to fix it. You figure it out or you walk everywhere.”

“You get good at it?”

“Good enough.”

You nod like that makes perfect sense. Because it does. Pine View is full of people who have to figure it out—or don’t.

“Star.”

You blink at the sound of your name, glancing up. Chris’s hand is out, palm open. “Flathead screwdriver.”

You reach into the box again, grabbing what you think is right and handing it over. This time, Chris doesn’t even look—just takes it like he trusts you to get it right. For some reason, that makes your chest feel a little less tight.

He works for another few minutes before standing up fully, stretching out his back with a low groan. The joint’s burned down to almost nothing now, barely a flicker between his fingers. He tilts his head back, staring at the dark sky as he exhales the last drag, the smoke catching the faint glow of the porch light.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” you say quietly, your voice cutting through the silence.

Chris glances down at you, dark blue eyes still holding that perpetual tiredness, though there’s something else too—something less sharp. “No.”

“That’s okay,” you reply, pulling your knees closer to your chest. “I talk enough for both of us.”

His mouth twitches like he might smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at you for a beat longer than he needs to, then shakes his head slightly and goes back to wiping his hands on the stained bandana.

“You should get inside,” he says eventually, his voice softer than before. “It’s late.”

“Yeah.” You don’t move.

Chris doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. He just tosses the wrench back into the toolbox with a clatter and leans against the car, his arms crossed as he stares out at the empty stretch of trailers beyond you both. You don’t know how long you sit there, quiet but not alone. Long enough for the night air to feel a little less cold. Long enough for the knots in your chest to loosen, just a little.

Chris exhales, long and slow, like he’s been thinking about something for a while before finally deciding to say it. He pushes away from the car, flicking the remains of his joint into the gravel where it smolders out. “You wanna come inside?”

You look up, surprised. “What?”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your gaze as he wipes his hands down the front of his oil-streaked shirt. “It’s not much, but I need to check on Lila, and you shouldn’t be out here alone. Place gets sketchy this time of night.”

That makes you laugh, a sharp sound that echoes a little too loudly in the quiet. “I grew up here, Chris. I think I can handle it.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, jaw tightening, “I don’t like it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, something flickering through you—annoyance, curiosity, maybe a bit of both. “Why do you care?”

He pauses for a beat, shoving the stained bandana back into his pocket. “I just do.”

It’s simple. Final. Like he doesn’t need to explain himself further. He glances toward the shadows stretching across the trailer park, the kind that swallow up anything just out of sight. His voice softens a little. “You don’t gotta stay out here.”

You hesitate, glancing back toward your trailer—toward him—and suddenly, being out here alone doesn’t feel so great. You hate that Chris might be right.

“It’s not that bad,” you mumble, half-hearted, because you’ve said it so many times before that it’s practically a reflex.

Chris just stares at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes steady. There’s something about him that makes you feel like you can’t lie to yourself tonight—not with him standing there, oil-slicked and sweaty, watching you like he’s already decided you’re coming inside whether you argue or not.

“Fine,” you say finally, pushing yourself to your feet. “But if your place smells like feet and motor oil, I’m leaving.”

Chris’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smirk. “I’ll survive.”

He turns without another word, leading the way toward his trailer. You follow a few steps behind, your boots crunching in the gravel. It feels weird, letting someone look out for you—especially him. But you don’t hate it. Not tonight.

Chris doesn’t look back as he walks, but he doesn’t need to. You follow him up the short set of steps to his trailer, where the porch light flickers dimly, barely enough to cast shadows. He unlocks the door with a quiet clink, nudging it open with his shoulder.

“Watch your step,” he mutters, stepping aside to let you in first.

You hesitate for just a second before walking past him, the inside of the trailer warmer than you expected. It smells faintly of something familiar—laundry detergent, maybe—and something else beneath it: motor oil and faint smoke, a scent you’re starting to associate with him. It’s not a mess, exactly, but it’s not neat either. A stack of Lila’s drawings is scattered across the coffee table, along with an empty cereal bowl and a few crumpled fast-food napkins. On the couch sits one of Lila’s small sneakers, abandoned like she kicked it off mid-run.

Chris steps in behind you, pulling the door shut softly. “Like I said, it’s not much.”

“It’s fine,” you say, brushing off the comment as you glance around. The place feels… lived in. Not cold. Not empty. Just a little worn, like him.

Chris drops his keys on the counter, the faint clink loud in the quiet. He pulls the bandana from his pocket again and wipes the sweat from his neck before tossing it into a laundry basket near the door. Then he jerks his chin toward the couch. “Sit if you want. I’ll be quick.”

You hover awkwardly for a second before perching on the edge of the couch cushion. It’s softer than it looks. You glance down at the drawings scattered across the coffee table—crayon sketches of flowers, some wonky-looking animals, and a big house with stick figures holding hands in front of it. You feel something in your chest pull a little.

Chris disappears down the narrow hall toward the back room, where the soft sound of a door creaking open reaches your ears. You hear him moving, his voice low and quiet—gentler than you’d expect.

“Lila?” A beat. “You good?”

There’s no response that you can hear, but after a moment, his footsteps return, slower this time. He reappears in the doorway, running a hand through his damp curls, leaving behind a streak of oil he doesn’t seem to notice.

“She’s still out,” he says, like he needs to explain himself. “Sleeps through anything.”

You nod, not sure what to say. Chris lingers for a second, his dark blue eyes flicking to you as he crosses the room and drops into the recliner across from you. He leans back, stretching one arm along the armrest as he exhales through his nose.

“Sorry,” he mutters, though you’re not sure what for. “About earlier. I didn’t mean to—” He stops himself, frowning slightly before shaking his head. “Forget it.”

You look at him, watching the way he slouches into the chair like he’s just done. Done with the day, done with the car, done with everything. You shrug, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s fine. You didn’t do anything.”

Chris glances at you, his tired gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he looks away, staring somewhere past you. The porch light outside casts shadows across his face, making the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones stand out even more. He looks like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t.

Instead, the two of you just sit there, the silence stretching out again—but it’s not the heavy, tense kind that makes you want to bolt. It’s different. Quieter. Settled. You find yourself relaxing into the couch without realizing it, the weight of the night finally easing off your shoulders.

“Why were you out there?” he asks eventually, his voice low but even.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Earlier,” he says, not looking at you. “In the dark, walking around by yourself.”

Your stomach twists slightly, the fight with your dad flashing through your mind like a bruise you’re not ready to touch. You pick at the loose threads in the cushion beneath your hand. “Just… needed air.”

Chris doesn’t push. He just nods slowly, like he gets it—like he’s been there before. “Yeah.”

You glance over at him, at the tired set of his shoulders and the dark circles beneath his eyes. The small house Lila drew on the table catches your eye again, and you wonder how often he feels like this—like the walls are closing in, like there’s nowhere to go but out.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

Chris looks at you, brow furrowing slightly. “For what?”

You shrug, looking down at your hands. “Not letting me sit out there.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but you can feel his gaze linger on you. “Yeah. Sure.”

You look up, and for a second, you swear he’s about to smile—but then he blinks, the moment slipping away, and he stands up abruptly. “I’ll get you something to drink. You want water or…?”

“Water’s fine.”

Chris nods and disappears into the small kitchen. You listen to the sound of cabinets opening, the faint clang of glass against the counter. You exhale slowly, letting yourself sink deeper into the couch. The soft clink of glass fills the space as Chris moves around the kitchen, his footsteps heavy against the trailer floor. You lean back further into the couch, the quiet hum of the place settling over you like a blanket. It feels strange to be here, strange in the way that something too normal feels after a fight. Like you’ve slipped sideways into someone else’s night, someone else’s life.

When Chris returns, he hands you a glass of water without a word, his fingers brushing yours briefly before he drops back into his chair. He sits forward this time, elbows on his knees, his oil-streaked hands hanging loosely between them. He looks like he’s about to say something, but instead, he just sighs and drags a hand through his curls again—only smearing more grease into them.

“You’ve got…” You motion vaguely to your head. “Oil. Everywhere.”

Chris snorts under his breath and wipes at it with his wrist, only making it worse. “Yeah, well. Comes with the job.” He tilts his head slightly, shooting you a dry look. “You offerin’ t’fix it?”

You grin faintly. “Nah. Not much of a stylist.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Silence stretches again, but it’s different this time—less heavy, less awkward. Chris leans back again, his head tipping against the back of the chair, eyes flickering shut for a second. His chest rises and falls steadily, like he’s trying to take one decent breath after a long day.

“Lila likes you,” he says suddenly, eyes still closed.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“She said so,” he mutters, cracking one eye open to glance at you. “Said you were ‘cool.’ And that Bunny likes you too.”

That makes you smile. You think about Lila earlier, her little face so serious as she introduced you to her torn-eared rabbit, and you can’t help but feel a flicker of warmth in your chest. “Well, Bunny’s got good taste.”

Chris huffs a quiet laugh, though it’s more air than sound. “Yeah, don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t.” You sip from the glass, watching him carefully. There’s something about the way he talks about Lila—soft, careful, like he knows how fragile she is. “You take care of her a lot?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He stares at a spot on the floor like he’s deciding what to say. “Yeah. Someone’s gotta.”

It’s simple, but there’s so much weight behind it—like those three words carry everything he doesn’t say. Because Mom can’t. Because it’s just us. Because no one else will. You don’t press, though. You don’t need to.

“I get it,” you say softly, though you’re not sure if you’re talking about him or yourself.

Chris looks at you then, really looks, like he’s seeing you in a different light. His blue eyes are darker in the dim room, but there’s something softer in them too, something quieter. He doesn’t say anything, just nods faintly before pushing himself to his feet.

“Lila’ll freak if you wake her up,” he mutters, moving toward the hallway. “I’ll grab you a blanket or something.”

You sit up straighter, blinking. “Wait—what?”

He pauses, turning back with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not walking back. Not this late.”

“I can handle it,” you argue, though the idea of going back to your trailer, to him, makes your stomach twist.

Chris doesn’t budge. “It’s fine. Couch isn’t great, but it’s better than walking through this dump alone.” He hesitates, frowning slightly before adding, “It’s just a couch. Don’t get weird about it.”

You don’t know why that makes you feel so seen—like he already knew you’d argue, like he already knew you wouldn’t want to ask for this. You glance at the coffee table again, at the crayon drawings of flowers and houses, at the empty sneaker, at the life that’s been built here in pieces.

“Fine,” you mumble, leaning back into the cushions like you’re totally unaffected. “But if you snore, I’m out.”

Chris rolls his eyes as he turns toward the back room. “You won’t hear me.”

You don’t argue with him this time. Instead, you let yourself settle in, the glass of water still cool in your hand. The hum of the trailer settles back over you, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels… still.

And you think maybe, just maybe, you won’t hear anything tonight except the quiet.

Chris disappears down the narrow hallway, leaving you alone in the quiet hum of the trailer. You sit there, awkwardly at first, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion while the faint creak of a door opening echoes down the hall. A minute later, he reappears, holding a crumpled blanket that looks like it’s been shoved into a closet for months. He tosses it onto the couch beside you with a quick, almost sheepish motion.

“Here,” he mutters. “Best I’ve got.”

You grab it before it slides onto the floor, and as soon as you do, you catch the smell—familiar in a way you can’t quite place. Faint cigarette smoke. A hint of motor oil. That sharp scent of clean laundry that only barely cuts through it. Your fingers sink into the worn fabric, and for some reason, it makes your chest feel tight. Like you’re holding something you shouldn’t, something that feels too close.

“You good?” Chris asks, pausing halfway to the hallway.

You look up quickly, masking whatever you were feeling. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Chris doesn’t press. He just nods, running a hand through his curls again and grimacing when his fingers catch on something sticky—probably more oil. “I’m gonna shower. Don’t break anything.”

“I’ll try not to,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes.

He disappears again, the sound of the bathroom door closing behind him followed by the hiss of old pipes groaning to life. You hear the water turn on a moment later, a dull rush that fills the silence in the trailer.

For a moment, you just sit there, fingers still curled around the blanket, your thoughts drifting to the fight you left behind. To your dad’s voice, sharp and cutting. To the slamming door and the way your own breathing felt too loud as you stepped outside. Now, wrapped up in the dim light of Chris’s space, it all feels distant—like the anger’s been stripped from it, leaving only exhaustion behind.

Your eyes drift to the coffee table again—Lila’s crayon drawings spread out in a messy stack, one page overlapping the next. You see the house again, the one she drew with thick brown walls and a triangle roof, stick figures holding hands out front. The tallest one has curls. Chris. The little one has bunny ears sticking out of her head. Lila.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, chewing the inside of your cheek as curiosity tugs at the edge of your mind. The water’s still running—Chris is still in the shower—and the rest of the trailer feels so still, so there.

You stand, moving quietly toward the small kitchen area. A couple of dishes sit in the sink, one of them holding a soggy cereal spoon. There’s an unopened box of crackers on the counter next to a stack of overdue bills, their edges curled and frayed. Your gaze drifts up to a corkboard tacked to the wall, cluttered with half-pinned papers and reminders scrawled in Chris’s sharp, blocky handwriting. Some of them are grocery lists.

Milk, cereal, ramen. Lila likes those gummy worms.

You don’t realize you’re smiling until you catch yourself, your lips twitching faintly as you step back. Something about it feels real—this life he’s patching together out of lists and leftovers and old blankets shoved into corners.

You glance back toward the hall, listening to the faint trickle of the shower. He’s still in there.

Your curiosity pulls you to the corner of the living room, where a few of Chris’s sketches are piled on a small, dented table. You hover for a second, your fingers twitching at your sides. Then, slowly, you reach out and pick up the top sheet.

It’s a charcoal drawing—a skull, its shadows so deep and detailed it almost looks three-dimensional. Around it, faint flowers bloom from cracks in the bone, the petals shaded with the kind of precision that makes your breath catch. You flip to the next one, another skull—this time paired with thorny vines, curling around its hollow eye sockets. There’s something beautiful and haunting about it, something that feels him.

You hear the pipes groan again, the water pressure shifting slightly, and you freeze. Carefully, you place the sketches back where you found them and return to the couch, sinking down quickly with the blanket still bunched in your lap.

The shower cuts off, and for a moment, the only sound is the faint drip of water before the pipes settle again. You lean back into the cushions, forcing your gaze on the ceiling as you try to ignore the way your chest feels—like you’ve seen something you weren’t supposed to. Like you’ve been let in, just a little, to a world Chris doesn’t show anyone.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open, and Chris’s footsteps shuffle back down the hallway. You glance over to see him in a clean shirt—this one black and loose—his curls still damp and sticking to his forehead. He pauses when he sees you sitting exactly where he left you, the blanket tucked around your shoulders.

“You didn’t snoop, did you?” he asks, but there’s no real bite to it—just the same dry, tired Chris.

“Nope,” you say quickly, looking at the TV like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

He eyes you for a moment, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but then he shakes his head and drops back into his chair with a groan. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You don’t answer. You just tuck the blanket tighter around yourself and let your gaze flicker toward the window, where the night outside feels a little less lonely than it did an hour ago.

Chris doesn’t say anything for a while, settling deeper into the recliner with that same tired look he always seems to carry. You hear the springs creak faintly under his weight, the sound filling the space where conversation might go. You don’t mind. The quiet feels easier now, softer somehow.

You adjust the blanket in your lap, the familiar smell still lingering. It’s strange—almost comforting—but it makes your chest ache a little, like it knows something about you that you don’t want to admit.

Chris catches you staring at the window. “What, you scared of the dark now?”

You glance at him, rolling your eyes. “No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You open your mouth to fire something back, but when you see him leaning back like that, his arms hanging loosely over the chair’s sides, you lose your edge. There’s no malice in his words—just something dry and unbothered, like he’s filling the silence out of habit.

“What’s your deal with this place anyway?” you ask suddenly, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “You hate it or what?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He tips his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling like the answer’s written somewhere in the shadows there. “What do you think?”

“I think you don’t say much of anything,” you shoot back, though there’s no bite to it.

He huffs softly through his nose, his mouth twitching like he might smirk. “What’s there to say? It’s a dump. Same as everywhere else.”

You watch him carefully, the way his gaze stays fixed on a crack in the ceiling, the way his fingers twitch faintly where they rest. “Does Lila know that?”

Chris’s jaw tenses slightly, but he doesn’t look at you. “No.”

“Good,” you say simply, leaning back into the couch. “Because she seems pretty happy here.”

That gets him to glance at you, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. For a moment, he just stares, his gaze heavy but unreadable, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re saying any of this. Then he shakes his head, muttering, “You’re weird.”

“Thanks,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Chris snorts quietly, the sound barely there, before running a hand through his damp curls. “Don’t make it sound like some big secret, alright? Lila thinks it’s good here because I want her to think that. That’s all.”

You don’t respond right away. The weight behind his words settles between you both, and you realize there’s nothing easy about what he’s carrying—not the trailer, not Lila, not the quiet resentment that simmers behind everything he does.

“Doesn’t mean you’re wrong,” you say finally, surprising even yourself.

Chris looks at you again, brow furrowing slightly. “About what?”

“That it’s a dump,” you say simply, shrugging. “But sometimes dumps are all you’ve got.”

He watches you for a second longer, like he wants to argue, like he wants to say something, but the words never come. Instead, he just shifts in his chair, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah.”

The clock ticks faintly on the far wall, the sound almost loud in the quiet. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself again, letting its familiar scent wrap around you. Chris doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. But you don’t leave, either.

Instead, you sit there in the dim light, the shadows stretching longer, the quiet settling deep into your bones. For the first time all night, you don’t feel like you need to go anywhere.

The stillness stretches, not heavy, but weighted—like it knows it belongs there. Chris leans further into the recliner, his head tipped back and his breathing even, almost like he’s teetering on the edge of sleep. You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there, only that the world outside feels far away. Even the sound of your father’s voice, still echoing faintly in the back of your mind, has been drowned out by the faint hum of the trailer and the way the room seems to hold its breath.

Your gaze drifts over to Chris again, your eyes catching on the rise and fall of his chest. For once, the tension in his shoulders seems to have let go, his face softer without its usual guarded edge. He’s got that same kind of tired look he always carries, like sleep doesn’t come easy, but here, in the quiet of his own space, it doesn’t seem to bother him as much.

And you don’t know why, but something about it makes your chest ache.

You pull the blanket closer around you, sinking further into the couch, the worn fabric soft against your hands. It’s not just the smell that’s familiar anymore—it’s the feeling. A kind of warmth that comes from something lived in, something that’s been through its share of wear and tear but hasn’t fallen apart yet. It makes you feel strangely safe, even if you don’t want to admit it. Even if you haven’t felt that way in a long time.

From across the room, Chris’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and slightly groggy. “You’re staring.”

You blink, jolted back to the moment. Chris doesn’t move much—his head still leans against the back of the recliner—but one blue eye cracks open, catching you in the act.

“Was not,” you mutter, defensive but not sharp.

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, that familiar hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a shitty liar.”

“You’ve said that already,” you fire back, but there’s no real heat in it.

Chris just snorts softly, letting his eyes slip shut again. For a moment, you think he’s going to drift off completely, the slow rhythm of his breathing filling the silence. Then he speaks again, quieter this time.

“You don’t have to stay, you know.”

You glance at him, frowning slightly. “Hm?”

His voice stays even, but there’s something softer underneath. “Here. I’m not… I didn’t mean to keep you or anything.”

“M’fine,” you say quickly, because you are. Or maybe you just don’t want to leave. “It’s better than…” You stop yourself, biting back the words better than home.

Chris doesn’t press you. He never does. Instead, he shifts slightly in the recliner, turning his head toward you without opening his eyes. “Suit yourself.”

Another beat of quiet settles, and you let your eyes drift back to the coffee table, where one of Lila’s crayon drawings peeks out from the pile. It’s not much—just a bright yellow sun with wobbly beams stretching out from the center—but it feels important somehow. Like it’s holding something together.

“You take care of her,” you say softly, surprising yourself.

Chris hums faintly, like he’s not sure if it’s a question or not. “Yeah.”

“You’re good at it,” you add, even softer.

Chris doesn’t respond right away, but when he does, his voice is quieter than you’ve heard it all night. “Not really.”

You don’t argue, but you don’t agree either. Because you see it—the way Lila lights up when she’s around him, the way her drawings seem to fill the space he doesn’t talk about. It’s the kind of care you don’t see in most people, the kind that doesn’t get shown off but sits there, constant and steady.

Chris doesn’t say anything else, and you don’t push. Instead, you sink back into the couch again, the blanket pulled up to your chin, and let the quiet return. The hum of the trailer wraps around both of you, its walls creaking faintly with the settling night.

The quiet stretches out again, and for the first time all night, it feels like you can actually breathe. Chris’s breathing evens out too, slower now, like he’s on the verge of slipping into sleep. His head tilts to one side, his curls damp and messy against his forehead, and his arms hang loosely over the sides of the recliner.

For a moment, you think he’s finally out—but then he jerks awake slightly, his eyes flickering open as he shifts in his seat. He sits up straighter, blinking at you like he’s trying to shake off the drowsiness.

“You good?” he mutters, his voice rougher now, thicker with sleep.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, adjusting the blanket over your lap. “I’m fine.”

He studies you for a second, his blue eyes narrowed slightly like he doesn’t quite believe you. You glance away, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, but it doesn’t help. You know what he’s looking at—your face, the way it’s probably giving you away, showing everything you don’t want to admit.

Chris leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “That couch isn’t great,” he says quietly, nodding toward the lumpy cushions beneath you. “You’re not used to it.”

“It’s fine,” you say again, sharper this time, even though the ache in your chest isn’t from the couch at all. It’s from everything else—the fight, the words, the way your own home feels like a warzone every time you walk through the door. But you can’t say that. Not to him.

Chris doesn’t look convinced. His brows furrow slightly, his hand raking through his curls again as he thinks. Finally, he stands, stretching his arms over his head before motioning toward the back of the trailer.

“Take the bed,” he says simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You blink up at him, startled. “What?”

“The bed,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. “It’s better than this. You’ll sleep better.”

“I’m not taking your bed,” you shoot back, frowning at him. “You’re already letting me crash here. I’m not—”

“Star,” he cuts you off, his voice calm but firm. “S’fine. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

“That’s not the point,” you argue, but the look he gives you stops you mid-sentence. It’s not harsh or annoyed—it’s steady, like he’s already decided and there’s no point in fighting him.

“I’m not doing it for me,” he says quietly, his blue eyes holding yours. “You’re not fine, and we both know it.”

You feel your chest tighten at his words, and for a second, you can’t look at him. He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, you can tell, but hearing it out loud makes it harder to keep the walls up. You glance down at the blanket, your fingers curling into the fabric.

“It’s not the couch,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Chris exhales slowly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I know.”

You look up at him, surprised. He shrugs, leaning back against the edge of the recliner. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just saying… if it helps, take the bed. I’ll stay out here.”

His words hang in the air, heavy but not suffocating. You know he means it—there’s no pity in his voice, no expectation, just an offering. A way to let you breathe, even if it’s only for a night.

After a long pause, you nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Chris nods too, his expression unreadable but softer somehow. He gestures toward the hallway again. “Door on the right. Sheets are clean.”

You stand, still clutching the blanket around your shoulders, and glance back at him before heading toward the hall. He’s already moving back toward the couch, grabbing another blanket off the back of the recliner as he settles in.

“Chris,” you say softly, pausing in the doorway.

He looks up, his gaze steady but tired. “What?”

“Thanks,” you say, your voice cracking just enough for him to notice.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just nods once before leaning back into the couch. “Yeah. Get some sleep.”

You step into the room, the door clicking softly behind you. The bed is small but neatly made, the faint smell of his cologne lingering on the sheets. You climb in slowly, sinking into the mattress as the weight of the night finally starts to lift.

You lie on the bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling. The mattress is soft, and the faint scent of Chris—cologne, smoke, and something earthy you can’t quite place—lingers on the sheets. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s enough to make you feel a little… uneasy. Not in a bad way, just in a way that makes your chest feel too tight, like you don’t quite deserve the comfort of it.

Your eyes wander around the room, taking it in. It’s simple, like the rest of the trailer—just a dresser against the far wall, a few scattered shirts peeking out from an open drawer. There’s a sketchbook on the bedside table, its edges worn, with a pencil lying haphazardly across it. The walls are bare, except for a single framed photo on the dresser. You squint, barely making out the image of a younger Chris with Lila perched on his shoulders, her wide grin almost overshadowing his reluctant one.

You roll onto your side, tucking the blanket tighter around you, but the guilt creeps in anyway. The bed feels too warm, too good, too… his. You stare at the faint light seeping in through the cracks of the door, imagining him out there on the couch, probably just as tired as you but too stubborn to admit it.

You sigh, sitting up and rubbing a hand over your face. The thought of him trying to sleep in that lumpy old recliner makes your stomach twist, and before you can overthink it, you push the blanket off and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

The trailer is quiet when you open the door. The faint light from the kitchen spills into the living room, casting shadows over the couch where Chris is stretched out, one arm thrown over his face. His blanket barely covers him, the edges falling short of his feet.

You hover for a second, second-guessing yourself, but then you take a step forward and clear your throat softly. “Chris.”

He stirs, his arm dropping slightly so his eyes—half-lidded and groggy—meet yours. “What?” he mutters, his voice low and thick with sleep.

“You don’t have to sleep out here,” you say quickly, before you lose your nerve. “I mean—you can come back. To the bed. Just… separate blankets or whatever.”

He blinks at you, his brows furrowing slightly as he pushes himself up onto one elbow. “What?”

“I feel bad,” you admit, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s your bed. You shouldn’t have to give it up.”

Chris stares at you for a moment, like he’s trying to process what you’re saying, before shaking his head slightly. “S’fine, Star. I told you—”

“I know what you told me,” you interrupt, frowning at him. “But you look just as wrecked as I feel, so stop being stubborn and come back there. I’m not gonna bite.”

That earns you a faint snort, though his face is still guarded. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, trying to play it cool even though your chest feels tight again. “It’s just one night. You don’t have to sleep on that deathtrap.”

Chris hesitates, running a hand through his curls as he considers it. Finally, he sighs and swings his legs off the couch, standing up and grabbing his blanket. “Separate blankets,” he mutters, his voice dry but not unkind.

“Obviously,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes as you head back toward the room.

Chris follows, his footsteps quiet behind you. The bed feels smaller when you climb back in, scooting to one side as he drops his blanket on the other. He doesn’t say anything as he settles in, lying stiffly on his back with his own blanket pulled up to his chest.

The silence stretches out again, but this time it feels heavier, more aware of itself. You stare at the ceiling, your heartbeat a little too loud in your ears.

“Thanks,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chris doesn’t look at you, but his voice is low and steady when he replies. “Yeah. Go to sleep, Star.”

You close your eyes, the faint sound of his breathing filling the room. And somehow, with him there, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

The room is quiet except for the faint creak of the trailer settling and the steady rhythm of Chris’s breathing. You lie on your side, facing away from him, staring at the faint outlines of the dresser in the dark. The guilt and awkwardness of earlier fade slowly, replaced by the steady calm of his presence just a foot away. His breathing evens out after a while, the tension in his frame melting as sleep takes over. You hear him shift once, settling deeper into the mattress, his quiet exhale signaling that he’s finally out.

You don’t know when your own eyes drift shut, but when they do, the room falls into a stillness that swallows you whole. The bed, the space, the faint hum of his existence next to you—it all pulls you under like a tide.

Chris stirs at first light, groggy and disoriented, the sharp pang of something warm and heavy on his chest dragging him out of sleep. He blinks, squinting against the pale light seeping through the blinds, his mind sluggish as he tries to figure out what’s wrong. It takes a second for him to register it—why his left arm feels pinned, why the blanket he remembers pulling over himself is now somewhere at the foot of the bed.

And then he sees her.

Star.

She’s not in her designated zone. Not even close. Her head rests against his chest, her face relaxed, lips slightly parted as soft snores escape her. One of her arms is draped lazily across his stomach, and her leg—barely covered by her own blanket—has somehow tangled with his.

Chris freezes, his breath catching in his throat as he stares down at her. His mind races in a million directions, but none of them seem to help the situation. She looks so… soft. Completely out of place from the sharp, sarcastic edges she normally carries like armor. Her messy hair is splayed across his shirt, a few strands tickling his chin, and her face is tilted just enough that he can see the faint rise and fall of her chest, the slow rhythm of her breathing.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, careful not to move too much.

He’s not sure how this happened—how she ended up here, draped over him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Part of him wants to wake her up, to shift her back to her side of the bed before she realizes what she’s done. But another part—the part he’s trying hard to ignore—can’t bring himself to disturb her. She looks… peaceful. More peaceful than he’s ever seen her.

Chris glances toward the door, half-hoping for some kind of escape route, but there’s no way out of this without waking her. He sighs quietly, his chest rising under her weight, and lets his head fall back against the pillow.

The warmth of her against him is distracting—too distracting. He feels her breath ghost over his collarbone, soft and steady, and it makes his throat tighten. Her hand shifts slightly, her fingers twitching against his side, and he has to clench his jaw to keep himself still.

This is fine, he tells himself, though the heat creeping up his neck says otherwise. She’s asleep. She doesn’t know.

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to will himself back to calm, but it’s impossible. Every breath she takes, every slight movement, pulls his focus right back to her.

Finally, he mutters under his breath again, quieter this time. “Shit.”

Chris leans his head back against the pillow, his body still stiff beneath her weight. He doesn’t move, just lets his tired gaze drift down to her face. There’s something almost strange about seeing her like this—so quiet, so still, so… unguarded. It’s a far cry from the sharp edges and quick comebacks he’s come to expect.

His eyes linger on her lips, parted just enough for her soft, even breaths to brush against his chest. That’s when he notices them—two new piercings he definitely didn’t see last night. A small hoop glinting faintly from just under the curve of her upper lip, tucked near the corner of her mouth. And below that, in the center of her bottom lip, another piercing—vertical, the shiny ends of a barbell catching the early light filtering through the blinds.

Chris furrows his brow slightly, the sluggish haze of sleep keeping his thoughts slow. He wonders when she had the time—or the nerve—to get them done. He thinks about her rambling about something ridiculous like piercing her own face and winces faintly at the possibility that she actually did.

He doesn’t even realize he’s been staring until his own exhaustion starts to creep back in, the steady warmth of her body pulling him under. He blinks once, then twice, his lids growing heavier with each passing second. The last thing he registers before sleep claims him is the quiet sound of her breathing, the faint weight of her resting against him.

Chris isn’t sure how long he’s out before the door bursts open with a bang, jolting him awake.

“Chris! Waffles! I want—”

Lila’s voice cuts off sharply, replaced by an ear-piercing squeal that makes him wince. His eyes snap open, his mind catching up slower than his body as he registers the weight still pressed against him—and the very smug expression on Lila’s face standing in the doorway.

“Lila,” he groans, his voice rough with sleep, “what the hell?”

“Chris!” she shrieks again, pointing dramatically at the bed. “What are you doing?”

Chris looks down to find Star still half-asleep on his chest, her head nestled there like she belongs. Her lips part slightly, a faint mumble slipping out as she stirs, her fingers twitching against his side. And just like that, the heat that had started creeping up his neck earlier comes rushing back in full force.

“Lila, get out!” he snaps, his voice louder now as he tries to sit up, but Star shifts against him, groaning softly as her eyes flutter open.

She blinks blearily, her face inches from his chest, before realization sets in. Her head jerks up, her eyes wide as she scrambles back to her side of the bed, yanking her blanket around her like a shield. “What the—Chris?”

“It wasn’t me!” Chris blurts, his voice defensive as he throws his hands up. “You were—you just—”

Lila is practically bouncing on her toes now, her squeals turning into giggles as she clutches Bunny to her chest. “You two were cuddling!”

“We were not,” Chris says firmly, glaring at her as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Go wait in the kitchen, Lila.”

“But you were sleeping together!” she insists, her giggles growing louder.

Star groans, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my God.”

Chris pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “I swear to God, Lila, if you don’t—”

“Waffles!” Lila announces, spinning on her heel and darting out of the room, her laughter echoing down the hall.

Chris exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping as the room falls silent again. He glances over at Star, who’s still wrapped tightly in her blanket, her face buried in her hands. Her hair’s a mess, sticking up at odd angles, and there’s a red crease on her cheek from the pillow—or, more likely, his chest.

“You good?” he asks after a beat, his voice low and gruff.

Star groans into her hands. “Absolutely not.”

He huffs out a dry laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Could’ve been worse.”

She finally peeks out from behind her hands, glaring at him. “Worse than your little sister catching us in the world’s most awkward position and making it sound ten times worse? Sure. Let me know when that happens.”

Chris smirks faintly, leaning back against the edge of the dresser. “She’s six. She’ll forget about it by lunchtime.”

“You sure about that?” Star mutters, pulling the blanket tighter around herself like it’ll somehow shield her from the sheer embarrassment radiating through her body.

“Not even a little,” he admits, shrugging. “But it’s not like she’s gonna tell anyone. What’s she gonna do, run to the neighbors?”

Star lets out a dry laugh, finally dropping her hands to her lap. “I don’t even care about that. I just—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Forget it.”

Chris doesn’t press, but his tired gaze lingers on her for a moment longer, studying the way her shoulders are still hunched under the blanket. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know.”

She snorts softly, brushing her messy hair back from her face. “I think your sister would disagree.”

“Lila’s six,” he says again, pushing himself off the dresser. “She also thinks Bunny’s alive. Not exactly a credible source.”

That earns him the faintest smile, though she quickly hides it by ducking her head. He sighs, raking a hand through his curls as he nods toward the door.

“Come on,” he mutters. “You might as well eat something before she makes this worse.”

Star looks up at him, her eyebrows raising. “She’s gonna make it worse?”

“Oh, I definitely lied,” Chris says, smirking faintly. “This’ll be all she talks about for days.”

She groans, throwing the blanket off and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Chris doesn’t respond, just turns toward the door and heads into the hall. Star follows a second later, still trying to shake off the awkwardness of waking up where she definitely wasn’t supposed to be.

When they reach the kitchen, Lila’s already at the table, Bunny perched on the edge like he’s part of the conversation. She grins at them as they walk in, her greenish-brown eyes sparkling with barely-contained glee.

“You guys were cuddling,” she announces again, just in case anyone forgot.

Chris groans, opening a cabinet to grab the waffle mix. “Drop it, Lila.”

“But it was so cute,” she insists, swinging her legs under the table. “Like you were best friends or something.”

“Drop it,” he says again, though his voice lacks any real heat.

Star slides into the chair across from Lila, her face still warm but her smirk returning. “You’re relentless, kid.”

Lila shrugs, flashing her a cheeky grin. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Chris snorts as he measures the mix into a bowl. “Don’t let it go to your head, Star.”

“Too late,” she fires back, and for the first time in a long time, the smile that spreads across her face feels easy.

Lila chatters away like a radio stuck on full volume, her words tumbling out so fast you can barely keep up. She’s already telling you about Bunny’s “big adventures” this week—apparently, he had to “save the day” when her friend’s toy broke at school—and you nod along, biting back a grin as she gestures wildly, her curls bouncing with every word.

Across the tiny kitchen, Chris stands at the counter, methodically sliding frozen Eggo waffles into the toaster. He doesn’t say much, just glances over his shoulder every so often to make sure neither of you are about to set something on fire.

“Star,” Lila says suddenly, leaning forward and propping her chin on her hands. “Do you like waffles?”

“Uh, yeah,” you reply, glancing at Chris. “Who doesn’t?”

“Right?” Lila says, throwing her hands up like it’s a universal truth. “Chris makes the best waffles.”

You snort softly, raising an eyebrow at him. “Does he now?”

Chris rolls his eyes, pulling a plate from the cabinet. “They’re frozen, Star. Let’s not get crazy.”

“Yeah, but you put the good stuff on them,” Lila insists, beaming as she watches him grab a jar of Nutella. “That’s what makes them the best.”

Chris sighs but doesn’t argue, twisting the jar open and slathering a thick layer of Nutella over the steaming waffles. He grabs a banana from the counter, slicing it with the precision of someone who’s clearly done this routine a hundred times before. When he’s finished, he pours a cup of strawberry milk and sets everything on the table in front of Lila.

“Here,” he mutters, sliding the plate and cup over. “Knock yourself out.”

You watch, wide-eyed, as Lila digs in immediately, taking a huge bite and humming with exaggerated delight. Chris catches the look on your face and smirks faintly, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Nutella? Bananas? Strawberry milk?” you say, motioning to Lila’s plate like it’s some kind of luxury breakfast. “You’re gonna have her bouncing off the walls.”

Chris shrugs, his smirk growing. “Almond moms would probably kill me, but I don’t have the energy to fight a six-year-old over food. Besides,” he adds, nodding toward Lila, “she’d win.”

Lila grins, her cheeks already sticky with Nutella. “I’m unstoppable!”

You laugh, shaking your head as Chris grabs another pair of waffles from the toaster and slaps them onto a plate. This time, he doesn’t bother with the toppings, just slides the plain ones across the table toward you.

“Sorry,” he says, smirking as he sets a butter knife down beside you. “You don’t rate the deluxe version.”

“Gee, thanks,” you reply, but your smile lingers as you pick up the knife and start spreading butter over the still-warm waffles.

Lila kicks her feet happily under the table, pausing only to take a long sip of her strawberry milk before launching into another story—this one about a school art project Chris apparently helped her with. You glance at him, raising an eyebrow, and he just shrugs, his tired eyes softening slightly as he watches her ramble.

It’s loud and chaotic, but as you sit there, listening to Lila’s endless chatter and the faint clatter of Chris cleaning up at the counter, you realize it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels warm. Familiar. Like maybe this is what mornings are supposed to be.

Lila clings to your arm like she’s physically trying to anchor you to the trailer. Her curls are wild from the morning’s chaos, and there’s still a faint smudge of Nutella at the corner of her mouth as she pouts up at you.

“Don’t go!” she whines, her voice teetering on the edge of dramatic. “You just got here!”

“I’ve been here all night, kid,” you say with a small laugh, gently prying her fingers off your sleeve. “I’ve gotta go. I’ve got plans.”

“But Bunny likes you!” she insists, holding up her stuffed rabbit like it’s a compelling argument. “He says you should stay.”

Chris, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, rolls his eyes. “Bunny doesn’t pay rent, Lila. He doesn’t get a vote.”

Lila glares at him but turns back to you, her greenish-brown eyes wide with determination. “Stay for just a little longer? Please?”

You crouch down to her level, your hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “I wish I could, but my friend Madison’s waiting for me. I promised her.”

Lila’s pout deepens, and for a second, you think she might actually cry. Chris clears his throat from behind her, his tone dry but not unkind. “Star’s gotta go, Lila. You’ll see her again.”

“You promise?” she asks, turning to look at him, her voice suddenly softer.

Chris’s gaze flicks to you briefly before nodding. “Yeah. She’ll come back.”

You stand, glancing at him, and there’s something unspoken in the way he meets your eyes. He doesn’t say it, but you can tell he means it—that he expects you to follow through.

“Of course I will,” you say, ruffling Lila’s curls. “Who else is gonna hear about Bunny’s next big adventure?”

That earns you a small, reluctant smile from Lila, though she still looks a little heartbroken. “Okay,” she mumbles, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chris straightens up from the doorframe, opening the door and nodding toward the gravel outside. “I’ll walk you out.”

You grab your jacket from the back of the couch and follow him, Lila trailing behind until Chris gives her a look that sends her back inside with one last wistful wave. The morning sun is brighter now, cutting through the cool air as you step onto the porch.

Chris steps down after you, his hands shoved into his pockets. “She’s dramatic, in case you didn’t notice.”

“She’s sweet,” you counter, glancing back at the trailer. “You’re lucky to have her.”

His jaw tenses slightly, but he nods, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Yeah. I know.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the sound of the gravel crunching faintly under your boots as you shift your weight. Finally, you glance at him, tilting your head slightly.

“You’re not gonna get all sappy, are you?” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Chris smirks faintly, his tired eyes narrowing slightly. “Not a chance.”

You grin, pulling your jacket tighter around you as you take a step toward the road. “See you around, Chris.”

He nods, leaning back against the porch railing. “Yeah. Take it easy.”

As you walk away, you can still feel his gaze lingering on your back. And even though the morning feels a little too bright, a little too sharp, you find yourself smiling as you head toward Madison’s.

AUTHORS NOTE: can you tell i have some time on my hands today…

TAG LIST: @jetaimevous @sturnsblunt @riasturns @ifwdominicfike @chrissturns-wife @mattsmunch @pip4444chris @ribread03 @ariestrxsh @angelic-sturniolos111 @pvssychicken @mattslolita @stvrnzcherries @dottieboo @lovergirl4gracieabrams

[aventurineswife]

Hey! I was wondering if I could request Aventurine, Ratio and maybe Jiaoqiu with an S/O who has a little sister (like, let's say 7 years old) and just them interacting with her and being adorable?

In the Smallest Moments, We Find Our Light

Tags: Aventurine, Ratio, Jiaoqiu, Fluff, Healing, Friendship, Family Bonds, Humor, Lighthearted, Emotional Moments, Healing Journey, Caring, Mentor Figures.

Aventurine had never been particularly good with children. His life had been one of strategy, manipulation, and high-stakes gambles—none of which were qualities a child could appreciate. But when he found himself in the presence of his partner's little sister, a soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He wasn't sure why, but there was something about the way she looked at him with wide, curious eyes that made him feel both disarmed and strangely protective.

"Can you teach me how to play cards?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve.

Aventurine chuckled, a sound that was both amused and warm. "Cards, huh?" he mused, flicking his earring absentmindedly. "Well, my dear, you're in luck. I am a master of games."

He motioned to a table, where he set up a small deck of cards. As he dealt the cards with an almost theatrical flair, the little girl watched in awe. "Now, here's the first rule," Aventurine began, his tone shifting from lighthearted to serious. "Life is a gamble, and every decision is a risk. But not all risks are worth taking."

The little girl blinked, processing his words with a furrowed brow. "So... you don't always win?"

He gave her a sly smile. "No, not always. But it's how you play the game that counts."

She thought about it for a moment, then grinned. "I think I'll win this time," she declared confidently, her small fingers holding up a card.

Aventurine's smile softened as he glanced at her. There was something about her optimism—her ability to approach the game with such pure determination—that reminded him of a time before he'd learned to guard his heart. He caught himself, quickly masking the thought with another playful comment.

"Careful, young one," he warned, "I'm a formidable opponent."

The game continued, but Aventurine found himself genuinely enjoying it—not because he was winning, but because for the first time in a long while, he wasn't calculating every move. Instead, he was simply… enjoying the moment.

Ratio had always considered himself a man of intellect, a man above the trivialities of childish things. His life was filled with books, studies, and research, and he never entertained the thought of interacting with children. But when his partner's little sister bounced into the room, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes, something strange stirred in him.

"Dr. Ratio!" she called, her small hands tugging at the sleeve of his vest. "Can you tell me a story?"

He looked at her, mildly annoyed by the interruption, yet his tone softened slightly. "A story?" he repeated. "What, precisely, is it that you wish to hear? A tale of wisdom? A recount of one of my brilliant discoveries?"

"Noooo!" she giggled, shaking her head. "I want a funny one!"

Ratio blinked, momentarily thrown off by her sheer innocence. His gaze shifted as he considered her request. "Funny...?" he muttered under his breath. "You wish for me to be 'funny'?"

"Yes! Please!"

For a moment, he stood there, his hands at his sides, pondering. Finally, after a dramatic pause, he sighed, relenting. "Very well. But understand this: humor is a delicate art, and my style may not be to your taste."

He cleared his throat and began, albeit in a scholarly manner, "Once, there was a very wise owl who—"

She interrupted with a delighted giggle. "Owl? Like your shoulders?" she pointed to his shoulder pieces shaped like owls.

Ratio's lips quirked up slightly. "Ah, yes, exactly. This owl was... let’s say, much like myself—blessed with an intellectual superiority far beyond that of any common bird." He paused dramatically. "However, one day, it made the mistake of—"

"Made a mistake?! A smart owl?!" she gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.

Ratio paused, realizing he had lost her attention. But when he looked down at her face, so innocent and full of wonder, he couldn't help but feel a small chuckle escape him.

He continued the story, weaving in absurdities and gentle humor, and as the little girl laughed uncontrollably at the owl's misadventures, Ratio found himself more relaxed than he'd ever been in her presence. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to this whole "funny" thing after all.

Jiaoqiu had always been a figure of quiet strength, an observer in the background, finding solace in the rhythm of his healing work. However, today, he found himself in a moment of unusual vulnerability as his partner's little sister gently tugged at his sleeve, her voice ringing with innocence.

"Jiaoqiu, can you help me?" Her small voice was filled with curiosity.

Jiaoqiu, who was blind, couldn't see her, but he could feel the gentle tug, and he could sense the slight excitement in her voice. He was used to navigating the world without sight, relying instead on sound, touch, and the subtle energies around him.

"Of course, my dear," he said softly, his voice calm and warm, though his thoughts always lingered on the futility of it all—the constant struggle between healing and death. Still, he couldn't turn away from someone in need, especially not a child. "What do you need help with?"

She placed something small and delicate into his hands, and he carefully cradled it. It was a flower, its petals soft and fragile, but its form was still unfamiliar to him without sight. His fingers traced its outline with practiced precision, and he could sense its delicate beauty despite not being able to see it.

"I think it needs medicine so it can be happy again," she said, her tone full of hope and innocence.

Jiaoqiu smiled gently, though the weight of his own internal struggles hung heavy on his heart. He knew all too well the fleeting nature of life. As his fingers moved over the flower, he focused on its pulse, the slight vibrations of energy it gave off. His expertise in alchemy and food-based medicine had honed his ability to sense the health of an object, living or otherwise, through touch.

"Sometimes, little one," he began softly, "healing is not about what we can see. It's about feeling what is needed, understanding what the heart of the matter truly is."

His hands moved to his pouch, where he kept various healing herbs and potions. He could sense the small vials through the slight metallic sounds of their contents shifting within, and he selected the one that he knew would provide the right remedy for the flower.

He poured a few drops of the potion onto the flower, his movements careful and precise. "Like this," he continued, as he gently cradled the flower in his hands, "healing isn't about making everything perfect. It's about giving something the chance to thrive, even if it's just for a while."

He handed the flower back to her, the slight tremor of her small hands against his own providing a sense of reassurance. "There. Now you must be patient. You must nurture it with care, just like you would any living thing."

The little girl hugged the flower close to her chest. "Thank you, Jiaoqiu! You're the best healer!"

Jiaoqiu's heart fluttered with a mix of tenderness and sorrow. In his mind, he knew that the flower, like the many souls he had tended to, might one day fade away. But for now, in this moment, he had done something good. Perhaps that was enough.

He listened to her soft footsteps as she skipped away, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to let go of the burden that always weighed so heavily on his heart. The world might be full of pain, loss, and uncertainty, but moments like this—moments of connection—were what kept him moving forward.

Jiaoqiu smiled softly, feeling the cool breeze on his face and the warmth of the little girl’s gratitude filling the empty space inside of him. Healing, after all, wasn’t just about mending the body—it was about healing the heart, and sometimes, that was enough.

[goldsbitch]

Just don't talk

summary: Enemies to lovers on steroids. Lando can't stand Y/N, the first female driver in F1. He also can't stand not having her with her clothes on.

warnings: please don't be offended by weak ass feminism debate, swear words, minors do not interact, just generally don't take this one too seriously, smut (that's what we came for)

He radiated stupidity. Reckless, annoying, careless and just plain stupid. Blood boiled hard and fast in Y/N when he entered the room. Cocky smile, as if he was the shit. And those poor fans did not even realize, because his PR managers worked around the clock to stop the scandals getting out and to remain his bubbly, down-to-earth image he seemed to hold in general public. Now, she never doubted his driving genius. It was honest respect on that part. No, this was about everything else. Even the way he grew his "so called" beard annoyed her.

She radiated arrogance. Being the first female driver on the grid had everyone looking differently at her, as it would be the opposite if she was just another rookie driver. He could not stand that. It felt strangely misogynistic. But what sent him to levels of annoyance he had not discovered prior to meeting her, was how she did absolutely nothing about this. Danced around as if she did not see it. But Lando could see through her, she was a calculating bitch that knew exactly what was happening.

It's not like either of them got it wrong really. Lando had his personality that did not correlate with the desired persona the public wanted him to maintain. For as long as he remembered, he had to be a grown up, missing his young adult experiences completely. Sometimes, it just got the better of him. Lando was not exactly proud of that or anything. Y/N was indeed calculating. But it would be hard to argue that she could have chosen not to do that - yet, the world was simply not ready for any kind of female driver to enter the grid. She had to be smarter than an average rookie. There is a possibility that this was all just in her head, but it was hard to prove it at this point.

They avoided talking to each other like they would avoid the plague. Lando felt like all the years of media training lead to the moments where they shared the interview room. Their disenchantment with each other was not exactly a known thing, they were deceitful enough to do keep it between themselves. Well, the more observant drivers and members of their team were well aware of the truth. There was not a single member of the close inner circle that would dare to speak about how when these two had to share the pre race interviews, it would be the driest interview of them all. Frankly, drivers dreaded that. Daniel would be the one to try and break the ice. George found it mildly amusing. Max could not give two shits about them.

And to the luck of everyone involved, there was Lando, set next to Alex Albon, who was sat next to Y/N. He sighed heavily before taking hold of the microphone.

First interviewer asked about the lasted updates on Y/N Aston Martin car. The second one went to Lando, with a request to address the bad strategy the team had on the last Grand Prix, which he answered very diplomatically.

Third interviewer asked Y/N on whether the talks have started regarding her contract for the upcoming season.

"Yes, we are talking about that. I love racing and I'm planning on staying here," she laughed lightly. "I want to be here to...possibly to inspire and attract young girls, same as those like Fernando was a role model to both Alex and Lando. The female audience of F1 is growing and that is absolutely amazing. And perhaps now will the female fans have an opportunity to cheer for one of their own."

"May I have a question?" Lando entered the chat. His tone was indicating fire being lit within him and him intending to spread it wide. The game was on. Y/N tensed up. Alex smiled nervously.

Both Lando and Y/N shot a look at the interview moderator, who was prepared for many scenarios, but not this one exactly. Once Lando received an unsure nod, he continued. "We both know the numbers, we sit on similar meetings. The percentage of female audience is now nearing almost half, is that correct?"

"Well, we are nowhere near that - more like 30-40%"

"Right. And this trend has started prior to you joining the grid, right?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"Are you saying that the female viewers did not have anyone to connect with before that?"

"I'd be brave enough to assume so. Where are you heading?"

Alex wanted to stop them, he shot looks to multiple people who had the power to end this. Members present from both teams woke up from their slow mundane afternoon. But the conversation was too fast for anyone to interrupt.

"So, what was the motivation of the female viewers to watch F1? Why were they watching?"

"Um, well the sport is fascinating and can capture one. The quality of our media teams has risen greatly, social media and-"

"Yes. So are you saying that young boys and teenagers were watching this for a different reason that girls and any other genders?"

"Like I was saying, it might be hard to connect. Young boys and teenagers can relate and even imagine themselves as the future F1 driver."

"So why do, in your opinion, little girls and female teenagers watch races? Are you saying that prior to your start, their reasons were less valid? Less noble? Does miss misogyny over here think that female audience is now validated due to her representation in the sport?"

The room went silent. Y/N took a deep breath and without missing a beat she replied.

"I'm sorry, there must have been something foul in your cornflakes this morning. After all, even in these progressive times, some of the people involved did not get the memo about the way how to interact with the fanbase in a healthy manner. It must be hard hard to think straight and not draw over-the-top conclusions when one's mind is stuck in an endless cycle of "Hello, gorgeous" and "Sure, I'll text you back.""

Alarmed looks were shared accros the room. Alex tried to laugh it off. The moderator ended the discussion. The pair kept staring at each other, until their prompted their exits orchestrated by their team.

//

Asshole. Obnoxious idiot. She wanted to slap him. The social media was on fire, this topic clearly resonating among fans. It was clear the opinions were divided and this was just not good to have on your track record. She was mad at herself as well. Got caught up like a fly to a spiderweb. He won this one. She'll just have to beat him during the race or shoot him in the leg at the next opportunity.

"Stay true to your beliefs" was the caption under his newly posted photo. Smiling as ever. Some photographer with under-appreciated talent managing to capture him in the perfect light. Total thirst trap. Her PR team was figuring out how to salvage this, but everyone knew Lando stuck a good one this time.

But that was not the opinion of the McLaren media team, who really did work their butts off the last few months. This was not good, as his haters were currently busy pointing out holes in his argument, making Y/N the hero they wanted to have. PR team picked the photo of him they had in store in order to play it safe and nonchalantly. Lando got a big threatening talk right after the press conference. McLaren was not letting the word misogyny be connected to their brand. He defended himself for a while, but at the end agreed to avoid bringing these subjects to light prior to the knowledge of the team. In his eyes, she won. He got her free attention. The nickname miss misogyny was not going to stick. The only thing this brough him was a headache and built up anger.

She was bursting with anger and was not about to leave it in for herself. "You can stick this bullshit up you ass, Lando."

"Don't assume I like the same things you do," was his immediate response.

Confidentiality. That was the only thing she believed he could uphold. Both of them had too much to loose.

//

They were bad for each other. Bringing out the worst traits, putting others in discomfort and creating drama out of nowhere. But the once the night covered the daily routines and worries, the truth would start crawling out. Once the chequered flag got packed up after a race, it was time for a parade of red flags to begin.

It was suppose to be a one time mistake. Party that go out of hand. Club bathroom sex that was better than they'd be willing to admit. They never spoke of it. Nobody knew.

Like magnets they circled towards each other on the quiet nights on the road. Always her place, never his. As if she'd make the effort to come toward him. Like he would ever let her invade his private safe space. It worked for them, transforming the anger into rough bites and hickeys. Lando enjoyed leaving them on her, just at the line where he knew she'd have to think about how to cover them up and made sure she never made any mark on him. Hate fucking, that's what that was.

Once again, his hot breath cut through the crispy Monaco night air coming from the opened window of her bedroom. He had her handcuffed to the bed side and legs wrapped around his toned torso. He was driving her crazy, not letting her stay on top this time, robbing her of the pleasure of watching him submit to her moves and direction. He watched attentively, making sure he changed his tempo whenever she was about to climax. She was not one to enjoy delayed gradification, not when this obnoxious idiot was watching her and having fun with it. One thing he had to admit was that she was fucking hot, mainly in the way how she able to carry herself around. From the first moment he had the misfortune to see her in person, it had been the one thought unable to leave his mind. What did she look like when she was just about to come? Was she the one to make any sounds? Did she like it rough or soft? Would she be able to dominate him? During the day, he let his frustrations out verbally, during the night he thrusted into her as if there was no tomorrow. Like a drug addict getting his hit. She was even more mad at him when he was fucking her. Because it was just so good. They had the same rhythm and their bodies spoke in a language no one would have understood anyway. So she just surrendered. It drove her crazy, not being on the top. He licked and bit her nipples and did forbidden things - like stopped fucking her out of nowhere and buried his head in her waist, slowly twisting his tongue around her clit. When he felt like she adjusted to that, he continued back with thrusting in her. He moved so fast that she started get dizzy from the motion, the heavenly kind of dizzy. Lando watched her like and animal would observe his prey. Not often did he manage to get completely under his control, but tonight was one of the precious days he'd be recalling in the shower days after. He delayed his own orgasm for as long as he could, but there was a point where he just gave in and released him into the condom. There was always a hint of disappointment in the joyous moment. His darkest wish was to have her walk the day after with his cum dripping out of her. She was his little work slut, his nemesis, his Vegas girl.

Y/N never wanted to cuddle afterwards. She appreciated that Lando always swiftly got up and left without a word. Because what if he had spoken, what if the oxytocin started flowing in and she'd loose her guard and get herself in even bigger of a mess than this little game was. She was the first female driver. There were things she had to prove to the world. Fucking one of the other drivers was not one of them.

p2

[theonotti]

Pairing: Theodore Nott x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: Years have past since the Battle of Hogwarts, and through his grief and desperation, Theo fights to get back every second lost since then.

Warnings: Major Character Death (Not Theo), it's just angst lads

Notes: Been a while! But I'm back with some writing! This fic will be 3 parts in total. Shoutout to @classyartisanpizza for letting me write this idea! <3

Masterlist

~

The nightmares are the worst part.

It's always the nightmares.

Theo wakes with a start, his chest heaving as he abruptly sits up. It takes a moment of his eyes darting around in fear for him to realise he's simply in bed. No battle. No green bursts of light flying inches from his head. No bodies dropping around him.

He closes his eyes, running his hand down his face to rid the beads of sweat rolling down his skin. Though he forces himself to take deep breaths, his heart continues to race. The room feels so warm. Why does the room feel so warm? His chestnut curls fall over his eyes, slightly matted to his forehead, and for the briefest of moments, he considers shaving his head.

The vivid technicolor of the nightmares always gets him. Blaring realism and exaggerated memories have him waking in a panic without fail.

A hand runs up Theo's lower back, followed by a soft voice speaking in tongues and distortion. A chill runs up his spine as his fight or flight kicks into high gear, causing him to jump off the bed and point his wand directly at the perpetrator.

Daphne Greengrass stares back at him, looking mainly annoyed yet mildly confused as she wraps the sheet around her naked form. There's a long, tense silence as the two of them stare at each other, and despite knowing there's no threat, Theo doesn't bother to lower his wand.

"I thought I said no sleeping over."

His voice is clipped, a stark contrast from the sultry tone he had taken with her the night before. Then again, he doesn't ever have to work in order for Daphne to become putty in his hands. Not really. Him putting on the show just makes him feel better about using her.

She sits up slightly, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face. Even in the dark, the blush that fills her cheeks is unmissable.

"You fell asleep and I-"

"That's not an invitation."

You're such an asshole, He tells himself. But he can't help it. The point of the rule was so that he'd never have to wake up to Daphne. She's not ugly, or entirely terrible to be around. But his care for her only extends to the point of what she does for him. A means to an end. And the end is to distract him from the never ending abyss of his mind and the standing void in his chest.

Besides, that spot in the bed belongs to someone else.

Belonged-

No. Belongs.

Another beat passes before Theo realises that his wand is still raised, and he finally lowers it to his side. Although he should feel worse about his overreaction, he's only a slight tinged embarrassed. It's being overshadowed by his annoyance.

Daphne takes a moment to stare at him, her eyes searching his face for the humour that never comes. A quiet sigh of relief escapes his mouth when she finally climbs out of his bed and starts to get dressed.

"What are you doing later?" She asks while pulling her shirt over her head.

The clock on the wall reads quarter till three in the morning.

Theo tries to hide his smug irritation at the fact that she's already trying to plan when she sees him again, despite his complete disregard for her only moments ago.

When he doesn't respond right away, Daphne looks over at him, throwing a sock off his floor right at his face. In another life, with another person, Theo would've found this gesture amusing, but right now, he just stares at her in exasperation.

"I'm busy."

Merlin, you're a fucking asshole.

But Daphne remains unfazed as she pulls her jeans up her legs and fastens them.

"Maybe next week then? I'm working all weekend."

And despite his self awareness, Theo just can't fucking help himself.

"I'll call you."

Now he's done it. The sting ripples through her face as she pauses all movement, her eyes falling back on him. Under her confused gaze, the temperature in the room falls, but Theo keeps his expression neutral. For a long moment, they just stare at each other in tense silence, before finally Daphne breaks the prolonged eye contact to finish putting her trainers on.

"I don't understand why we keep doing this, Theo," She says in a low voice as she ties her right shoe. It's clear she's trying to be more confident in her words than hurt, but she's failing. "You clearly don't want to commit to me or even care about me. Why do you keep phoning if you can't be bothered?"

Theo leans his back against the wall, his shoulder brushing the door frame of his bedroom. The words leave his mouth before he's able to process them, or to consider not saying them.

"Because you always come running."

Twenty years on this planet and you still don't know when to shut your bloody mouth.

Daphne looks appalled as the words hang in the air. Despite the fact that Theo's guilt is radiating off of him and filling the room at a suffocating rate, he continues to say nothing else. An eternity later, she snatches her coat off the floor and storms out of the room, slamming Theo's bedroom door so loudly that he flinches, followed by the slamming of the front door of his flat.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Theo pushes off the wall, walking over to his bed and collapsing on top of the covers.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

As he buries his face in the pillow, desperate to go back to sleep, his mind starts to drift back to the nightmare that started the domino effect events of the evening. A chill runs up his spine for a second time as he dives head first into the dreams that haunt his subconscious damn near every time he closes his eyes.

The falling bodies.

The walls crumbling down.

The flashes of bright green flying passed his head.

The set of eyes. His favourites. Watching as the life drains out of them.

Theo abruptly jumps out of his bed, his hands trembling slightly as he walks briskly to the door and throws it open. His flat is dead silent, save the sound of his footsteps across the hardwood floor. Through the darkness, he can make out the faint outline of his black cat moving quickly across the floor towards him.

"Piss off, Shadow," He mutters to the cat. She doesn't seem to notice his hostility as she continues to move between his legs. But he's quite rehearsed in this dance at this point, and manages to cross the pitch black living room without tripping over her and falling on his face. He makes his way to the spare bedroom, the room that used to be where he worked on his potions.

That is, until more important projects grabbed Theo in a chokehold.

Unlocking the door with his wand, he quickly goes inside quickly, making sure the cat didn't follow him through before shutting the door behind him.

~

"Mattheo, I'm fine."

"Is the kidnapper in the room with you and forcing you to say that?"

Theo rolls his eyes, rubbing his right eyelid with his free hand as his other one stirs the brewing potion in the cauldron in front of him. His phone rests on the desk next to him with his best friend's display name taking over the screen, the call on speaker.

"You think a kidnapper would willingly keep me?" He asks as he lets his free hand drop back to his wooden desk, accidentally into a puddle of spilled potion that had toppled from the cauldron. Making a face, Theo instinctively wipes his fingers off on his jeans. "They'd return me before you'd even realised I'm gone."

Mattheo lets out a quiet laugh before saying, "You're right. I'd say we could use the break, but no one's seen you in weeks."

Theo lets his other hand drop to the desk, sighing exasperatedly.

"Mate. We've just hung out. At the Leaky Cauldron, yeah? When Malfoy got so piss drunk, he fell in the toilets and smacked his face on a sink."

The memory causes a ghost of a smile to form on Theo's face, but the silence on the other end of the phone causes it to fade just as quickly.

"Hello? Did I lose you, Riddle?"

When Mattheo speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically quiet.

"That was two months ago."

Every single muscle in Theo's face slackens.

"What? No. That can't be right. It was just two weeks ago, yeah?"

"No, Theo. It was two months ago."

Shaking his head, Theo grabs his phone, switching to check the date as he stammers whispered denials, more to himself than anything. But Mattheo is right. Two months have passed since that last hangout, and besides the occasional mess around with Daphne, which he assumes are now over since the debacle a few nights prior, Theo hasn't seen anyone else since.

Where did the time go?

You know where the time went.

"We're really worried, mate," Mattheo says in a soft voice. "I know it's been hard, but-"

"Don't," Theo barks, almost instinctively as he sets his phone back on the desk. He knows where this conversation is going, because this is where the conversation always goes.

"It's been almost three years, Theo."

Theo shakes his head, his eyes closing as the air slowly starts to syphon from the room.

"It's not- Surely I can't be expected to just forget."

A quiet sigh rings out from the other side of the phone, as Theo fights to keep his rising emotions in check.

"Of course you wouldn't forget. We just-"

Theo quickly shakes his head, not wanting to hear the same things he always here's when one of his friends decides to play therapist for him.

"Oh shit, I've just remembered I have better things to do than have this conversation."

Theo lifts his hand towards his phone, with the intent to hang up, when he heard Mattheo's desperate voice quickly calling to him.

"Meet in the Three Broomsticks tonight!"

Theo pauses, staring at his phone as his brain starts its usual war on itself whenever someone wants him to do anything that isn't rotting at home. On one hand, going out with his friends would placate them for long enough that they won't have yet another conversation like this one. But on the other hand…

He's close. He's so close to figuring it out. And any time that isn't dedicated to figuring it out is, in his eyes, a complete waste.

But as he stares down at his best friend's name on his phone, he lets out a heavy sigh.

"Piss off."

He can practically hear Mattheo's smug grin in his voice.

"See you there," He says, before promptly hanging up the phone.

A heavy sigh forcing its way out of his mouth, Theo turns back to the cauldron in front of him.

You need a break.

Maybe stepping back for a night and coming back will trigger an epiphany.

Theo lets out a resigned sigh. The last thing he wants to do is step away. When he's away from the work room, he feels like he can't breathe. When he's not working or researching or planning or even contemplating, he feels like he's drowning.

In his head, he's running out of time. But with every centimetre closer he gets to the finish line, he gets another centimetre closer to getting every lost moment back.

~

The remaining butterbeer swishes circles at the bottom of the glass as Theo twists it with his wrist. A quiet yet fake laugh comes out of his mouth, if only to mix in with the loud, howl-like laughter surrounding him from whatever funny thing Blaise just said.

Merlin, I should've gotten a firewhiskey.

Though, he knows it would've been a bad idea. His tolerance for alcohol has grown concerningly high over the last few years, and he doesn't want to explain why he would've been fully functional after seven hard drinks while his friends would be well beyond wasted.

So he sips his butterbeer under the guise that he has an early morning the next day. If he had more observant friends, they would see through this excuse, but fortunately for him, they tend to miss a lot when it comes down to the quiet, chestnut haired lad whose mind is rarely on planet Earth.

"Oi. Space Cadet. Can you join us for a moment?"

Theo takes a casual drink from his glass as his eyes land on Malfoy.

"Give me something worth joining in on," He quips as he gently sets the glass back down on the table. The blond rolls his eyes as Mattheo and Blaise both let out a chuckle.

"We were just talking about the Harpies. Whether they'll make the cup," Mattheo explains just as the barmaid approaches with their refills. The fresh butterbeer is set down in front of Theo at the same time as he lets out his own laugh. A genuine one, this time.

"The Harpies will make the Cup the same day Malfoy stops bleaching his hair."

Now it's howling laughter from the two other lads as Malfoy slams his mug down on the table, pointing at Theo maliciously.

"Don't start your bullshit, Nott."

"I saw the bottle in your trunk, Malfoy. Third year. One never forgets."

"I don't bleach my fucking hair, and if you say it again, I'll make sure you can't see it ever again."

Theo doesn't miss a beat.

"Is that a promise?"

As Riddle and Zabini keep giggling, the alcohol already to their heads, Theo keeps his wits about him as he stares at the tip of Draco's finger that's still only inches from his face.

"Stand down, Malfoy," Blaise finally interjects. "You've become entirely too serious since getting hitched."

The silver band on that left fourth finger glints in the dim lighting as Draco pulls his arm back down towards his lap. Despite his recoil at the scolding, his eyes don't quite stop glaring their daggers towards Theo, who takes another unbothered sip of his drink.

"Maybe it helped me grow up. Someone should take a page out of that book."

Theo feels his fingers tense around the glass, the heat rushing to his cheeks.

Prick.

Prick.

Absolute wanker.

Dead man walking.

If my life hadn't fallen apart, I would've been married by now. Maybe I'd even have kids.

A wave of nausea hits him at the thought. Instinctively, his eyes shift to look at the door, as his mind searches for his excuse to leave. If his shift in demeanour isn't obvious to every person at the table, it definitely is to Mattheo, who quickly clears his throat.

"Anyone hear about the hunt for whoever's trying to replicate the time turners?"

Theo's entire body ceases, his throat trapping any sound or breath from escaping, meanwhile his brain starts to race at speeds he has never experienced before. The conversation shifts to this topic as Theo desperately tries to remember how to breathe.

"What's the hold up?" Blaise questions before he empties his glass. Mattheo does the same while lifting his shoulders into a shrug.

"Whoever is doing it, they've covered their tracks quite well. But the Ministry has their best people trying to find them before they're able to muck up anything."

A quiet murmur fills the silence of the table. Sweat beads Theo's forehead as he accidentally chugs his entire glass. No one appears to notice, to his relief.

"How are they able to track that?" Malfoy asks curiously as he drums his fingers against the wood top table.

"A time turner has an Hour Reversal charm encased in the centre," Mattheo explains. "The Ministry is alerted every time one is cast, but whoever is doing it has protected themselves so much that their location is damn near impossible to track." Mattheo pauses to take a drink before he continues. "If it wasn't so infuriating, I'd be impressed."

A slight smirk crosses Malfoy's face before he says, "I take it the 'Ministry's best people' includes your team?"

Mattheo rolls his eyes, though the slight pink hue that covers his cheeks is unmissable. Despite him being nothing like his father, Mattheo has always been slightly embarrassed by his position in the Ministry. While Zabini, Malfoy and Theo all view it as a growth and a middle finger to Voldemort and the Death Eaters, Mattheo sometimes views it as a betrayal, though he only mentions it after he's hit a certain point of inebriation.

"It is a job for the Misuse of Magic department, in my opinion. So yeah, the best people include my team."

Silence fills the table as everyone takes a sip of their drinks. Theo swallows the lump in his throat.

And then he speaks.

"Any evidence that they've been successful?"

The table turns to look at him, and he does his best to appear casual when he shrugs.

"Just curious."

Mattheo shakes his head.

"We'll be alerted if they actually go back," He explains. "Which will lead to their arrest, if they continue to use the Hour Reversal charm."

"Doesn't that only go back five hours?" Blaise asks, receiving a nod from the curly haired man to his right. Theo can feel the impending panic rising in his chest, but he swallows it down.

In theory, it's only five hours.

But with a little tampering, it's longer.

Not that I would know.

No sir.

"Not unless they do something to strengthen the spell," Mattheo says casually. "Like some sort of potion. Or enchanting the sand in the Hourglass."

Theo's face goes slack, and it feels like his entire body grows hot.

There it is.

That epiphany.

His eyes fall back onto Mattheo, the room glowing in a new light as a chill slowly trails down through his extremities and his fingers and toes.

Instinctively, Theo tries to stand before he realises he's in the corner seat of the booth. The rest of the table looks at him in surprise.

"Nott?" Malfoy asks as Theo uses the table and the ledge behind the seat to launch himself over Mattheo and the booth, out into the aisle, only making their shock grow further.

"Fuck, sorry I forgot. I need to- I have-" He stammers, knowing full well nothing he says will be able to explain his sudden change in demeanour. The looks on their faces are the same sort of looks they'd have if he had stripped down in front of them and started screaming like a banshee. He closes his eyes, putting his hands out in front of him as he takes a second to calm down. When he speaks again, it's with less urgency. "I need to go."

And with that, Theo turns and sprints out of the Three Broomsticks.

Before the door swings shut behind him, he can make out Mattheo's distant voice shouting his name. But if any of the lads make any attempt to follow, Theo moves too fast for them to have any sort of success. Once out of the village, Theo apparates back home.

Where he stays for almost ninety six straight hours.

He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat. He barely leaves his office to use the bathroom. And he definitely doesn't shower.

Theo's marathon is filled with work. The spell strengthening potion alone takes sixteen hours to brew, needing close management. And that was after all of the work he needed to put in in order to put the potion together. Meanwhile, he does an appalling amount of research, scouring text upon text about how one would enchant the sand. When he comes up with next to nothing after twelve hours worth of reading, he moves on to Plan B.

He starts to create his own spells.

It's not the first time Theo's dabbled in spell creation, but it is the first time it's something that's more serious than trying to make Malfoy's farts come out as actual bubbles. (A failed experiment, much to his thirteen year old self's detriment.) But this time is different. Hanging over the desk where he works is the picture of his motivation. And every time he starts to feel like he's failing, he looks up at the picture and a new resolve fills him.

Because he can't fail.

Failing isn't and never will be an option.

Every botched attempt leads to more research. Every new piece of information brings him that much closer.

Until, after almost ninety six hours of what he thought was going to lead to nothing, the moment is here.

He pulls the time turner out of the cauldron, and he can feel it. Despite having used the tongs to pull it out from the potion, Theo can feel the silver metals vibrating with magic, and that's how he knew.

It worked.

His hands tremble in the same manner as he reaches to touch it, almost hesitant from the anxiety that is running rampant in his head. But when his fingertips graze the warmth of the metal, nothing happens. Nothing changes. He looks around the room for a brief moment before looking back down at the makeshift Time Turner in his hands.

Spinning his chair around and leaning back, he examines the creation. His mind is quick to resume his doubts that it didn't work, despite the pure confidence he had just a moment before. Couldn't have worked. Because nothing he's done in the last few years has.

And yet.

There's only one way to find out.

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he props it up on his knee before he turns the screen on.

And then, he gives the spindle in his hand a turn to the right.

Theo can feel his heart stop as he watches the minutes on his phone go down with every tick of the Time Turner.

It worked.

It actually fucking worked.

A tsunami of emotions runs through Theo, overwhelming him so strongly that he has to turn back around to lean on his desk. For a moment, he lays his head on the desk, in the cradle that is his arms, basking in the darkness as he takes three long, deep breaths.

And then he looks up to the picture on the wall.

To his motivation. To the one he's been working for.

To the picture of you.

"Did you see that, pretty girl?" He asks in a gentle voice.

The spell hits your chest.

And the life leaves your eyes.

His voice is a little choked as he raises the Time Turner to the picture on the wall, wishing once again it was actually you and not just a moving idea behind a piece of paper.

"I'm coming for you."

[ozzgin]

How would the guys react to prehistoric reader fighting pickle (and she wins if that’s akay) Since he angered her. Because he ate her food( or she really loves food or she’s on her period)

(hope it makes sense )

I can never say no to a strong female character so it’s absolutely okay! If you‘d be so kind, I have two more asks regarding the prehistoric reader that I think are somewhat similar, so I’d just combine them under your request.

The first request: prehistoric pregnant reader “adopts” Baki (our affection deprived boy could use some love); her first spoken word is “Pickle”, and finally she gives birth to twins

The second request: prehistoric reader begins understanding modern human language, surprising the fighters, and begins translating for Pickle.

Baki Characters x Prehistoric! Fem Reader (II)

Featuring Pickle and his challengers. The sequel to our prehistoric reader that just gave birth and is slowly cozying up to modern life.

Reader wins against Pickle

You don’t even remember what set you off. Maybe the pregnancy hormones had gotten out of hand, or Pickle’s successive wins had earned him too much audacity. What’s certain is that you weren’t pleased with his attitude and decided to remind him you’re not one of the humans for him to show this insolence.

Hearing the savage, vicious growls that erupted from your chest as you slammed Pickle’s unconscious body into the ground one final time, no one really dared to interrupt you. Retsu, Katsumi and Jack had already received extensive injuries from a Pickle that held back still. They didn’t wish to ponder what you could do to them in your current state. Baki glanced at his father, wondering if he’d be tempted to challenge you during this unique opportunity.

Yuujirou, however, was trying his best to hold back his laughter. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so entertained. If you were moping the floors with Pickle with a massive pregnant belly, how damn strong were you on a regular day? He nearly put his hands together in prayer, hoping you’d stick around once you were done popping kids. He wanted to fight you so badly and felt like a schoolgirl kicking her feet on the mattress the night before a class trip.

Baki finds it amusing that you’re seemingly stronger than Pickle. His only goal is defeating his father. Of course, anyone strong enough could provide him with extra training for the final battle, but at this point, with you as his opponent, he might actually be overreaching. He hopes you won’t decide to fight Yuujirou anytime soon, because he wants to be the one to defeat him first. Jack shares this sentiment but is also a bit deflated knowing how big the gap between him and the ancient humans is.

Reader’s first word

Pickle is curled up in his enclosure’s tree trunk, pouting mildly after the angry defeat he suffered. To add insult to the injury, he can hear Baki’s spoiled chuckles as you feed him some of your T-Rex meat. After his fight with Pickle, the young boy was most open to receive aftercare and attention and you found it utterly adorable that someone as strong as him enjoyed special treatment.

The other men found it rather humiliating to rely on you and would gently let you know that they can manage just fine. But Baki immediately clung onto you and in time you began to wonder about his family. You weren’t entirely sure how to express the question to him. Did he have a mother? Where was she? How would you gesture for “mother” in the first place? If only you could articulate the same noises the other humans used to communicate. It looked very efficient and also very complex.

You glance at Pickle’s hiding spot, lost in thought. You try to replay some of the dialogues you’ve witnessed. In your mind, you closely observe the men discussing things in front of your prehistoric mate. The way their jaw opens and closes at calculated intervals. Why is the tongue contracting so frequently? Is this the tool needed to turn your growls into intentional, obvious messages? You pucker your lips and allow some air to blow out, like a faint whistle. Then, you tighten your lips and release them with pressure, and a “pop” sound comes out. Baki observes your attempts, confused. You press your tongue against the roof of your mouth and exhale. Another flattened whistle is released.

Finally, you flex your vocal chords with just enough force that the growl smoothens out and is replaced by a continuous voice. You repeat the movements that you’ve practiced in your head. So many people have used this word when looking at him. It can only mean one thing, and you want to hear it roll out of your own mouth. “Pi-ku-ru~”

Pickle pokes his head out of the enclosure, perplexed. That was certainly your voice, but the contents delivered by it were nothing he would’ve expected. His eyebrows are raised and he looks at your equally shocked expression. Baki is dumbfounded. He feels like he just witnessed something forbidden, of unspeakable importance. The raw piece of meat hangs in his mouth, yet to be chewed. You turn to the small human, seeking approval. Was this the correct way to do it? Have you made your message clear?

Before a potential answer comes out, you rush to Pickle and grab his face between your hands. Such a bizarre sensation. Within this vast, intricate language that the humans used, this one sequence of contractions and movements was specially designated for him. This one prolonged sound, and his eyes will lock with yours because he knows it’s him you’re calling. You gently kiss Pickle and he clumsily returns the gesture, still unsure of what is happening.

Birth and aftermath

Professor Payne is pacing in front of the hospital room. He doesn’t know what to be more excited about. The fact that two more prehistoric humans will soon walk the modern Earth, or that their mother casually reproduced articulate language just a few days ago. He clenches his fist in his pocket, somewhat resentful of Baki for being the one to retell the story. What unbelievable potential. His nostrils can already pick up the fresh ink of the soon-to-be published newspapers: “Noam Chomsky’s works in linguistics threatened by latest breakthrough - Discovery of Dr. Payne shows that ancient, Jurassic humans posses the skill to acquire spoken language. Implications unknown.”

Meanwhile, the fighters are gathered in the cramped hospital room. As they have proven their friendship to Pickle, it’s only natural to share this intimate moment with him. Pickle is holding one baby in each arm, cooing at them excitedly. Katsumi is pretending to be focused on a sight outside the window in order to hide his glossy eyes; births are always emotional for him. Retsu is standing close to the entrance, arms folded. He, too, is distracted by the knowledge that you may understand them and reproduce their words. He absentmindedly goes back to his encounters with you, hoping he didn’t say anything out of place that you might’ve picked up.

Baki is sitting on the side of your bed, carefully kneading your hand in an attempt to relax you. “You really should try some of the hospital food, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a dish this fancy!” He smiles at you and then nods in the direction of the tray. You follow his gaze and process his words. “Want try?” You manage to croak. Everyone in the room pauses to look at you. They already knew it from Baki, but hearing it firsthand truly is an astonishing experience. There’s a silent enthusiasm shared by the men standing close and Pickle tenses up, a small frown forming on his face. They better not get any ideas.

“What do you think about your new siblings?” Jack questions Baki jokingly. “Given you’ve been adopted by (Y/N) and all.” You follow the conversation with analytical eyes and Jack wants to try his hand at explaining the words to you. Once the meanings start to connect, you laugh and begin gesturing to Pickle, aided by short growls. Everyone assumes you’re translating to him. Pickle glares at Baki and his hold on the babies tightens, perhaps too hesitant to agree to your bond with the little modern human.

Pickle sighs deeply. Not only was he thrown into this strange world, but now there’s a bunch of men that are starting to show too much interest in you. He’ll have to put them in their place very soon if this continues. He’s especially annoyed at your fast learning pace when it comes to conversing with these creatures. He needs to hurry up and catch up to you if he wants to know the intentions of his rival friends.

[jungwondazed]

a kingdom by the forest 

themes: historical forbidden love, royals and nobles, angst, sworn enemies, and slow burn.

warnings: NSFW WARNING for future parts, SFW for this chapter. not 100% historically accurate. 

heeseung x reader; word count: 7.8k

PART ONE. 

he had never captured her attention, not within the years of knowing each other through family rivalries, let alone in the middle of this village where he so happened to bump into her without notice. 

she scoffed, head still turned around towards him as he walked away never looking back, disappearing into the large crowd of civilians. 

-

the noble families throughout the land were fiercely competitive with one another. with hardly any room for friendly connections or conversation, the king’s opinion and words were the only ones that were valued. the royal family ruled the nations with an authoritative form of government, causing tensions to rise throughout the centuries. 

once a year, the king hosted a grand summer celebration in his palace to celebrate the death of his queen. families from all different ranks and nations gathered together in respect to the royal family. the queen’s last wish was to bring back the once-chivalrous nature of this civilization.

nobles showed up with smiles and polite greetings but the glances and gazes around the room revealed everyone’s true jealous nature. the idea of unity between the aristocratic families in this lifetime was impossible, as parents taught their children to stay far away from those with a certain surname and if any of that is disobeyed the price to pay was never worth it.

heeseung was seen across the room, standing behind his mother and father, and side by side with his younger siblings. as the eldest son, he was held to an impossible standard that seeing how stoic and emotionless he was, came to no surprise. his family was highly respected and had a kind of wealth that wouldn’t run out for generations. working closely with the king during the war all those years ago earned them great status and appreciation from the everyday citizens. 

he found a celebration like this superficial, scowling at how anyone’s death would warrant hundreds of people gathering together for drinks and dancing. if he was ever found dead and his loved ones threw a party for every passing year, he’d haunt them in their sleep. as his gaze scanned the room, he paused at the sight of her. heeseung mildly recalled bumping into her a few days ago and the obnoxious reaction that came out of it. the amusing part was he didn’t even notice her furrowed brows and disgusted gaze from the corner of his eye until he heard that dramatic scoff. that was the most attention she had ever given him, and it was strange that her presence at this celebration brought him to think of that moment. because it didn’t matter what her reaction was, none of it mattered at all as he was raised to keep his distance at best and think horribly of her at worst. heeseung’s face remained still when her gaze met his, and she quickly looked away with annoyance. 

-

she was bored of these parties from the king, if it wasn’t a celebration for one thing it was for another. there was a grand gathering every few weeks and it did nothing to change the relations between the noble families. after complaining to her mother about yet another celebration of the queen’s death, one that she had been going to since childhood, her mother simply pulled at her hair a bit tighter than necessary to secure her up-do, before hissing in her ear that this was an honor. 

sneaking off into the queen’s garden, she sat alongside the pond where she gazed at her reflection in the water. being the youngest daughter was miserable and boring. some would title it “the invisible child,” with all her older brothers being the center of attention at all times. due to their high status of being aristocrats, school was in her room at her desk with a hired private tutor. friends were not an option and the most conversation she got out of anyone by her age was telling a kid it was okay when they ran into her. loneliness was agonizing and she had fallen victim to it. 

the fake laughter and string music coming from inside the palace was muffled, with the air’s gentle breeze being the only thing louder than the party. as she got lost in thought, a branch snapped to her left and her head immediately turned to the foreign sound. with her hyper awareness tuning into what that noise could have came from, only a cricket from a distance.

heeseung’s silohette comes from under the blossom tree and he holds back a laugh from the look on her face. the terror she displayed was amusing but giving her the reaction of anything near positive wasn’t something he would be able to do. 

her shoulder’s drop, realizing that it wasn’t a secret asssassin that her brothers have scared her into believing her entire life and she immediately stands up to defend her spot being there first.

“you’re not supposed to be here,” 

she wasn’t supposed to be speaking to him at all he says inside his head before he rolling his eyes and swatting his hand, ushering her to stop talking as he took a seat on a bench near the pond. 

heeseung seemed unbothered by the encounter, getting lost in thought as he already had his pile of problems. the daughter of his family’s enemies were the least of his concerns, and if he had a bit more energy in him he would’ve just walked away and found his other usual spot. but with being around his family where looks and status mattered the most, things that meant absolutely nothing to him, the life was drained from his face and his eyes were as somber as ever. he rarely left his parent’s side at occasions like these and to spot him all alone, away from the crowd was a sight to see. 

with no verbal response from heeseung, staring at him for a few minutes still in that same spot she grounded her feet in, she shakes her head before quietly leaving. 

-

as the months passed and more gatherings were hosted by the king, heeseung and her formed a mutual respect where both would leave each other alone in the queen’s garden. there was perhaps a silent bond between the two where an escape from family matters meant a moment of tranquility. to her knowledge, none of this was against the rules as there was no form of contact. she tossed and turned and lost more sleep than usual as she meddled with this inner conflict. even though there was no acknowledgment let alone talking going on, the mere respect of one another’s space was still uncomfortable.

-

on a cold december the week before the winter ceremony, she set off into the village to gather gifts to bring for the king’s staff. giving back her thanks and appreciation to those who worked below the royals and nobles was something her parents wanted no involvement in as charity was highly frowned upon in such a high-class family. the constant clashing with her and her family’s beliefs forced her to sneak behind their back for lots of reasons, and buying gifts from the townspeople was certainly one of them.

with the lower half of her face covered with a small scarf, she purchases small items and fruit as gifts. bracelets that brought good luck and promised safety for the new year was one of her favorites to purchase, as she believed everyone deserved a bit of good fortune, rich or poor. as she made her way to the next stall of goods, smiling behind the thin cloth, she hears a roar of screams at a distance behind her. dropping the bracelet that was in her head like a knee jerk reaction, her eyes squint at a distance to make out where such screams could be coming from. there was never any trouble in the village this way, and it could have possibly been neighborhood kids fooling around on this busy day. but the blood rushing to her ears and the hair standing on her arms told the true horror of those screams, as they were far from screams of amusement. 

bodies upon bodies come running in her direction, with civilians collapsing on one another, mothers grabbing their children and tripping, and elderly getting pushed and trampled on, all trying to make their way from the gathering of black horses ridden by men covered in masks with swords the length of their statures. 

her breath hitches as she finally catches sight of the slaughter, feet barely picking up to run backward before her arm is grabbed and pulled away from the direction everyone was trying to get to. 

-

the burning in her lungs feels like a blade to the chest, cold icy wind smacking her and she’s almost choking on the fabric that was meant to hide her appearance. they had been running for a few minutes and her adrenaline was wearing off, causing her to abruptly stop at one of the trees.

“w-what are you doing and where are we going we have to go back to help them-” she pants and heeseung comes to a halt, letting out a grunt of frustration as he catches his own breath and scans their surroundings. the forest was eerily quiet apart from the terror that was becoming distant from fleeing. 

he towers over her, only a drip of sweat is spotted on his forehead as the winter air blows against them both. beginning to open his mouth before closing it again, he shakes his head and pulls her to run further along. 

the terrain is rough beneath her feet and she thinks she might fall face flat if not for him dragging her up every time she almost slightly trips. there was a ringing she could hear that she couldn’t quite comprehend. whether it was the gushes of wind slicing past her ear or the thought processes firing from the sheer amount of horror she witnessed back there, her legs ripped from the constant spriting and she thought she could give it all up right there and then. 

within another half mile, the two made it to the edge of the forest where she could slightly make out the massive palace they were both all too used to. what intrigues her is how he managed to navigate his way to the palace, as there was never a path on government-made maps that took you directly to the king’s square from that village. what troubled her more was why anyone would go through the forest for any form of shortcut, as her parents always warned her to stay on the carved-out paths.

at the gates, she has a widespread view of government officials and kingdom servants chaotically running around. shouting between one another when the king’s square was renowned for its charm and grandiosity, signaled that the recent mass killing in the village has caused disaster in the land. 

heeseung pulls her along to sneak inside the palace, making their way into hallways located in a wing that she had never even heard of. ducking behind corners and statue monuments, he dragged her into a room at the end of the hall once the coast was clear. with the shutting of the door, the room turned almost black with just a bit of light left from the setting sun in the dark of winter, glimpsing through the one small window.

he finally catches his breath as his back presses against the wall and it is the only thing you can hear. 

-

you stood there in silence, near impatience as your mind was trying to catch you up on what had just happened in the last hour. his firm grip on your wrist left a mark and you were sure that if you weren’t to rest soon your legs would give out. 

tears threatened to prick your eyes as you recall the sounds and sight of men slashing bodies in two. in all your years of living here, there was never any violence or disruption. the land lived in peace since you were born and your entire life was at worst, glares from the other families. to see innocent civilians being murdered by masked men made your vision blurry and black, worrying for your own loved ones and at a complete lost as to where they are now. 

you glanced over at heeseung and saw that he was troubled himself. his gaze was to the floor and he held in his terror well because if you hadn’t known what had happened you would’ve assumed he was just having his typical somber thoughts in the queen’s garden. 

clearing your throat, you spoke up to finally break the silence. 

“b-back there, what happened in the village, w-what happened back there and what was that? and why did you bring me here- and wh- what happens-“ you stopped when his eyes met yours and threw his head back against the wall, closing his eyes to take a deep inhale before opening them again. 

“i don’t know.” he simply says, and it was the first time he’s ever spoken to you, you realize. and your face heats up in realization as you turn away to feign innocence from the bizarreness of it all. from the months of sharing spaces in the garden you never held a conversation let alone exchange any words with him.

you turn back to look at him and stop yourself from questioning anymore, as it seemed like the entire kingdom didn’t know either. you needed answers he probably didn’t have right now, like where your family was and where those men on horses came from. the land was surrounded by ocean and horses were only imported for the wealthy, having a horse for transportation was such a rarity that a storm of them coming into the middle of a village made no sense. 

after a few quiet minutes and suddenly noticing the tapping of his foot on the floor, you realized how being alone in a room with one of your supposed sworn enemies was not a good look, and if anyone were to walk in and report to your family a massive shouting from your father was bound to happen. then again, was a scandal such as this any news as to what was going on out there? from the uproar in the front of the palace, there were surely no guards around checking in on rooms to hopefully catch someone who wasn’t supposed to be together. your face reddens at the idea of being caught and you almost wanna hide under the pillow as the scandalous nature of it all hits you. you had never been alone with a boy, let alone a boy from a family you were condemned to speak to. heeseung notices your fluster and shifts his gait to his other feet, clearing his throat to speak. 

“i brought you here because if the men came from the southern part of town, it was dangerous to go back to our homes. the kingdom here is the most northern part and the only sanctuary we can stay in without endangering others. your head on a stick probably costs a thousand family’s lifetime savings and mine, even more. this is where we will stay for now-“

“but what about my family?” you let out, standing up in disbelief at the sudden hint of the southern part of the city being invaded. what could’ve possibly happened to mother, father, all your older siblings? you had no way of reaching out to them and this horrifies you into trying to leave the room before heeseung pulls back that same wrist he dragged you across the forest in. his grip is harsh around the tender joint’s and you pry his hands off with your other. 

“you are not leaving. there is nothing you can do for yourself or for your family but wait. don’t jeopardize something when the best thing right now is to wait for the king’s orders.” he speaks harshly. 

you ignore his comment and go for the door again which he shuts close. he was irritating in every way, how he handled you like you were someone he was close to, dragging you across the forest and forcing you to be here without a good enough explanation. giving you advice and suggestions as if either of you had the slightest clue what was going on. but despite his obnoxiousness he made a fair point, and storming out of the room would leave you standing outside the palace not knowing where to go next. 

“trust me on this. and be thankful that i’m putting my differences aside to save your damn life right now-“ 

“i never asked for saving.” you interrupted him and stormed back into the bed, ending anymore kind of speaking between you two. 

-

as morning peaks through the window you sit awake in the clothes from the previous day, hair still pulled up together with the pin in your hair. the tension at your scalp makes your head feel inflamed and you long for a hot bath in the coziness of your home bathroom. picking out the pin, your hair falls to your shoulders, and heeseung walks in the room with his clothes slightly undone, to which you assume he fell asleep on that small seating area across the bed. 

once realizing you were well awake he strides to the end of your bed, giving you a scroll that he kept in his pocket. 

“messages from the king that i collected from some of the officials this morning. everything out there is like hell.”

you blink at his words and note the frustration in his face, and the dark circles under his eyes. he let’s out a tired breath and runs his hand along his hair. 

“the war from all those years ago when we were just children, the beginning of the war is rising again.” all of the blood that filled the veins in your face drained into a cold paleness. an unprecedented attack was surely not enough to dictate the beginning of war was it? were you too naive to see the struggles of the real world? was staying cooped in your family’s palace for years to shield you from the reality of all the nations?

“the kingdom is at risk of falling, and all the noble families are panicking. the king demands for all of them to gather here indefinitely.” 

you read the words over and over on the scroll, in disbelief at how drastically everything changed in just a day. how people who hate each other can stand being in the same place all at once. would the darkness of war pressure these nobilities to hold each other’s hands and collaborate? will forceful teamwork end up breaking us apart even further? 

“our families are here, and i’m sure they are expecting to see you soon. i would wash up and be on the way to them before another chaos uproars.” 

to that, you nod and he makes his way out again, most likely going to his own family and you’re sure this is the last you guys will speak ever again. the first and last conversation with heeseung, was only for survival means. you can’t help but wonder where you would be right now if he wasn’t in the village at the same time as you. you can’t help but ponder if you would even be here at all. the thought of ever being in debt to someone you should have no ties with haunts you for the rest of the day, and you don’t notice the darkness of the night until you up in the middle of it. 

-

the days ahead drag on as you are left in the dark while your family is in meetings from morning till sunrise, only making small talk with you and reminding you of your meals. the guest rooms assigned to each family are the size of a closet at everyone’s place back at their own home. 

the loneliness you felt all your life creeps up again as you are isolated from the true horror outside these palace walls. for a few days, you were distracted by worry and what the plans are ahead, but with your family keeping you away from all these political endeavors you are left with the haunting feeling of isolation that you can’t even process it all in your own home. privacy was no longer a thing as you shared a room with your parents and siblings. 

what terrifies you is how even in panic and confusion those few days ago, it felt better knowing anything, horrifying as it was, than nothing at all. 

your hopes of this ending anytime soon are low, as the history you have been taught made you understand just how long the build-up of war is. being lectured on it was never enough to put the fear right in your body. seeing it for what it was in the flesh made you understand. 

-

you spend the following weeks sneaking off into the room where you were first brought to, as you come to understand that no one stayed there and you wonder why. your mind started to question how he even knew of this place. for you to have absolutely no idea this wing even existed was telling, but for him to know of such a specific spot in this hidden area was another. 

the idea of a promising noble son like him sneaking off into rooms that no others knew of made your face heat up and you cursed yourself at the thought of something like that. it wasn’t like you were being perverted, why else would anyone our age know about hidden rooms and corners? even though you weren’t supposed to, you read your fair share of entertainment from the restricted section of your family’s library. you were far from completely naive, and it was the only explanation that made sense. and that is exactly why and only why you would ever think of heeseung and private places in the same thought.

as the hours fly by, staring at the ceiling you don’t even notice the door open as heeseung storms inside, in pure anger from what it looks like, until he leans over the windowsill trying to catch his breath. his behavior takes you by surprise, having to hide your gasp behind your hand as he stands there fuming. the grip from his knuckles white and his chest rose up and down quickly. from all these months of noticing him, he has never worn an expression other than somber boredom, as if he was thinking about the answers to the universe’s questions all melancholicly. you couldn’t lie and wonder what he had to think about all the time, given that he had everything he could’ve ever asked for. the wealth, family, looks, pride, glory, whatever it is you could ever dream of he had. whatever hard time he was going through, you can’t imagine it being anything more complex than what kind of shoes he wants for the weekend. 

as you sit there silently, your face reddens as you realize that you’ve been in the dark, the chances of you being there may have gone unnoticed by him. you clear your throat to which he softly startles and turns to your silhouette on that bed. he blinks rapidly, a feign glimpse of irritation fills his expression before he looks back at the window.

“what are you doing here?” he asks with an annoyed voice. you roll your eyes at his harshness and bite back an insult. teaching him a lesson about some manners would suit him right. 

“i could ask you the same thing,” you bite back, hoping that would shut him up and leave you alone.

“i’m the one who showed you this room in the first place, and you’re asking me?” 

your ears heat up and you quickly snap back at him. 

“i found the garden first and yet i never gave you a hard time-“ 

he runs his hand through his hair and grunts in an irritating manner, before sitting down on the couch beside the window and getting lost in thought again.

his refusal to get into a superficial argument with you made you realize that perhaps you could’ve just answered him to his curiosity. your presence may have been unexpected as he did tell you about your family returning after all. maybe it was a bit rude of you to try bickering with him as he was evidently going through a rough time, god knows what it is, seeing as he’s always having a rough time. but perhaps this was a sign for you to step it back a bit and have some compassion, even if you weren’t supposed to like him, your heart wasn’t comfortable treating him as if he didn’t have feelings either.

-

even after you bumped heads with heeseung in the room, it didn’t stop you from coming, and it seems like it didn’t stop him either. it was like you both needed an escape. this was sort of like the queen’s garden, this is exactly what it was. you spent enough time there to know he treasured his dramatic thinking sessions just as much as you needed your alone time. but whatever his reasons were didn’t matter to you anyway, his business wasn’t yours and even keeping note of something like this made you shake your head and calm the heat from your face. 

you couldn’t disregard how much you two have encountered one another these past few months, from the silent sitting in the garden together to this, and how you have grown to hate him less than you originally did. or maybe you still hate him and his existence was something you will have to tolerate if you wanted some peace for yourself. that peace being a room with four walls. 

the painful realization of how much you were trying to rationalize being okay with his presence made you feel like you were reaching into danger territory, and that staying inside these walls for weeks was probably regressing your mental stability more than you thought. thinking about heeseung in any way was inappropriate, he was a stranger at best. he was a rival, an enemy, someone you aren’t supposed to speak to or have relations with. you didn’t speak to him much, so you were in a safe spot. you made note of this, you reassured yourself that whatever this was, was fine.

it makes you self-conscious, and over the next couple of days you’re hyper-aware of his presence in the room even if he is just simply sitting there sulking in his thoughts. your eyes sometimes glance over at him and you blame it on the boredom of this palace with absolutely nothing to do but ponder your relationships with your once sworn enemies. 

you think he realizes the difference in behavior as he sometimes raises his brows when he makes eye contact with you in the room and your gaze quickly shifts somewhere else, pretending you weren’t looking in his direction at all.

you grow to spend your nights in that room too, sometimes falling asleep on the bed and waking up to see him still sleeping on that long couch. he was like a roommate almost, if this is even considered a decent living corridor. it had a full bathroom and a wardrobe. it was about the same size as your family’s current guest room. your excuse for staying here is that it’s a bigger space to stay, because what’s worse than having to share a room with your entire family? surely not heeseung? you ask yourself this question and get red when you realize your answer. 

-

he sometimes brought you breakfast, almost every day now. you tell yourself that it had nothing to do with kindness and hospitality but something along the lines of duty, like not letting people starve. he only didn’t bring food when he had his eldest son duties and he didn’t show up at all that day. you started keeping track of when he showed up. wednesdays, fridays, saturdays, and sundays. and it was the end of thursday, and he was surely to show up tomorrow. of course the most you were looking forward to was the breakfast that would be laid out on the table, that was exactly why.

you made small talk, asking him for updates on what was going on and he insisted you shouldn’t know and to let everyone else handle it. maybe it was to keep yourself safe in this lonely room, away from the stress of the world. but you wanted to know more, and you insisted on it. 

heeseung slowly told you bits and pieces here and there, but more surprisingly he grew to open up about his frustration, his stress. it first started with small complaints of “i just want this over with” to gradually telling you about his struggles with assisting the officials about the war. plans for civilian housing, emergency evacuation, things that you wouldn’t even want to dream about. he talks about how much he’s trying to hold it together, and how hard it’s weighing on him. 

a small part of you can’t help but feel for him, in a way you have never before. that he’s just someone who’s your age with much higher stakes and responsibilities. and even if he was used to this his whole life, surely it breaks you at some point. you wonder why he was choosing to open up with you about it.

in return, you talk about how difficult it is to deal with such a strict family. and you two begin to bond over the shared struggle, finding out how much you relate to one another in that regard. ranting about your family values and beliefs was something you had never done before. arguing with them about it hardly counted as a conversation, so to be open about a topic like this was quite foreign. it’s a strange feeling to connect with someone you barely paid attention to your entire life, to realize how close in nature you are with heeseung. but it also made you wary of how much information was too much. 

on a cold friday evening, in the middle of you and heeseung talking to each other across the room about the usual nobility rantings, you both hear footsteps coming towards the room. in all your weeks there, never had you heard anyone roam around these hallways as it was such a private part of the palace you were sure no one went here.

 immediately you both run to hide inside the small bathroom, shutting the door close right when the room to the door opened. footsteps enter and you thank yourself for tidying the place and bed in the afternoon. nothing appeared on the table next to the couch where you were just sitting, and even if there was a few objects out of place it couldn’t have been enough for anyone to recognize how occupied the room had been. 

you can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, faintly something along the lines of how this room isn’t made for family guest rooms and it once belonged to the queen’s closest guests, and entrance without invitation was forbidden. you wonder if heeseung was granted access to this room because of his family’s close ties with the king and queen, and you’re sure this was exactly why. in moments like these it hits you just how much the royals favored his family, which came as a surprise to you as your father had been fighting for a rank besides the king his entire life.

you become impatient with how long it takes for them to argue on the restrictiveness of the room, and you finally hear heeseung’s soft breathing right beside your ear. having focused on what was being said on the opposite side of the door, you didn’t realize how close he was. how his face was a few inches from yours, how you could feel his inhale and exhale.

with the flush in your face, you’re thankful the two of you are standing in pitch-black darkness, only light coming from under the small gap in the door. your face is almost touching his chest as he presses his hands against the door to keep it shut, trapping you in between. trying to to force your head back away from him, you gently meet the door and cringe at the small sound it may have made.

with how quickly you two rushed to the bathroom you don’t think the idea of how close you two were together caught up with either of you until the minutes became too long. and now that you realize the proximity you almost don’t know what to do with yourself. you’re sure he doesn’t realize it either, given how he remains there, still focused on trying to hear what was being said out there. whatever they were talking about left your mind the second you realized his presence. you count down the seconds to get out of here, embarrassed at how he could remain at such a distance, cursing yourself for not just standing at the other side of the bathroom.

once the room was finally quiet after the door on the outside opened and close, he finally backs up and opens the door, allowing you to process what had just happened. to process the feel of his breath faintly touching the tip of your ear. 

-

heeseung doesn’t come for a few days, not the wednesday, friday or saturday. and it throws you off routine as those days were usually meant for long conversations with him, and breakfast of course. 

you think back to the bathroom incident and question if that made him realize how dangerously close you two were getting. the close meaning of sharing small talk about noble families and simply residing in the same guest room together. it was hardly close, and he would be utterly dramatic for stopping all relations with you if this was the reason why for his strange disappearance. although, with what happened in the bathroom, you wonder if he pondered it over too. how he stood right there, not very far from you in the dark where no one else would’ve saw.

-

it was sunday evening and he came in through the door to which you were not expecting, sporting a black eye and what seemed like a small cut along his cheek. you gasped in horror and he shakes his head to get you to back off with any questions.  since when was it appropriate for any child of a high-regarded nobleman to be seen walking around with cuts and bruises? does he have any idea what kind of reputation could form from looking like a street fighter? 

you sit there fighting the urge not to do anything as none of this was your business. he may have taken up some fighting lessons on his own maybe and got hit by a forest tree. that made the most sense to you. because heeseung is not suposed to be fighting anyone. your teacher taught you the basics of wound cleaning and dressing, and you recall the kind of treatment needed for the skin on one’s face. he stands there at the windowsill like he always does, gazing out into the night sky as if it was any more interesting by the day. 

 you sit up and move close to him to see the damage and he doesn’t acknowledge your presence. 

“what happened to your eye? and your cheek- it’s bleeding,” you ask gently as possible, a bit of your voice trembling. 

he doesn’t answer and you walk into the bathroom to gather some supplies that were stored in one of the drawers. maybe he’ll see how you’re trying to help and take you seriously. enemies or not, being people under the same king meant you were to assist with anyone who was harmed. 

he shakes his head again as you bring everything to the table and sit on the couch, waiting for a few minutes in hopes of him finally sitting down.  a hundred questions race through your mind. who could do this to one of the most sought out sons within all these noble families? was it an outsider? was it his own? it was no wonder his absence this past week made you feel a bit anxious. there was something wrong. 

you urge him to lay down, sitting up from the couch so he has room. he doesn’t move, still staring out there, grip as tight as ever. 

you lay out a small bandage, a bowl with warm water, and a towel for him if he decides to use it. embarrassment floods your face at trying to initiate such a gesture, and you quickly put away the rest of the supplies. perhaps you had overstepped a boundary, and you were the last thing he needed to see. 

by the time you hit the bed and try to sleep, he had still not moved an inch. 

-

you wake up to an empty room, the supplies from last night still laid out on the table but there was also that tray of breakfast you had been missing all week. you hoped he was okay because seeing civilians hurt and bruised would never be something you could ever get used to. supposed enemy or not. 

he doesn’t come for a couple of weeks, and you only see him in passing, him looking more worn down than ever. he never meets your gaze either, and you wonder if the connection you thought you two had was something you made up in your head. that in a world where you know nothing about friendship and relationships outside of your family, that what you two shared was nothing to be hopeful for. 

you still sleep in that room every night, better than sharing it with your family who have only grown more agitated. being with them meant another headache and the quietness of this private room was your own personal safety net. 

everything was going to be okay, there was always a solution to problems, any problem would be met with an answer, and that worrying did nothing. hoping and moping around did nothing. you counted the paint marks on the ceiling, and the walls, you tapped your finger to count the seconds, you did anything to keep yourself occupied. 

your thoughts wondered to him, seeing the small wound that was now scabbed on his face. you were sure you could have healed it days ago if he had let you, but maybe it was better this way, not being acknowledged at all. he can care for his own self, you were nothing to him.

-

heeseung walks in that night with a cut lip and a bruised body, his clothes having slash marks with stains of dry blood and you’re horrified once again. to no surprise, he’s standing at the windowsill only this time his eyes were no longer to the window. his head hung forward, gaze steady on the floor. the tiredness seemed gruesome, the usual straight posture he had was not weak and wimp.

you analyzed all the wounds you could see at a distance from the bed. his face was worse than last time and whatever happened to his body made your fingers tremble. staying focused and alert was harder for you this time than last, given the severity of it. maybe he was training, this had to be it. but why would someone like him have to go through military training? none of it made any sense.

for a few minutes, you debate on whether you should try again. know your place, you must know your place. help him, he’s hurting. he doesn’t need your help. his wounds are bleeding.

he interrupts your thoughts by weakly limping to the couch, his hands reaching for the seat to steady himself down. there’s a grimace from him you hadn’t seen before. the blood seeping through the fabric looked old and dirty and you had to fight everything in you not to go up to him and insist once again. you pick at your fingers, anxious on what to do. who can rest when a panting hurting man is on the couch across from them. 

“take your clothes off.” you tell him before you can stop yourself, and his eyes that were set on the floor looks up at you in a perplexed manner. 

you redden at the double meaning of your words and shook your head in apology. turning your head into your shoulders slightly at how incredibly thoughtless saying that was. 

“i’m sorry, i- i meant to take it off because the blood is dry and the wound is old, and keeping that fabric on it will increase the risk of infection. i encourage you to go to the bathroom and clean it up yourself.” you quickly let out all in one breath and he doesn’t move at all. 

after an hour or so of you beating yourself up for that awful slip up and even speaking up at all, he walks weakly to the bathroom, spending a very long time in there to which you start to worry. 

he appears from the bathroom right when you’re about to sit up and he makes his way back to the couch, his clothes unbuttoned and his cuts opened. you hiss at how it looks and scrunch your face imagining the pain. you try to ignore everything else that is exposed, only trying to look at the wounds. 

heeseung decides to lay down this time, head resting on the hard couch pillow, finally laying flat on his back. he gently groans as the couch fabric hits his back and you almost can’t take it anymore. sleep shortly finds him and it is the first time you have seen him asleep before you. 

his wounds look bad, really bad. and if you don’t do something you may regret it. there was no way he’d accept your help now, after not speaking for weeks. why did he even come here at all then if he knew you would be here? maybe he was trying to get you to leave this room by keeping it completely abandoned and only coming back after he waited it out. you finally accept that if he wasn’t going to be okay with your help you would do him a slight favor anyway and hope you never have to speak to him again. like a silent healer who snuck into infirmaries for the sick.

you rush to the bathroom, pulling the supplies you once did and move slowly back to the table. your movements are soft, trying not to make a sound as you lay out the cloth pieces and herbs. one herb for each wound, and one piece of fabric as well. you count the pieces to assure everything was correct, and then wet the small towel inside the bowl. 

when you turn to him to clean his wounds, you gasp as his eyes are slightly open, fluttering open and shut. 

“you- you’re awake? i’m sorry i was just trying to-“ you start trying to explain but his eyes are closed once again. 

he didn’t seem to stop you when he saw what you were doing, for who knows how long. silence didn’t mean yes, but you can’t take no for an answer right now anyway, and you gently tend to the wounds on his upper body and arms. it takes a long time, about an hour almost. being as detail-oriented as you were, everything had to be done with precision. not being able to reach his back, you lay out the extra supplies for him if he chooses to use them. 

helping him was strange, in the sense that you never really had to help anyone this way at all. being taught the basics of wound care dind’t mean you ever got to apply it. this was all academics, bragging rights, and merit. stuff your teacher taught you as a life skill. to be useful in this way was unfamiliar, but a sense of duty fulfills you. perhaps you did have a purpose in this war, a purpose if at all. you could be a daughter locked away for your parents to control, or you could be a valuable asset to a terrible time where lives are lost and injured left and right. you cared for his wounds because this is something you are innately born to do, to help and assist the sick and the ill. this was the explanation you chose for yourself while working on heeseung, this was what you were to believe.

 as you check through every bandage one last time, his eyes open slowly again, blinking open a few times. 

you still yourself, your right hand still touching the bandage near his chest. it felt childish to act like you were caught doing something like your mom seeing you sneaking in a sweet to your room. you freeze anyway, hoping he would fall asleep again. please just fall asleep again, rest yourself heeseung. 

he doesn’t close his eyes for what felt like minutes when it was really only 10 seconds. he lets out a soft breath, closing his eyes as if he were squirming, opening them again. you look down at his chest and stomach area and see the medicine seeping through the bandages, most likely hitting his flesh now. his gaze is still on you, and his hands are about to reach up to his chest where your hands are, to which you assumed he was trying to slap your fingers away. 

before he can make it to your hand, his wrist collapses weakly at his side, fingers twitching from the pain of the cut down his sleeve and your first instinct is to reach out to make sure he was okay, to reach for his hand and assess it in your own.

 maybe it was the caring nature in you that goes out of your way to help any creature in pain but a small part of you brushed away the idea that perhaps there was the beginning of a subconscious care you had for him. 

whatever it was, there was no time to dissect complex feelings when it seemed like everyone around you was reaching a breaking point, mentally or physically. and with the rate of which everyone was going down one by one, the question of whether this war will end soon or has just begun haunts you. 

[firelordsfirelady]

IV. Outburst

Author: @firelordsfirelady

Imagine: When Y/N—a princess of one of the Water Tribes—is told she’s leaving her tribe, she never expects that she’s to be betrothed to the Fire Lord’s son, nor was she prepared to be exiled the very day she arrived at the Fire Nation. With her life in the hands of her new fiancée, how will life change for the princess? 

Pairing: Zuko x F!Reader

Trigger warnings: arranged marriage, feelings of fear, banishment, mentions of burns/abuse, frustration, violence, betrayal

Word Count: 1167

Destined to be Yin and Yang

I own no rights to Avatar the Last Airbender or any of the characters/story.

Author’s Notes

The characters as all aged up so Zuko’s banishment happens when he’s 16 

Keep in mind I am bringing a unique world with inspiration from ATLA in their characters, some of the events that happen, bending, etc. Not many things may align or occur with what happened in the show. It’s intended that way, so I hope you enjoy it regardless.

See Y/N’s inspiration here. 

Destined to be Yin and Yang Soundtrack (YouTube)

Zuko made no mention of the cookies the next morning, but I anticipated as much from the Prince. The crew, however, raved about my cookies and were quite happy to hear that I would make them plenty of cookies during our time together. I kept my promise because every full moon I would make the crew a batch of cookies and then practice my water bending on the deck before heading to bed. Of course, I never let Zuko or Iroh be out of the cookie receiving as I would deliver their plates before going to bed. 

Thus began my new daily routine of lending a hand in the kitchen or helping with the dishes. I often found myself aiding in other chores around the ship, which only served to aggravate Zuko more. Zuko always made sure to make remarks about how informal of a princess I was, so I made it my mission to find ways to annoy the Prince further. Let’s just say that I was very good at it. 

The first time Zuko saw me mopping the deck, he made a snide comment that earned him an accidental flick of some water from the mop bucket. 

“Forgive me, Prince Zuko,” I had teased him that day. “I am merely just a princess who doesn’t know how to handle the mop.” Iroh hid his small chuckle at my comment, knowing all too well that I was more than capable of handling the simple mop. I think he found it mildly amusing that I teased the Prince often, and this served to agitate the Fire Lord’s son further.

Despite the banter from Zuko,  I had grown to enjoy life traveling around on a ship. As a young girl, I had dreamed of what it would be like to see the world outside of the Tribe, but I quickly realized that as the princess I would never have those opportunities. Especially since after the Avatar disappeared from the world a century ago, the nations decided to sequester away from each other to protect themselves.

With Zuko on the quest to find the Avatar, he has been researching the previous avatars. We have been to several Avatar shrines across the nations and have been frequenting the other Water Tribes. Zuko was sure that the next avatar would be a Waterbender, and so we stayed near in case the Avatar made his appearance. Each time Zuko got a hint or a tip that there was a chance of the Avatar appearing, the ship would speed to the new destination. Disappointment met Zuko at every new stop, and I felt my heart break more as I watched the hope slowly die from his eyes. Yet, at the next whisper of a sign from the Avatar, Zuko would begin the cycle all over again.

The months slowly turned into years, and Iroh and I met regularly to drink tea together. During our tea visits, Iroh would tell me stories of dragons and the origin stories of Firebending, and, in return, I shared the stories of the Water Nation and our origin. I enjoyed listening to Iroh’s great accomplishments and was glad that I had found a friend in Iroh.

While my friendship with Iroh grew, I could not say the same about my relationship with Zuko. Three years of the same routine with Zuko had begun to wear the hope in me down. I tried my best to make an effort with Zuko in hopes that we might be able to at least tolerate each other. I gave him cookies every full moon, and I offered information that I read at the shrines regarding the avatar that might help Zuko. I did get a small glimmer of hope when he stopped calling me an informal princess after the first six months of life on the ship. After two years, there was light banter between us that was somewhat jovial, but the banter was more teasing than anything else.

That all changed today when Zuko had met another dead end in his search for the Avatar. Once we arrived back at the boat, Zuko’s anger was palpable as he stalked on to the deck. Iroh’s face was a look of concern as he watched Zuko clench and unclench his fists. I chewed my bottom lip as I slowly walked onto the deck behind Iroh, who shared a concerned look with me. My heart increased its pace in my chest as I opened my mouth to say something to the Prince.

“Zuko—“ I started, but Zuko whipped around on his heel and his golden eyes were bright with rage.

“You don’t get the right to call me Zuko.” He snapped in anger. “You’re a good-for-nothing princess who doesn’t understand her place.” My breath hitched as I prepared myself for whatever else he was about to say. “I can understand why my father wants me to find the Avatar, but I can’t begin to wrap my head around why the hell he wants me to marry you.”

“You’re prancing around this ship like it’s a vacation home. Cooking with the crew, cleaning the decks, and not to mention you’re waterbending during the full moon.“ Keeping my face straight, I felt hurt cloud my heart as Zuko spoke his next words with so much hate. “You make cookies to compensate for what you lack as a person. You’re a pathetic excuse for a princess, and I hate that you’re my betrothed.”

Zuko was breathing heavily as he finished his rant, and I swallowed the lump in my throat in a pathetic excuse to calm the tears forming in my eyes. Silence fell upon the entire boat as I composed myself. Part of me wanted to scream at him that he wasn’t the only one suffering here. A tiny part of me wanted to wrap him in a cocoon of ice and then walk away. Another part of me wanted to hug him because I could see he was frustrated, and I was the only person who he was set on taking his anger upon.

I did none of those things as I shook my head and walked away. His words cut me deep, but I refused to let him see the tears that silently fell from my eyes as I made haste to my bedroom. Once behind the security of the closed door, I let the tsunami wave of tears flow as I cried into my pillow.

After a few hours of crying, I lay in bed and I stared at the ceiling. My eyes were no doubt red and puffy from the amount of crying I had done. Though my eyes burned, I could not tempt my body into a thoughtless slumber. So, instead of sleeping, I got up from bed and lit the oil lamp on my desk. I grabbed some blank pieces of paper and a pencil then began doing the one thing that would distract me the most right now: draw.

Tag List @chevysstuffs @puttyly @ginger24880 @night-fall-moon @hypnoticbeing

[moonlightdancer26]

I have a headcaon that sev knows how to tell the twins apart

LMAO ME TOO. I actually headcanon that Sev was quite fond of the Weasley family.

Bill was a smart student, who, according to Ginny, didn’t like Snape. But I doubt Snape cared about what the students thought of him, I think he just cared if they did well in his class or not. Given that Bill was a prefect + Head-Boy and got 12 O.W.L.s, he definitely didn’t get in trouble that much and was a clever student, so Snape probably tolerated him.

We don’t know much about Charlie but based on Hogwarts Mystery he low-key likes Snape, so I think they were alright.

I personally headcanon that Percy L O V E S Snape and admires everything he does, he definitely criticises his siblings (*cough* Ron) whenever they say anything bad about him.

Fred and George seem to be amused by him despite thinking he’s a git (though I doubt they took anything he said seriously) and I think they had natural talent in potions. Snape definitely values experimental projects and creativity (considering his spell creations and rewriting his potions book), which the twins have, so despite their troublemaking antics I’m sure he at the very least respected their creativity (this is a headcanon I’ve had for such a long time, I’m so happy I can finally talk about it lmao).

I think Severus mostly disliked Ron because of his association with Harry, his disregard for school rules, and his laziness in class, but I think out of the trio he tolerated Ron the most (they’re also both my fave characters in the series so I just like the thought of them being cool with each other lmao).

As for Ginny, I don’t think he hated her, but he found her mildly annoying because of her obvious crush on Harry in CoS and then in the later books when she came out of her shell. She didn’t complain about him much, the closest thing we get is her saying that “Bill doesn’t like him either” as a reason for not liking him. Plus I always thought Ginny would’ve made a good Slytherin and wasn’t super annoying in class so I think he at least preferred her to Hermione lmao.

I think Snape was okay with Molly (and I think she respected him as a teacher, she liked him enough to correct Harry for calling him “Snape” instead of “Professor Snape”), but I think he probably didn’t respect Arthur’s love of Muggles and thought he was a bit silly, and I think he liked him less than Molly due to Lucius’s influence lmfao.

I know this has nothing to do with your original question, but can you tell I’ve had this headcanon for a really long time and jumped at the opportunity to rant about it? 😭

[imthebadguyyy]

Hey, hope you’re doing well? 😌✨ I saw you opened requests for Lewis and I thought about one where reader and him are out somewhere at an event and the subtle physical affection they have. They’re both rubbing the inside of each others arms at different moments and they’re also smiling at each other when the other isn’t looking 🤭 I miss seeing fluff so that’s why I’m requesting it 🤣😭😭

Sugar Sweet Kisses and Velvet Caresses

pairing : lewis hamilton x reader

fandom : f1

synopsis : lewis can't quite keep his eyes off at you at the fia prize giving, but little does he know you can't keep your eyes off of him either.

requested!

a/n : thank you sm for requesting and interacting it means the world to me!! and i hope your enjoy it ☺️ also this image of lewis goes so well with this prompt

warnings : tooth rotting fluff

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

while lewis did generally enjoy galas because it meant he could go all out and dress up to the t, the prize giving gala was just plain boring.

it was the same droll jokes and mildly tense atmosphere as both toto and christian made petty speeches, that had him rolling his eyes and downing shot after shot of the non alcoholic beverage that had been provided for the table he was sharing with valterri, and his girlfriend tiffany.

he was mildly placated by the fact that you had accompanied him to the awards show, finding time out of your busy schedule of recording and touring to join him, looking etheral beside him, albeit bored out of your mind as the both of you exchanged quiet murmurs of sarcastic comments and disguised smirks.

as the ceremony unfolded, you had also exchanged discreet yawns and shared amused glances behind the veil of forced smiles with valterri and tiffany, who also did not enjoy the formalities of the ceremony. you found yourself becoming very good friends with the finn and the aussie, and you had spent many a race in matching mercedes caps with tiffany, cheering on your merc boys.

even after valterri joined alfa romeo, your close bond remained, and you found yourself in the alfa romeo garage when the mercedes one became too unbearable.

muffling a deep sigh, your fingers couldn't help but fidget with the silky material of the pink Versace dress you had chosen for the night, eyes taking in the dimly lit room and all the people in it.

from the table next to you, susie shot you a sympathetic smile, and you smiled back, giggling when she rolled her eyes and pointed discreetly to the stage.

you missed the way lewis' eyes were resting on your figure, a soft smile gracing his lips as he took in the wide smile on your own lips, the way you seemed to glow like a flickering candle, glimmering softly in the chandelier light. he couldn't help but feel a warmth rise to his face as he took in the curve of your nose and your long eyelashes, glittering with the sparkly mascara you had worn, to the outline of your cheekbone melting into your round cheeks, and the curve of your lips, painted in a glittery nude that suited you to perfection.

he took in a sharp breath, feeling mildly winded as he saw the way a stray strand of hair framed your face, slipping out of the neat bun you had elected to don, to the way your skin shimmered softly from the highlighter your makeup artist had put on you.

he took in the sight of your bare arms, the matching butterfly tattoo you both had on display on your forearm. his eyes trailed down to your hands, nails done in the same shade of pink as your dress, and fingers adorned in multiple rings, many of them gifts from him.

he took in the sight of the deep pink dress you were wearing, hugging every curve of your body like a glove, eyes softening as he took in the roll of your tummy in the dress and the way your it highlighted your collarbone, letting him glimpse into the dots that formed constellations on the bare skin.

he followed the trail to the way your leg peeked out of the slit in the dress, to the heels that adorned your feet, and shook his head softly with a smile as he saw that the heel on your left foot was dangling off your toes, since clearly his earlier warning of aching feet had come true.

he smiled as he recalled the way you had raised an eyebrow at him, and pursed your lips into a pout, and told him "i can't, not wear these heels babe, i got them just for this event!"

he felt his heartbeat quicken as he thought to himself for the millionth time, how in the hell had he gotten lucky enough to be with the goddess of a woman sitting beside him.

of course mr smooth wasn't as smooth as he thought he was because soon enough you felt his eyes delicately tracing the expanse of well, you, and you had to hide a blush at the thought.

lewis was snapped out of his daze when george and his girlfriend, carmen, came over to talk to him as the proceedings took a break.

as he turned to talk to them, his hand reached for your leg, resting on your thigh, gently squeezing it reassuringly.

as he engaged in polite conversation, he missed the way that your gaze settled upon him, taking in the sight of him in all his glory.

he had opted for an all black outfit , and he looked nothing short of jaw droppingly stunning. you took in the slightly crooked curve on his nose, smiling softly as you remembered many a night of pressing soft kisses to it, to the gentle smile he wore, a contract to the rough beard he adorned, to the little gap in between his teeth that you so adored, that flashed when he grinned at people.

you took in the silky black suit he was wearing, compliments his features so well, and the Cartier pearl necklace that he loved so much. the v cut of his suit allowed the necklace to gleam, and his tattoos to perfectly compliment it.

you took in the sight of his hands, littered with tiny tattoos that held so much meaning to the rings that rested on his fingers, many of which were gifts from you, some silver some gold, fingers intertwined with your own.

you took in the sight of his hair in a bun as well, a few loose braids framing his face making him look godlike.

you could feel your heartbeat flutter as you questioned how exactly you had gotten lucky enough to be with the man who sat in front of you.

lewis' hand trailed up from your thigh to gently grasp your arm, rubbing it softly, making you smile.

it was your way of reminding each other that you loved each other so much, when there were others around, since neither of you were really keen on pda. after all, as taylor swift had once said, "romance isn't dead if you keep it just yours"

the both of you were the definition of 'private, not secret' everyone knew you were together since about the beginning of 2020, and you two showed up at each other's races and shows, galas and awards shows. but it was a rare occassion where you were blatantly affectionate in public. you were shy, and lewis respected that and kept public displays of affection to hand holding and feather soft kisses after wins.

as alex and lily joined the six of you, you moved your chair closer to tiffany's, and lewis moved his closer to yours, so the two of them could sit as well, and lewis found himself reaching for your hands again, thumb tracing your knuckles and bringing your hand up for a quick kiss to your knuckles.

you couldn't help but flush at the chuckles from the others, while reaching out to gently rest your hand on his arm, while your other hand remained interlocked with his on his lap.

it was no secret that the both of you were absolutely head over heels for each other, and everyone knew it. they saw it in the way lewis' looked at you, as if you had hung the sun stars and moon in the sky, and how you looked at him, as if he was the softest sunset and the brightest sunrise.

they could see it in the way he spoke about you on the rare occasions he did, with nothing but awe and admiration for the woman he loved.

they could see it in the way you wrote about him in your songs, how you called him a gentleman in a world of boys, or how he was as handsome as a mansion with a view.

so when the camera panned to the both of you, showing the both of you gazing at each other with lovestruck gazes, eyes sparkling softy and sugar sweet smiles gracing your lips, and when the world champion was announced and lewis' name resonated on the speakers, it only felt right to press your lips to his.

your lips met in a sugar-sweet dance, a delicate blend of tenderness and warmth. it was a kiss that tasted like stolen moments and whispered promises, leaving a lingering sweetness on your mouths—a delightful confection of affection that resonated long after your lips parted.

his hand squeezed yours softly as he got up to get his prize.

you couldn't help the proud tears that sprung to your eyes as you watched him get up and accept the trophy for his eighth title, marking his place as a race in a league of his own.

everyone stood up as he made his way to the stage, and to your surprise, everyone stood up and clapped, and ginger spice even mouthed a sweet "congratulations!" your way.

as lewis began his speech, you couldn't help but snap a picture of him earning giggles from everyone around you.

"today, I stand before you not just as an individual but as someone profoundly indebted to the unwavering support and love of an extraordinary woman. my heart is brimming with gratitude as i attempt to express the depth of appreciation for the incredible person who has stood by my side through thick and thin.

to my dearest y/n,

In the rollercoaster of life, you have been my anchor, my steady compass guiding me through stormy seas. your unwavering presence has been the bedrock of my strength, and your love, the fuel that propels me forward.

in moments of joy, your laughter has been the melody that serenades my soul, making the highs even more euphoric. and in times of despair, your comforting embrace has been the sanctuary where my troubles find solace.

together, we've weathered storms, faced challenges, and celebrated triumphs. your belief in me has been a constant source of inspiration, pushing me to reach for the stars even when the night seemed impenetrable.

you, my love, deserve the glory of this moment just as much as I do, because without you pushing me to be the best, i wouldn't be here. thank you for being my confidante, my partner in crime, and my greatest supporter.

to the woman who has turned ordinary days into extraordinary memories, thank you for being the sunshine in my darkest hours and the reason for my brightest smiles"

as he ended his speech, you could feel tears dripping down your face and watery laughs from all around you, as carmen lily and tiffany all hugged you and wiped tears away from their eyes. you couldn't help the happy sobs leaving your lips, mouthing a quiet "i love you" to lewis, who was making his way back to your table.

as he approached, you couldn't help but kiss him again, hands gently resting on his chest as you kissed him deeply.

as the ceremony wrapped up and everyone began to get ready to leave, your hands remained interlocked, even as toto and susie suggested getting dinner with all the mercedes members present at the event.

you were content. you were happy. and you were oh so in love.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a/n : i hope this is what you were looking for!! as always likes reblogs comments opinions etc are appreciated!! ☺️

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[astralaffairs]

hi!! before i go i jus wanna say, I love your work 🙏🏽 and I finally watch hamilton last night so I might write for it as well 😋😋 but i have a drabble idea.

anyways— thomas having a dance/ball for a campaign during the election and he meets aaron’s little sister, mc, who snuck in. and he can’t help but take interests in her.

“Now, what’s a lady like you doin’ getting a drink just for yourself? Nobody’s offered to do that for you yet?”

Y/N froze as her fingers met the stem of the champagne flute. She had promised herself she would stay to the outskirts of the ball, and her only goal for the night had been to avoid courting attention. However, the packed room was warm, and it was only more so at its perimeter under the lights, and the crisp bubbly had looked oh-so-inviting.

She turned with a polite smile as she picked up the glass, but her eyes widened when she saw the man behind her with his gleaming smile and his velvet suit. She recognized him instantly; after all, she’d seen him before, and he’d even been in her home, but they’d never formally met. He raised an eyebrow when her smile faltered. “I’ve only just arrived. I haven’t had a chance to speak to much of anyone just yet.”

“Then I’m gonna have to count myself lucky to have found you when I did. Thomas Jefferson.” He offered her a hand as he introduced himself, and when she took it, he dipped down to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. Her eyes went even wider.

She cleared her throat as he drew himself back up to his full height, still holding her by the fingertips, and it took a moment for it to occur to her to withdraw her hand. “You’re the host of this ball, then, if I’m not mistaken. Thank you for opening your home to us like this.”

“Believe me, sugar, the pleasure’s all mine,” he said. “Who’re you here with? Feel like I’ve seen you around, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Oh, um, my family’s here somewhere. I came on my own, though, and I was planning to meet them here.”

“Your family?” He pursed his lips. “You’re not a Schuyler, are you?”

“No, no, certainly not,” she replied before hastily adding, “although the Schuylers are lovely people, of course. To be a part of their family would make one lucky.”

“So you know the Schuylers, then?” he mused, and she nodded. His growing smile was making her mouth go dry. “I know where I recognize you from; you’re a Burr, aren’t you? Aaron’s sister?”

“I am, yes.” Her smile was tense, laced with unease. His grin was bright as he plucked a drink for himself off of the table behind them.

“So why haven’t I seen you at one of these before? Your family trying to keep you locked away from all the politics?” he asked, and as her eyebrows fell, he could see the look in her eyes sour.

“They’ve decided I can’t be trusted at this kind of event,” she said bitterly, and he quirked a brow. “Aaron claims he’s afraid I’ll say the wrong thing and jeopardize his career, but really, I think he just can’t deal with the idea of splitting people’s attention between us.”

“But you finally proved yourself trustworthy?” he asked mildly, taking a sip of his drink, and she shrugged uncomfortably.

“I suppose so.”

“Then where’s your dear brother now, hm? Why aren’t you here with the rest of your family?” He watched her expectantly, and when she didn’t answer right away, his grin broadened. “They don’t even know you’re here, do they?”

“No, and you’re not going to be the one to tell them,” she said sharply, pointing her champagne flute at him. He raised his eyebrows, amused by the fervor in her tone. “I had to walk miles alone in the dark to get here; I am not being thrown out as soon as I arrive.”

“Well, sweetheart, if you’re not with them, then really, I should be sendin’ you on your way.” Despite the threat, his voice was breezy, and she frowned.

“And what do you have to gain from kicking me out?”

“The respect and appreciation of your family,” he suggested blithely. “The knowledge that I’m not leavin’ a young lady to walk home alone ‘n vulnerable at the end of the night. ‘S just the right thing to do, really.”

She eyed his small smile for a moment before slowly asking, “But despite that, you’d rather I stay, wouldn’t you?” He shrugged unabashedly. “You’re quite shameless, aren’t you, Mr. Jefferson?”

“Only on a good day.” He winked as he took a sip of his drink. “After all, you went through all that effort to get here. There’s gotta be a good reason for it, huh?”

“Of course. I’m here to expand my mind just like everyone else," she said, and he raised an eyebrow.

“And not for the charming future president we’ve got roaming the ball?”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware there was one. Let me know if you see him?”

His full laugh proved him undeterred, and Y/N’s self-satisfied smile was reluctant. "'M glad to see you inherited more of the family wit than your brother seemed to."

"Please, don't tell him that. A lady needs to keep some things a secret."

"It'll stay between us, then," Thomas said, "but I don't think I ever got your name."

"Why, so you know whose presence to report to my brother?"

"So I know who to ask after the next time I see him." His response was quick, and it had Y/N on her heels. Her eyes were wide, eyebrows raised, but when she opened her mouth to answer—

"Y/N." Both she and Thomas turned on their heels at the loud voice to find her brother striding across the room toward them, and her groan was unchecked. The fury in Aaron's voice was barely contained. "What in the world do you think you're possibly doing here, sneaking out after dark? How did you even get here?"

"I brought myself, since nobody else was willing to take me," she bit back, and Thomas raised his eyebrows as he took a sip of his drink.

"That wasn't your decision to make," Aaron snapped. "We are a family, and you have to respect that—"

"Respect what? That you have total control over my life in the name of family values? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?" she asked. "I respect that you have a career and a reputation to maintain, but I am a person, and—"

"And nothing, Y/N. Put the drink down, and leave Mr. Jefferson at peace," he demanded, and Y/N narrowed her eyes, her jaw set. Aaron turned to Thomas, and much of the fire in his voice had subsided when he said, "I'm sorry for her intrusion, Thomas. We didn't know she had followed us here, and we'll send her home at once."

"Now, Aaron, what makes you think she's uninvited company?" Thomas asked, and both Y/N's and Aaron's brows were raised. "Y/N's my guest here this evening; 's the opposite of an intrusion."

He frowned, glancing between Thomas and Y/N. "You mean you're responsible for her presence here tonight?"

"Well, I invited her, so I suppose you could say that," he said casually, and if he winked when he caught Y/N's eye, Aaron didn't think anything of it. Aaron's lips were pursed and his shoulders tense as he glanced between them.

"Why didn't you tell me Thomas had invited you?" he asked Y/N, and she shrugged.

"I didn't think you'd want to hear it, and I didn't want you trying to prevent me from coming."

"If I'd known he asked you to come—"

"So, what, my personhood is dependent on his permission now?"

"Your presence here is, at least."

"As a Burr, I would've been welcome either way."

"Not unattended, however."

"I can attend to myself just fine."

"You know that isn't what I mean when—"

"Aaron, was there somethin' else you needed?" Thomas cut him off, and Aaron's gaze was affronted when it snapped to him. However, he held his tongue. "I was just about to ask Y/N to dance, assuming that's her decision to make 'n all."

Y/N had to bite back her smile at his words, and although Aaron seemed to recognize the challenge in them as his jaw ticked, he said, "Of course. I'm sorry to have interrupted."

"Don't sweat it. Your concern for your sister is awful sweet, even if it isn't needed here," Thomas responded, his smile warm.

"'Concern' isn't how I'd describe it," Y/N muttered bitterly, and Thomas nudged her with his elbow. She frowned.

"Carry on 'n enjoy the rest of the ball, though, and please send my best to your wife," he said. Aaron could only offer a tense smile in response.

“You as well. I suppose I should go find Theodosia.” He looked down skeptically at Y/N. “How are you planning to get home?”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I…” She hadn’t thought that far, so her gaze was hopeful when it snapped to Thomas, who held her with a hand at the small of her back.

“I’ll arrange for a carriage to take her home,” he promised. “Don’t you worry, Burr. She’s in safe hands.”

“Right,” he said hesitantly, looking Thomas over. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t do anything stupid, Jefferson.”

“‘S like you don’t even know who you’re talkin’ to,” Thomas said incredulously, and Aaron scoffed.

“I’m sure.” He barely spared them both another glance before departing unceremoniously, shaking his head all the while, and Thomas chuckled. Y/N turned back toward him.

“You’re a regular local hero,” she said sardonically, but the smile in her eyes betrayed her bored tone. Thomas grinned.

“I do try, sweetheart,” he said lightly, “maybe even in a way that deserves a ‘thank you’?”

“Thank you.” Her voice was sincere. “Really. I owe you.”

“Well, if you mean that,” he said, and his eyes were shining as he looked down at her, “I wouldn’t mind making good on that dance I mentioned. Unless you’re in a real rush to get back to your dear old brother.”

He offered her his arm with an eyebrow raised, and she left her empty glass on the table behind them when she took it, drawing a wide grin from him. “How could I say no to our charming host?"