#Collection: Regrets & Revelations

[prythianpages]

A Light That Never Goes Out | Azriel

Azriel x Rhysand's sister (reader) | The aftermath of Azriel kissing you in front of everyone in the Court of Nightmares.

warnings: angry Rhys, angry High Lord, brief mention of Tamsand, mating bond snapping

word count: roughly 3K, around 3.5K if you read the bonus scene

a/n: This is a part two to this but can be read as a stand alone. I had fun writing this but I worry this sounded better in my head. I was tempted to turn this into a crack fic bc of this trending tiktok sound.

Azriel kisses you, consequences be damned. His hand slides from yours to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer. You kiss him back with the same intensity, years of longing and love pouring into this single moment. Your mind and thoughts tangling with his, the bond between you surging with emotion. Desire and hope. He’s still in disbelief that tonight was the first night he told you he loved you.

But in truth, Azriel had been telling you all along—in every glance, every touch, every kiss that held more than words ever could.

Azriel’s shadows recoil as the two of you pull apart, breathless. The Court of Nightmares had faded away, the two of you lost in each other. It’s just you and him, as it is meant to be…Until the distinctive footsteps of your father approaching echoes throughout the ballroom. Your eyes are wide, too many emotions swirling within their depths. 

But Azriel is relieved that regret is not one of them.

“Azriel.”

The High Lord’s voice is calm and collected but the fury flickering in his violet eyes is unmistakable. He stands no more than two feet away, the authority radiating from him as cold as it is absolute. Beside him, Rhysand watches, his expression unreadable. 

Your father lifts a hand, wisps of darkness and starlight spilling from his fingertips. The orchestra resumes under the silent command and driven by some invisible force, the guests resume dancing and drinking. As if nothing had happened. 

“Come with me,” your father says, his tone leaving no room for argument. His command is directed solely at Azriel. “I’d like to have a word.”

 You try to hold on to Azriel, to keep him close, but he slips his fingers from yours, bowing his head in quiet submission to your father. Without another word, he follows after him. And though his command had been directed solely at Azriel, the weight of the situation falls on the both of you. 

So you step forward, determined to follow after them. But just as you step outside the ballroom, Rhysand grasps your arm, forcing you to a stop.

“You stupid, foolish…,” his voice trails off in frustration. “What have you done?”

You spin on him, eyes flashing with anger as you yank your arm out of his hold. “What have I done? What about what have you done? Planning marriage alliances behind my back? Like I’m some pawn on your chessboard?”

Rhysand’s gaze softens for a brief moment. “Y/n, I–”

“No.” You interrupt sharply, starlight beginning to swirl from the fingertip you point at him. You don’t want to hear his excuse, whatever justification he thinks will make this right. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Cassian and Mor making their way toward you, slipping through the dancing couples and out of the ballroom. 

The starlight seeping from your fingertip glows brighter, ready and poised to attack. However, it’s your words you speak into his mind that make the blow instead.

“You know, if you love that runt from Spring so much, why don’t you marry him yourself?”

Rhysand’s eyes widen, his brows furrowing as the meaning of your words hit him. The revelation that you know his secret. Where he’d sneak off to some nights. Why the scent of crisp rain and earth lingered on him when he’d return. You and Azriel had pieced it together after Cassian had mentioned that his book on Illyrian training and methods suddenly went missing. Given your secret, you and Azriel had kept that information to yourselves, waiting for the moment Rhysand would feel comfortable to tell you himself. 

It takes him a moment to regain his composure, for his gaze to harden again. His lips curl into a snarl–a warning.  “Y/n.”

He leans in forward but you take a step back and winnow away, only one thing on your mind. Finding Azriel.

**

The walk to the High Lord’s private office in the Court of Nightmares is silent but the sense of foreboding is nearly deafening. Azriel is tense, his shadows quiet and burrowing into his leathers. Too many possibilities and consequences storm through his mind, each one more damning than the last.

Does he regret kissing you in front of everyone? No.

That kiss was the first honest, uninhibited thing he’d allowed himself to do in years. It was freeing, exhilarating to be able to show everyone, especially the sons of Spring and Autumn that you were his and he was yours. He could face death for this—for touching the High Lord’s daughter. For kissing you so openly, so brazenly, in front of the entire court.

But why? Why should it be so wrong for him to love you? Because of his birth? The scars of his past that marked him as unworthy? He’s served loyally. Bled for this court.Tortured for this court. 

He’s watched from the shadows as lords and sons, full of false charm, have circled you like vultures, eyeing you as nothing more than a prize to be claimed.  And yet, when he—who knows you, who cherishes you—shows his love, it is considered a crime.

It isn’t fair. But Azriel has never been afforded fairness. 

The heavy doors to the High Lord's office swing open with a wave of his hand, and Azriel steps inside. The air is thick with tension, and every muscle in his body tightens. The High Lord gestures for him to sit, but Azriel bows his head, respectfully declining. Standing feels safer. Less vulnerable. He wonders if his refusal will anger the High Lord further, but the single shadow curling at his ear reports no rising fury.

He can feel the weight of the High Lord’s gaze—it’s heavy, scrutinizing, like the cold press of a blade against his skin. He keeps his eyes forward, even though his heart pounds in his chest. If there’s punishment to be had, Azriel will accept it.

The High Lord moves to his desk, positioned beneath an oculus, where moonlight spills through and dances across his features. He gazes up at the starlit sky as if searching for answers—or perhaps, waiting.

“Normally, this is the part where people like you should be begging for forgiveness, for a way to rectify your mistake.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens. “I haven’t made a mistake.”

“No?” The High Lord’s gaze snaps back to him, piercing as if he could peel away Azriel’s very skin to lay bare his soul. Azriel wonders, for a brief moment, if your daemati powers had been inherited from your father. Could the High Lord see into his mind, his thoughts? Have kept this power to himself all these years as a secret weapon? 

“You sound so sure of yourself,” the High Lord continues, his tone sharpening. “Tell me, how long has this... affair been going on?”

“For decades.” Azriel admits, knowing that there was no use in lying. The truth was already written in the way he kissed you, in the way he looked at you as you broke away from the kiss.

“For decades?” The High Lord repeats, his expression darkening, violet eyes narrowing. “You took my daughter’s first dance tonight of all nights.”

Azriel’s silence says everything. Both of them aware that Azriel had taken more than dances, more than a kiss.

“You’ve taken her innocence. You’ve ruined her…” The High Lord continues to seethe in that cool, unnerving tone.

Azriel’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for his dagger. Not to defend himself, but because it’s his only comfort in moments like these.

But this is not a battle to be fought with daggers or swords. This is a battle of love, of politics, of status. One he’s had no training for yet one he’s willing to fight. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d fight against all odds.

“Whether she marries Spring or Autumn, she will become a lady of the highest esteem and forge a strong alliance with my court. Laden with all the riches and wonders only a High Lord can offer. What can you offer? You don’t even have a proper last name to give her, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel swallows thickly, the weight and shame of his low-born status crashing into him like the violent current of Illyria’s river. It feels like he’s sinking under it, drowning in it. He knows he can’t offer you what any son of Spring or Autumn could. He had reminded you of that—again and again. 

It’s as if you can feel his doubts creeping back in, the poison of guilt and worthlessness seeping in. Your presence—soft, warm, and steady—enters his mind. You bring forth the memory you had shared with him moments ago on the dance floor again.

“I can’t give you much,” his voice had dropped to a whisper, barely a rasp as he leaned his forehead against yours. His nose brushed against yours, his lips hovering just over your own. “But I can give you everything I have.”

“That’s all I’ll ever need,” you had replied, the words echoing now in his mind, like an antidote to the venom of doubt. That’s all I’ll ever need, that’s all I’ll ever need, that’s all—

“I asked you a question, Azriel.” The High Lord’s sharp voice cut through the memory, yanking him back to the cold, oppressive reality of the Court of Nightmares. “What can you offer in exchange for my daughter?”

Azriel’s knees buckle beneath him before he even realizes it. He drops to the floor, bowing his head low. His shadows stir, swirling around him in a frenzy, urging him to stand. To stop him.

“My life.”

“Your life,” The High Lord muses. He lets out a dark, humorless chuckle. “You love my daughter enough to give your life for her?”

“Yes,” Azriel says, his voice firm and steady, even as his shadows coil tighter around his arms, trying to pull him back from this path. But he stays rooted to the floor. His life, his soul—it all belongs to you anyway. What was it worth, if not to protect you? To be yours?

The High Lord’s eyes narrow as he studies the swirling shadows, dark and restless, wrapping themselves around Azriel’s form. Shadowsingers are rare. Their power is precious. They can see and hear things others can’t. The only known living one kneels before him now. 

Despite his low born status, the Shadowsinger had also proved himself a formidable, Illyrian warrior. A Carynthian. It’s why he appointed Azriel as the Night Court’s spymaster.  

And now this powerful and strong male is offering his life.

To have a Shadowsinger as his spymaster is rare, a gift in itself. To have Azriel’s loyalty, his strength, his skills bound by magic for life. A weapon of mass destruction, at his beck and call. No room for betrayal, no worry over him leaving his court for another.

 All in exchange for your hand in marriage? 

Now, that sounds like a deal.

He lets out a thoughtful hum, voicing his consideration. He could give Azriel a title, raise him from his bastard status. At his will, darkness begins to rise from the floor. The power of the bargain hovers in the air between them, ready to etch itself into both their skins. 

 Azriel finally lifts his head, meeting the High Lord’s eyes with no fear. Only the light of determination. He is willing to give his life to your father if that’s what it takes to be by your side. 

The cloud of darkness begins to separate, its dark tendrils moving toward him, the binding magic poised to seal his fate, to chain him to this bargain for the rest of his life.

But before it can touch his skin, before the deal can be made, a bright light erupts in the room. A sharp hiss escapes the darkness as it recoils, retreating back into the shadows where it had come from. Azriel’s own shadows seem to shudder in relief.

Both Azriel and the High Lord’s heads snap toward the source of the light. You stand at the doors, your eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears, your hands glowing with pure, raging starlight.

“No!” you cry, the word trembling on your lips as you step forward, the glow around you growing even brighter. 

Your eyes lock with Azriel’s and something tightens in his chest, crawling up his rib cage. It’s sharp and breathtaking. His hand grabs at his chest and yours does the same. 

”He will not be your slave,” you say, turning to your father with the same determination flashing in your eyes. “There has to be another way.”

The High Lord’s features morph into a scowl. “Another way? My star, he is a bastard—”

“I love him!” 

That tightening in his chest finally snaps and Azriel’s breath catches. He feels that light in your eyes, perfectly reflecting the one in his. It sears into his soul, as fierce and unrelenting as the starlight glowing from your hands.

Your father doesn’t notice the shift in the air, the change in Azriel’s posture, in his chest. Or in yours.

“You think that means anything?” 

Azriel’s shadows whisper a warning into his ears, of an oncoming raging darkness. Different but similar to the High Lord’s. He barely hears his shadows, too focused on you, on the bond thrumming between you. His mind is consumed with you. 

Mate. Mate. Mate.

“You and mother—” you begin.

“Do you think your mother and I love each other?” The High Lord interrupts sharply, his voice cold and cutting. He breaks out into a laugh.

Azriel snaps out of his trance. Anger flares within him at the shock, the devastation that takes over your features. He watches as you shrink back slightly, his instincts roaring to protect you from any harm, whether verbal or otherwise. 

Because he’s your mate. Because he loves you.

 “You think I would marry your mother, a low born seamstress by choice? What your mother and I have is different. It’s complicated. A special bond.  One that gave me Rhysand and you and–”

A sound like thunder crashes through the room, reverberating off the stone walls as darkness swells in every corner. One moment, Azriel is on his knees. The next, he’s slamming into the cold marble floor, the force of Rhysand’s power pinning him down. Tendrils of Rhysand’s darkness coil around Azriel’s form, fighting with the shadows that instinctively rise to defend him.

“How long?” Rhysand's violet eyes blaze as they burn into Azriel.

“And I am beginning to think you both are nuisances to my existence rather than gifts...” The High Lord mutters followed by an exhausted sigh.

“How long have you been fucking my sister?” His words are a snarl as he slams Azriel harder into the floor, advancing toward him with clenched fists.

“Rhysand!” You let out a cry, rushing to the two males to separate them.

Your brother whips around, his anger igniting into something fiercer at the sight of you. “Stay out of this!” he snaps, his hand raising. He’s too angry, too heated. So much that he doesn't even notice the force of darkness he aims your way.

Rhysand’s magic hits you hard, knocking the breath from your lungs. A choked gasp escapes as you stumble backward, struggling to keep your footing. A burst of bright sapphire explodes from each of Azriel’s siphons, a deep and low growl rumbling from his chest. He breaks free from Rhysand’s magic, standing to his feet. His wings flare behind him, shadows swirling like a storm.

The look in his hazel eyes is nothing short of feral, dark and ancient, a fierce and possessive glint that makes Rhysand falter and surprise flash across the High Lord’s features.

You fall to the ground with a thud, palms scraping against the stone and pain flaring in your hands. Rhysand turns toward you, the anger that had been simmering in his violet gaze immediately dissolving into guilt and regret. “Y/n, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t touch her.” Azriel growls, standing in between you and your brother, his shadows forming in an additional protective barrier. Some shadows flutter toward you, helping you stand and bringing you to Azriel’s side. Your hand instinctively seeks Azriel’s, fingers curling into his and you squeeze it, letting him know you’re alright. 

“By the Cauldron…” the High Lord’s voice comes out in a low murmur, his gaze darting between you and Azriel. His eyes narrow as he finally notices the subtle shift in the air, in your scents. The scent of a bond. 

“You two are mates,” he says, tone laced with resignation. Because even he, a High Lord, is not above going against The Cauldron.

It feels like a punch to the gut for Rhysand. His best friend and his sister. Fate’s inevitable design had been right under his nose all along. “What?” Rhysand breathes in shock, chest still heaving from the exertion of his magic.

Azriel’s hand tightens around yours. His gaze softens as he turns to you, the fierce protectiveness from earlier easing into something gentler. And when your eyes meet again, it’s there—the unmistakable light of the mating bond. It shines bright and steady between you. Just like your love for each other does.

 A light that never goes out.

bonus scene

Once the shock of the bond had worn off, the High Lord excused himself, muttering about damage control. “Spring will be the hardest to deal with,” he had said.

Rhysand’s body tensed as his eyes found yours. But you’d only given him a small, reassuring smile. Though it is something you would like to talk about, his secret would remain safe with you.

Your father would soon announce the bond to the Court of Nightmares, already making plans for a grand mating ceremony. You’d much rather have something private, intimate. But a public celebration seemed like a small price to pay for the lifetime you’d get to spend beside the male you loved.

Rhysand turned his gaze back to Azriel, his expression still unreadable. “You never answered my question,” he said, voice calm but edged with something darker. “How long?”

Azriel hesitated before answering, unlike the way he had with the High Lord. This was his best friend standing in front of him. The one he grew up and trained along with, survived the brutality of the Blood Rite with. Rhysand was like a brother to him and he went behind his back for years.

 “A decade.”

“A decade?” Rhysand blinks in surprise. 

A whole decade of secrecy. Of Azriel sneaking around with his little sister. It all made sense now. Why Azriel became more reserved, more private. Why Azriel no longer indulged himself with the pleasures of the females at Rita’s or the Illyrian camps like he and Cassian did. Why you spent more time at the Moonstone palace, instead of the House of Wind, where you had grown up and been raised by a handful of Priestesses. It hadn’t been to learn about the politics of the courts but to be closer to Azriel.

And then, with no warning, Rhysand swings.

The hit lands squarely on Azriel’s jaw, so swift and unexpected that neither you nor Azriel’s shadows had seen it coming. Azriel takes the blow without protest, silently commanding his shadows to stand their ground and not fight back. 

“Rhys!” you snapped, your brows furrowing into a scowl. 

Rhysand huffs, shaking out his hand from the impact. “That’s for going behind my back,” he says. He pauses for a second and then, he lets out a low chuckle. Full of disbelief and relief.

“I’m still angry at both of you,” Rhysand admits, and Azriel lowers his head, bracing for more. “Not because it’s you—though I’ll admit, seeing you together is... strange. But because you kept it from me for so long, putting both of your lives at risk.”

Then Rhysand’s voice softens, his gaze following. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

Azriel lifts his head back up in surprise as Rhysand holds out his hand.

 “You’re a good male, Azriel. Better than most. And I know you’ll protect her. Love her in a way no one else can.”

Azriel stares at Rhysand’s outstretched hand before finally clasping it, the tension between them easing. Your chest warms at your brother’s sincerity.

The sound of footsteps, heavy and hurried, echo through the stone walls. They grow louder with each passing second and moments later, Cassian and Mor appear at the entrance of your father’s study. Cassian braces himself against the doorframe and Mor leans on him, their chests rising and falling rapidly.

It’s clear they’re winded from the endless stairs they must’ve taken to reach the floor of your father’s private study. It was located between the Court of Nightmares and Moonstone Palace, warded so that only those of his bloodline could winnow directly inside.

Their eyes dart between the three of you. 

“What did we miss?”

a/n: hope you enjoyed! here’s a little HC (idk what to call it?) of Rhys’s sis & Az if you’re curious 💙

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

fic tag: @noisyinfluencerstrawberry, @tothestarsandwhateverend, @tulipbite, @kylaisra, @stressed-reader

[emeritusemeritus]

Charming Witches [Fred Weasley]

Title: Charming Witches [Fred Weasley]

Pairing: PregnantWife!Reader x Fred Weasley, background Hermione X Ron.

Timeline: Set after canon (Fred lives!)

Summary: Ron has an embarrassing issue and unluckily for him, Fred is the only one that can help.

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, babies, established relationships. Sexual references throughout. Fred has a bit of a breeding kink- shock. Just a silly little drabble I couldn’t get out of my mind. Fred is a bit mean and sarcastic to Ron.

Word count: 1.6k

"You're, you know... well, sort of, um."

"You'll get there eventually Ronald," Fred jokes with a straight face, half listening to his brother's whispered fumbles whilst he pours himself and his wife a drink, not bothering to offer his youngest brother one. If Fred had even bothered to look at Ron's face, he'd have seen he was as pink in the cheeks as a bottle of love potion, his blush so vivid that he looked ready to erupt with a face full of dragon pox any moment.

Ron clears his throat, trying again, as he casts a nervous glance around the Burrow's kitchen, checking no one was hearing this. He didn't know why he'd chosen Fred of all people to have this conversation with, in theory George would have been a much better choice but he didn't have the same 'qualifications' as his twin, seeing that you and Fred had been together for absolutely years.

"Well, umm," he freezes under Fred's quick but glance, silently telling him to spit it out. "Well you and y/n, you're in sync aren't you... Sexually?"

Whatever Fred was expecting to hear eventually tumble out of his brother's mouth was not even close to the reality and he can't stop his eyebrows from shooting halfway up his forehead instinctively in disbelief.

"Did my very pregnant wife give it away?" He snarks, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of the beer he'd poured, openly enjoying the discomfort his brother was radiating. "That might have been your first clue."

Ron somehow looks paler underneath all the blushing and Fred is revelling in his ability to make his brother squirm.

"Well, yeah I suppose," Ron mumbles, beginning to get defensive and deeply regretting opening up to the trickier twin.

"Calm down Ronald," Fred says, "you and Granger having bedroom troubles?"

"No!" Ron bites back a little too quickly but his resolve breaks under a few seconds of Fred's probing gaze, arms folded in an unconscious power stance. "Maybe."

He's quiet again for a few moments and Fred is uncharacteristically patient whilst he waits for Ron to collect his thoughts.

"How many times would you say is normal, like in a week?"

"Don't know if there's a 'normal' Ronniekins," Fred says with a shrug. "Most days and twice on a Sunday?"

Though he hides it this time, Fred revels in the look of utter horror Ron's eyes convey and it's like he can see the cogs in his brain working on overdrive, emitting smoke as they crumble and break. Evidently, his answer was light years away from what Ron had hoped for. He knows that his wife being ready to pop at any second only helps Ron believe his words and he mentally thanks Godric Gryffindor himself for the overly fortunate timing.

"Don't think it matters mate really; as long as you're both expecting about the same." This time, Fred actually thinks he's being reassuring.

"She just wants to read all the bloody time, even in bed! It's like I'm a bloody afterthought."

"Have you even met your girlfriend?"

This time it's Fred who pauses when he meets the icy glare of his younger brother. He sighs and a slightly awkward silence falls between the pair as they both try to think of how to fix whatever was going on in Ron's mind, hoping that two head were better than one.

"You two alright?"

Ron jumps out of his skin when he hears your slightly concerned greeting upon seeing the two brothers, Fred especially, in near silence.

"Don't tell me you forgot I was here," you joke to Ron, walking over to Fred as he holds out your waiting drink. "Been your sister in law for five years! Plus the bump makes me pretty memorable," you add with a smile.

"I'll say," Fred says with a wink, the cheeky glint in his eyes ever more sparkling as he looks at your bulging tummy, unashamedly ogling your pregnant form. You gently nudged him, silently telling him to be quiet but as you do so, you catch a slightly glare aimed at your husband from Ron.

"Am I interrupting? " You ask outright, sensing tension.

"No," says Fred almost immediately.

"A bit," Ron admits, cringing slightly before he lets out a loud yelp, having been smacked upside the back of the head by his older brother for his disrespect. He grumbles slightly under his breath, absently rubbing the back of his head where Fred's hand had connected to him and let's put a deep sigh.

"You're a girl," he says, averting his eyes anywhere except directly on your own.

Fred snickers at Ron's feeble and clumsy attempt at starting the conversation but opts to take a long swig of his beverage to avoid anymore laughter spilling out, though his delight still shines through his eyes.

"Only when it's not a full moon," you jest, trying to slice through the awkwardness Ron is emitting.

"Forget it, you're as bad as he is."

"Firstly I'm offended," you say, reaching out for his arm gently as you feel his begin to pull away, ignoring your husband's opposition. "Secondly, yes I'm a girl... go on."

"Well," he pauses, gathering courage, long ginger lashes covering his shy eyes that still raise no further than your ankles, "say Fred suddenly didn't want sex."

"Wouldn't happen."

"Fred shush."

"Well... say suddenly he wanted to read at nighttime over having sex."

"Again, wouldn't happen."

"Fred!" You hush him again, this time more firmly.

"How would you go about trying to, you know, fix it."

You were certain you'd never seen Ron this vividly pink in the cheeks before, he looked like he'd been decorated up to display in Umbridge's office.

"That's the problem? Hermione wants to read instead of sex?" You ask, not really seeing the big issue, but trying to say it gently so that you didn't spook him.

He nods, "but it's all the time," he adds, justifying his gripe.

"Well," you say, lowering yourself into Arthur's seat at the head of the kitchen table only a few feet away, unable to stand much longer. "Play her at her own game."

"Eh?" The brothers ask in sync, their faces scrunched into an almost identical confused expression. You simply shrug.

"Make yourself less available to her, pull back a bit," you say, taking a sip of your drink to wet your lips. "Start reading in bed just like she does, act like you're not interested in just sex."

"So I act like I'm not bothered even though I am?" He asks, still not following what you're saying.

"Sort of," you say, trying to find a better way of wording it.

"Reading's always been her favourite thing to do hasn't it? Join in on it. I'd bet on my life that she has a fantasy of you in bed shirtless reading beside her. Stop making advances, let her come to you."

"That's actually quite clever," he says after a few moments of consideration.

"It's been known."

"Shirtless?" He asks with a frown, seemingly fixating on that point.

You chuckle nodding, "well you have to still appeal to her, you don't want it to just be a study session do you?"

"Right, right," he says with a nod, a slight smile returning to his face before it dramatically falls away in an almost comedic move.

"I don't have a book."

"What do you mean you don't have a book?" Fred says in a flabbergasted manner, earning a slight but unconscious raise of your eyebrow. Though you didn't comment on the irony of his words considering you couldn't remember the last time you'd seen him so much as skim the daily prophet.

"I don't really have one," Ron mumbles quietly, "unless my quidditch annual counts."

"It doesn't," you say firmly.

"So I need a book," Ron says firmly, as if he was cementing the plan in his mind, nodding along with his thoughts until he finally makes eye contact. "Thanks y/n," he says with a smile and a nod of his head before he walks away, a bounce in his step.

"Think it's actually gonna work?" Fred asks as you pry yourself out of the chair and walk to stand next to him as you place your empty cup in the sink.

You let out a little chortle and shrug, "well if it doesn't, at least Hermione can read in peace."

Laughter bursts out of Fred and he pulls you close, bump nestled between you as he delights in your words, realising you had absolutely no idea if the plan would work.

Later that evening when everyone was preparing to leave the Burrow after another wonderful family dinner, Ron pulls you and Fred to one side before he left, away from the eyes and ears of everyone else.

"Thanks again for earlier," he says, clearly feeling more at ease about his issue. You smile warmly in reply, happy to help.

"No problem little brother," Fred beams, as if it was him that had offered any advice.

"Oi Ron," you call out quietly to get his attention as he turns to leave. With a smile, you reach down into the bag on your shoulder and pull out an item you'd gleefully searched for in Fred and George's old bedroom after the conversation. "Just incase my advice doesn't work."

Ron frowns reaching for the item you were handing him, a frown that only deepens as he reads the title of the book he was now holding. Fred's laughter is sudden and booming as his eyes land on the once familiar item that had him cracking up laughing, realising instantly what it was.

Twelve fail-safe ways to charm witches.

"Oh piss off."

Taglist part 1

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@autumnboo126

@kpopgirlbtssvt

[ateliersss]

TOP GUN #2

…is part of The Bookshelf.

⇨ This is a collection of my favorite fanfics/oneshots on Tumblr I love to re-read once in a while. None of those works belong to me! Feel free to use it as well.

⇨ My own works are here

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Left at the Altar Summary: When you get left at the altar, a familiar face swoops in to save the day.

Can't Let You Go Summary: When you and Jake broke up, it hurt both of you more than you could handle. Now, after three months of barely seeing or speaking to one another, Jake walks in on the surprise of seeing you in a wedding dress, and it brings past memories and ruined dreams to the surface.

Wanting It All Summary: Hangman ends up in the hospital from a very similar Phoenix/Bob/birds situation, and you suddenly regret keeping a big secret from him.  

Drunken Words, Sober Thoughts Summary: You and Jake had a history of flirting and occasionally kissing if too much time was spent at the bar, but it never went any further than that. One night, after showing up at your house and passing out on your couch, Jake wakes up the next morning only to learn he had drunkenly confessed his feelings for you.

Less Misery, More Company Summary: Jake has feelings for you but you don’t believe it, so you play a little trick to get back at him for all of his flirtatious teasing. But that little trick fails miserably, and as the weight of your mistake settles in, you realize you owe him an explanation, one that requires you to admit some things you’ve long denied.

Scrapes and Bruises Summary: Basically, Rooster is not thrilled about your relationship with Hangman, and their issues with one another bring up some fears of your own.

Good in Bed Summary: Jake has made it crystal clear to you that you're only friends with benefits, so why did he go and delete your dating apps?

Cross Summary: The four times you captured Jake Seresin’s attention and the one time he did something about it.

There's a Honey Summary: 3 times your aunt penny sees herself and maverick in your relationship with jake and 1 time she doesn’t.

So Funny Story (I'm Fucking Your Daughter) Summary: You've had a thing with Jake for a while now. The thing is, your dad doesn't know and your brother is desperate for you to tell him.

All You Had To Do Was Stay Summary: Six years ago Jake hit your life like a hurricane. In and out in a matter of weeks. You thought after you get over the disappointment of him leaving without saying a word you’d never think of him again. But then two pink lines change your life forever. Now he’s back and still has no idea that the little girl by your side is his daughter.

Revelation

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Three Generations Summary: Rooster is married. Maverick found out when the paperwork got filed with the Navy, but he doesn’t have a chance to ask Rooster about it until after the mission

Endings and Beginnings Part 1, Part 2 Summary: It's Maverick's retirement party but Rooster's far more concerned about you, his pregnant wife, than anything else.

Wrong Number Summary: Bradley was planning on a quiet night at home with a beer and a basketball game on TV. When he receives a text from a wrong number, he's left looking at a beautiful photo of you. Now he just needs to persuade you to ditch the guy you meant to text and focus on him instead.

Robert "Bob" Floyd

Only Love Can Hurt Like This Summary: Bob lost his fiancé in a dog fight and goes through the grieving process. Eventually he learns to move on but then everything he thought he knew was a lie, including the fact that Y/N had died on that mission.

All Fun & Games Summary: Returning to San Diego was just another assignment for you. Another step in the career path, full steam ahead, until you come to an obstacle in the road. Usually, you’d navigate around it, keep on going, but this is no normal obstacle. It might be enough to reroute you completely.

Tom "Iceman" Kazansky

Part of Three Summary: Reader is Maverick's sister, dating Iceman, and finds out she's pregnant.

Scared Summary: A fight between you and your fiancé spirals out of control.

Get Your Girl

Tom Is Finer

[kathaelipwse]

Written in the Pages || C.San

Pairing: Choi San × You (F!Reader)

Trope: Hidden Identity | Slow Burn | Actor!Idol!San x Writer!Reader | Fate & Coincidence Warnings: Slight Angst | Pining | Public Speculation | Idol Life Struggles | Teasing | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE | Rushed writing | Mention of existing companies & brands | ONLY A WORK OF FICTION

Word Count: 4008 words ; Reading time: 15-ish mins

Synopsis: You never expected your novel to take over the world—or for readers to realize that your male lead looked exactly like Choi San. The internet was on fire, and when Netflix proposed a live adaptation, you jokingly suggested his name. Except he agreed. Now, standing across from him on set, lines blurring between fiction and reality, you can’t help but wonder—was your love story already written in the pages?

Author’s Note: This idea spiraled out of control, and I regret nothing! 🖤 A mix of tension, slow-burn romance, and the classic “Are we acting, or is this real?” trope. Hope you love the chaos as much as I do! Request's are open!!

The world knew you as Y/N, a name whispered in hushed tones everywhere midst the readers who loved a fusion of dark and fluff romance, a dark promise on the lips of those who dared to delve into the depths of your narratives.

Your novels, especially "Shattered Heart," were not mere romances; they were intricate labyrinths of the human psyche, meticulously crafted explorations into the darkest corners where love bloomed amidst decay and obsession. Readers were ensnared, captivated by the twisted dance of Ravenna Skye and Lee Renji , their story a haunting melody of desire and destruction, a symphony of obsession played on the strings of broken hearts.

Ravenna, a woman sculpted from sharp edges and hidden scars, a survivor with eyes that held the ghosts of past traumas, captivated them. She was a paradox, both fragile and formidable, a woman who demanded submission and offered a dangerous kind of salvation, a siren luring them into the depths of a twisted devotion.

Renji, the predator cloaked in charm, a man whose love was a suffocating embrace, a possessive force that promised both ecstasy and ruin, became an obsession, a dark idol worshipped in the shadows of the internet. His description, however, was where the unease began to fester, a creeping dread that seeped into the collective consciousness.

Broad shoulders that hinted at a capacity for violence, a subtle tension that promised a storm, a devastatingly charming smile that masked predatory intent, a calculated allure that ensnared the unwary, sharp yet haunting features that held unspoken threats, a silent promise of pain. And hands… hands that could both caress and crush, leaving marks that were both tender and brutal, a physical manifestation of his dual nature.

"He's him," a post on a hidden forum whispered, a digital echo in the darkness, a chilling revelation that spread like a virus, followed by a meticulously compiled, chillingly detailed comparison of Renji's physical and psychological traits to those of Choi San, the idol whose public persona was a carefully curated mask, a facade that hid something far more complex, far more dangerous, a hidden darkness that resonated with the shadows within Renji.

Screenshots of San's piercing gaze, a look that seemed to penetrate the soul, were juxtaposed with passages from "Shattered Heart," highlighting Renji's possessive tendencies, the subtle manipulation, the psychological games, and the undercurrent of barely restrained rage, the silent promise of violence beneath the veneer of charm.

"Did she know?" the question slithered through the online shadows, a venomous serpent seeking its prey, a chilling accusation that hung in the digital air. "Is this a confession, a warning, or a twisted game of control, a psychological experiment played out on the public stage?"

The online world, usually a place of playful speculation, was now steeped in a chilling unease, a pervasive sense of dread that permeated every forum, every comment section. They dissected every word, every nuance, searching for hidden meanings in the darkness of your prose, seeking the truth behind the carefully crafted fiction.

The speculation escalated, reaching a fever pitch, a crescendo of online anxiety, when you, the enigmatic author, finally emerged from your self-imposed exile for an interview. The world watched, drawn in by your unsettling beauty, a fragile, yet strong with eyes that held the weight of untold secrets, a haunted allure that mirrored Ravenna's own, a dark elegance that hinted at a hidden strength, and a knowledge that seemed to transcend the ordinary, a silent understanding of the darkness that lurked within the human heart.

"Renji is a fiction," you stated, your voice a low, melodic whisper, a silken thread of sound that held a chilling undercurrent, a subtle tremor that hinted at hidden depths, yet a flicker of something dark and knowing in your eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the shadows that lurked beneath the surface, a recognition of the primal desires that fueled both love and obsession. "He is a reflection of the shadows that reside within us all, the desires we dare not speak, the darkness we try to deny, the monsters we keep chained within our souls."

But the universe, it seemed, had a taste for the macabre, a perverse fascination with the twisted narratives you wove, a dark curiosity that mirrored the obsession of your readers. TikTok became a breeding ground for fan edits, each one a disturbing exploration of Renji's obsession, a visual representation of the psychological torment, the subtle manipulation, and San's potential for darkness, a chilling reminder of the thin line between adoration and obsession, a stark warning of the dangers that lurked beneath the surface of idealized love.

Livestreams were invaded by comments, their tone shifting from curiosity to dread, a growing sense of fear that the fictional world was bleeding into reality, that the darkness you crafted was seeping into their own. Even San's broadcasts were not immune, the playful banter replaced by an unsettling silence, a palpable tension that hung in the air.

He read a particularly unsettling comment aloud, his playful facade cracking, revealing a flicker of unease, a glimpse of the fear that was slowly consuming him. "San, you are Renji."

He scrolled through the images, his amusement turning to a cold unease, a creeping dread that settled in his bones, a chilling awareness of the darkness that lurked within the carefully constructed persona. He recognized the details, the subtle hints of darkness, the almost predatory intensity, the unsettling familiarity of Renji's possessiveness which he could possibly inact if needed.

A sense of dread washed over him, a feeling that Renji wasn't just a character, but a dark reflection of something within himself, a hidden darkness that he had never dared to acknowledge, a primal instinct that resonated with the twisted desires of the fictional character. The seed of doubt, planted by a thousand online whispers, began to bloom into a chilling realization, a terrifying echo of fear, a dark understanding that the line between fiction and reality was blurring, and that he was standing on the precipice of something dangerous.

The digital tremors from the online earthquake, a seismic shift in the perception of your work, had barely subsided when the call came. Netflix, drawn by the raw, visceral energy of "Shattered Heart," wanted to adapt it into a live-action series. A global project, they called it, promising to bring the dark romance to life with unflinching intensity, to translate the shadows you'd painted onto the screen. The news, usually a cause for celebration, hung heavy in the air, a dark promise of what was to come, a premonition of the chaos you were about to unleash.

During the initial casting discussions, amidst the hushed tones and the careful consideration of actors, a question was posed, a loaded inquiry that carried the weight of unspoken expectations: "Do you have anyone in mind for Renji?"

The name slipped from your lips, unbidden, a dark echo of the online whispers, a dangerous gamble that felt both reckless and inevitable: "Choi San."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken questions, disbelief, and a flicker of something akin to fear. San, the idol, the performer, the man whose face had become synonymous with Renji’s darkness, whose public persona was a carefully crafted enigma. It was a bold, almost reckless suggestion, a gamble that could shatter everything, or ignite a firestorm of obsession.

The news exploded, a digital wildfire that consumed the internet, spreading through forums and social media like a plague. Fan theories, already fervent, reached a fever pitch, spiraling into darker territories. The possibility of San embodying Renji, the predator, the obsessive lover, was both thrilling and terrifying, a dangerous dance on the edge of obsession, a blurred line between fantasy and reality.

You had expected a refusal. A polite, diplomatic decline. After all, he was a K-pop idol, not an actor. The role of Renji demanded a level of emotional complexity, a willingness to delve into the darkest corners of the human psyche, to explore the shadows of obsession and control, that seemed far removed from the polished perfection of idol life. You had imagined a carefully worded statement from his agency, citing scheduling conflicts or creative differences.

Instead, a meeting was scheduled. You found yourself face-to-face with him, in a sterile conference room, the tension palpable, a silent battleground where unspoken desires and hidden fears collided. And goddamn, the internet was right. He fit the role like a glove. The captivating charm, the underlying intensity, the almost predatory gaze—it was all there, a chilling echo of Renji, a reflection of the darkness you had conjured. Cute yet lethal, charming yet mysterious, an effortless embodiment of the shadows you had written, a dangerous mirror of your creation.

"I won't be playing Ravenna," you declared, your voice steady, though a tremor ran through you, a subtle vibration of unease that betrayed your carefully constructed composure. "I'm not an actress." The thought of stepping into Ravenna’s shoes, of embodying her pain, her resilience, her dangerous allure, was a daunting, almost terrifying prospect, a leap into the abyss of your own creation.

San leaned forward, his eyes locking with yours, a smirk playing on his lips, a playful yet dangerous glint in his gaze that sent a shiver down your spine. "Then who will? The fans won't settle for anyone else. They see you as Ravenna. They see us," he emphasized the "us," a subtle provocation, a dangerous acknowledgment of the connection the fans perceived. "They've already written the script in their heads, haven't they? They see the sparks."

You sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on you, the pressure from the fans and the intensity of his gaze. "I've never acted. It'll take too many retakes—I'll just waste everyone's time. You’re a professional. I’d just slow everything down." The vulnerability you rarely showed, the fear of inadequacy, crept into your voice, a crack in your carefully constructed facade.

"Then learn," he shrugged, his gaze unwavering, intense, a silent challenge that dared you to step into the darkness. "Life is about learning, isn't it? About facing the darkness, about embracing the shadows."

There was something in the way he said it, a dark resonance that hinted at a shared understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface, a dangerous curiosity that mirrored your own. Something that made your pulse unsteady, that sent a strange, unsettling thrill through you, a forbidden excitement that you couldn't deny.

Against your better judgment, against the warnings echoing in your mind, you agreed. A contract was signed, not just for a series, but for something far more dangerous, a pact with the shadows, a dangerous game played on the edge of reality. The series, and this strange, intense connection with San, was about to begin, a dangerous dance into the darkness, a journey into the heart of your own creation.

Filming began, a whirlwind of controlled chaos, a meticulously crafted descent into the shadows. The set became a liminal space, a world between fiction and reality, where the shadows you had written took on flesh and blood, where the lines of reality began to blur and twist. And within that chaos, San moved with an unsettling grace, an effortless embodiment of Renji. The predatory charm, the simmering intensity, the way he could switch from playful to dangerous in a heartbeat—it was both captivating and terrifying, a dangerous dance on the edge of obsession, a performance that felt too real.

You, on the other hand, were thrown into the deep end, forced to confront the vulnerability you usually kept locked away, protected by the armor of your words. Acting was a different beast entirely, a raw exposure of emotions you typically channeled into your writing, a stripping away of the carefully constructed walls. The camera's unblinking eye felt like it was stripping away your carefully constructed defenses, exposing the raw emotions you usually poured into your characters, a terrifying intimacy.

But San became an unexpected anchor in that storm, a dark guide through the chaos, a constant presence that both comforted and unsettled you.

"You look like you're about to run," San observed during a break, his gaze studying your tense posture.

"I feel like I'm about to," you admitted, a wry smile playing on your lips. "This is… intense."

"Intense is what we do," he replied, a playful glint in his eyes. "Embrace the chaos, Y/N. It's where the magic happens."

In the quiet moments between takes, a strange camaraderie blossomed, a silent understanding that transcended words, a shared language of unspoken desires. You were comfortable in shared silences, finding an odd peace in the chaos, a fragile truce amidst the emotional turmoil. There were moments of goofy laughter, shared jokes that eased the tension, light moments that felt like a momentary reprieve. And then there were the moments where the line between actor and character blurred, where the intensity in San's eyes felt too real, too personal, a dangerous reflection of Renji's obsession, a haunting echo of the character you had created.

And then came the confession scene.

Los Angeles. A rainy night, the city lights reflecting off the wet streets, creating an almost ethereal glow, a scene painted in shadows and whispers, a culmination of the unspoken tension.

The scene was simple, yet laden with emotional weight, a raw expression of vulnerability: Renji calling out, "Venna!"

You, as Ravenna, turned, rain plastering your hair to your face, your breath catching in your throat. San, as Renji, was a dark silhouette against the city lights, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart pound.

"Venna," he repeated, his voice a low, desperate plea. "Don't run."

You took a step back, fear and desire warring within you. "Renji…"

He closed the distance, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "Tell me you feel it too. Tell me this isn't just me."

Your breath hitched. "I…"

He cupped your face, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. "Tell me, Venna."

You closed your eyes, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy in the air. "Yes."

He pulled you closer, his hand sliding down to your waist, his grip firm, possessive. "Then show me."

A kiss. A lingering touch that felt like a brand, a silent promise, a dangerous consummation.

--- "Cut."

The director's voice broke the spell, but the air remained charged, thick with unspoken desires, a tension that crackled between you and San.

"That was… intense," the director commented, a flicker of unease in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the raw emotion.

"Too intense?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, your gaze locked on San, seeking answers in his eyes.

"Perfect," San murmured, his voice low, his eyes never leaving yours, a dangerous intensity in their depths. "Perfectly real."

Why did it feel so real?

Why did San linger, his gaze intense, wanting to hold you again, kiss you again, erase the boundaries between fiction and reality, merge the characters with the actors?

And why did you feel the same, a dangerous pull towards the darkness he embodied, a forbidden desire that mirrored Ravenna’s?

The rest of filming became a tightrope walk, a precarious balance between fiction and reality, a dangerous game of emotions. The chemistry between you and San was undeniable, electric, but it was a dangerous electricity, charged with unspoken desires and hidden depths, a silent language spoken in stolen glances and lingering touches, a constant push and pull. The lines between Ravenna and Renji, between Y/N and San, began to blur, creating a tension that permeated every scene, a silent battleground of emotions, a dangerous dance of shadows and light.

The year passed in a blur of long days and sleepless nights, a constant dance between shadows and light, a journey into the heart of your own creation. Filming wrapped. The movie was released.

It shattered records.

The world was captivated by the dark romance, by the raw intensity of the characters, by the undeniable connection between the actors, a connection that seemed to transcend the screen, a forbidden intimacy that captivated millions.

You and San still texted, the digital connection a lifeline in the post-filming void, a fragile thread connecting you across the distance, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken. But distance grew between you, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken feelings, the dangerous desires left behind in that rain-soaked confession scene, a silent pact to ignore the fire that burned between you, a dangerous denial.

Neither of you spoke about the ache in your chests, the lingering questions that haunted your thoughts, the ghosts of the characters you had played, the emotions that felt too real.

Until San finally confessed to his members.

The teasing? Relentless, a mix of playful and concerned, a chorus of unspoken questions and knowing glances, a silent interrogation.

Award season arrived, a whirlwind of flashing lights and red carpets, a stage for the unspoken drama, a spotlight on the tangled truths.

You walked the red carpet in a black gown laced with gold, a dress that mirrored Ravenna's dark elegance, a silent declaration of the character you had become, a dangerous echo of the woman you wrote. San, in a tailored suit that accentuated his sharp features, sat beside you at your table, the air between you thick with unspoken words, a silent battleground of desires, a dangerous tension.

Best Romance Film? Your movie.

The moment your name was called, a wave of emotion washed over you, a culmination of the journey you had taken, a dangerous acknowledgment of the emotions you had stirred. As you made your way to the stage, San's gaze followed you, a silent intensity that felt both supportive and possessive, a dark promise, a silent claim.

After the show, he found you in an empty hallway, the shadows of the night clinging to him, a predator stalking his prey, a desperate plea for honesty.

And then—

He pinned you against the wall, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the forcefulness of the action, a desperate plea for honesty, a raw confession.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice low, rough with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher, a dangerous whisper in the darkness. "Tell me I was the only one who felt it. That it wasn't just acting. That the fire between us was real. That the shadows we danced in weren’t just fiction."

His words hung in the air, a dangerous question that shattered the fragile truce you had built. "Tell me," he had murmured, his voice raw, his eyes searching yours, "tell me it wasn't just acting."

You stared at him, the hallway suddenly shrinking, the silence deafening. The weight of his confession pressed down on you, a heavy truth you could no longer ignore. The fire between you, the connection that had sparked on set, it wasn't just for the cameras. It was a dangerous, consuming thing that had taken root in your soul.

"San…" you began, your voice trembling, the words caught in your throat.

He leaned closer, his hand tightening on your waist, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Was it real, Y/N? Was any of it real? Or were we just playing characters?"

The question echoed the doubts that had plagued you for months. The lines between Ravenna and Renji, between you and San, had blurred irrevocably. Was the passion, the intensity, just a performance? Or was it something more, something dangerous, something real, something that threatened to consume you both?

"I don't know," you finally whispered, the honesty a painful admission, a crack in the carefully constructed walls you'd built around yourself. "I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know where Ravenna ends and I begin."

A flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps, or maybe a hint of anger—crossed his face. He released you, stepping back, creating a distance that felt like a chasm, a tangible representation of the emotional distance between you.

"So, it was all just acting," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, a cold statement that cut through the tension.

"No!" you protested, reaching for him, your fingers brushing against his arm, desperate to bridge the gap. "It wasn't just acting. But… it's complicated, San. We're not Ravenna and Renji. This isn't a movie. We can't just follow a script."

He turned away, his jaw tight, his voice strained. "Isn't it? Because it felt pretty damn real to me. It felt like… like everything."

The tension between you was a palpable thing, a live wire stretched taut, threatening to snap, to ignite a fire that would consume you both. The unspoken hung heavy in the air, a dangerous mix of desire and fear, a silent battleground of emotions.

He turned back to you, his eyes searching yours, a raw vulnerability in his gaze. "Y/N," he said, his voice low, a desperate plea. "I need to know. Was it real for you too?"

You hesitated, the truth caught in your throat, a dangerous confession waiting to be unleashed. "San…"

"Tell me," he whispered, closing the distance between you, his breath warm against your skin. "Tell me you felt something. Tell me it wasn’t just me."

You closed your eyes, the weight of his confession pressing down on you. "It was real," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "It was too real."

He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle, yet firm. "Then tell me," he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours for a flicker of truth. "Tell me you feel something for me."

"I…" you started, but the words caught in your throat.

"Say it," he urged, his voice a desperate whisper. "Please."

And then, the dam broke. "I love you, San," you confessed, the words raw and honest, a dangerous admission of the feelings you had tried to deny. "I love you, and it terrifies me."

The following months were a torturous dance. You and San continued to text, the digital connection a fragile lifeline, but the easy camaraderie you had shared on set was gone, replaced by a careful distance, a guarded politeness, a silent acknowledgment of the dangerous emotions that simmered beneath the surface.

You attended every ATEEZ concert, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, watching him from the shadows, your heart aching with a longing you couldn't explain. You stayed in the same hotels, the close proximity a torment, a constant reminder of the unspoken desires that simmered beneath the surface.

Rumors spread like wildfire, fueled by your public appearances, your shared moments, the undeniable chemistry that radiated from you both. The fans, ever-observant, dissected every glance, every touch, weaving their own narratives, their own dangerous fantasies.

And then San made it official.

A single Instagram post.

The photo? You, working on your laptop, your face illuminated by the screen's glow, blurry but unmistakably you.

Caption: "Written in the pages. 🖤"

The internet? Broke.

The fans erupted, a chaotic mix of joy and disbelief, their theories finally confirmed.

The haters? Unbothered. Their voices, usually a deafening roar, were drowned out by the overwhelming tide of support.

Because you didn’t care what the world thought.

After all, your love was already written in the pages. Or was it? The question still lingered, a haunting echo in the quiet moments, a shadow that threatened to consume the light, a dangerous uncertainty that hung in the air.

--

[starstruckchilli]

Billy Batson Fic Idea:

Billy has been in the Justice League for just over a year, as an eleven-year-old parading in an adult’s body.

Unfortunately, in an especially difficult battle he’s forced to reveal his identity to his teammates, and they don’t take it well.

With a little digging from Batman, his foster history and eventually drop from the systems are exposed. Now the entire JLA view him as a pathetic child in need of saving by them.

Superman orders Martian Manhunter to remove all of Billy memories of Captain Marvel so that they can protect him from the “dangers of hero work.” Subsequently, Billy is fostered by Bruce and placed in the Wayne household.

The batfam keep their ‘bat’ secrets from him, and after six months acclimating to the manor, Billy starts keeping his secrets from them.

Clearly, he’s some sort of meta.

Lightening has been arching off his body in, powerful, sporadic bursts whenever his emotions are particularly heightened. As a citizen of Gotham, he’s well aware of the “no meta” rule and fears what Batman (a cool, cryptid vigilante that he’s never seen before no matter how much it feels like he knows him on a personal level) will do to him.

So he tells no one, especially not his foster siblings.

Furthermore, his mind has been messing with him, inserting fragments of memories that he can’t quite place.

He gets especially dizzy around news stations. He swears he can envision Captain Marvel in detail, despite his certainty that he’d never met the hero. The feeling is so powerful though, to the point that he compulsively starts collecting news articles about “the hero that went missing.” He begins unconsciously seeking connects to his former life.

When Billy works out that Bruce Wayne is Batman, and the Batfam work out Billy has magic, it’s already too late.

Cap’s god-like powers have already returned all of his memories.

Billy is overcome with unadulterated fury at the revelation.

Marvel’s powers have been suppressed within Billy for far too long and they excitably respond to these emotions.

Billy confronts Batman, screaming about how they invaded his mind and stripped him of his autonomy. All the while, thunder and lightening rains down upon Gotham, menacingly striking the manor.

He yells at Batman for coercing him into their family in order to fulfil some sort of guilt complex. They basically kidnapped him and kept him as a pet.

They stripped him of his home, his life goals, his morals, and worse of all, his identity.

Every few words, Billy pauses to yell Shazam. The lightening tears apart the manor, setting the south wing aflame.

Nobody can get close to him without being struck by a particularly vengeful beam of light.

“Shazam. You ripped me from my home. Shazam. You kept me like a pet. Shazam. You stripped me of everything I believed in. Shazam.” He booms, voice thunderous and hateful.

The Mightest mortal looks intimidating as he switches forms. His hair whips in the wind and his eyes glow white with electrical rage.

As he turns of fly back to Gotham, Billy swears that he will never stop heroing for Fawcett, and if the JLA tries to interrupt him, he will have no choice but to treat them as enemies.

Bruce is left to rot in his regret and dread as he watches his foster son that he’d come to love fly away. He puts on his cowl and heads up to the Watchtower with a new resolve; to convince the superheroes that Captain Marvel needs to come back to the league.

In the end, more stuff goes down. Dick and Steph and some other family members go to Fawcett to convince Billy to come home. He ignores them. Bruce is wallowing in the Batcave while presenting weekly PowerPoints to the JLA about Captain Marvel’s essentialness.

Eventually they are all united by a big bad. Bruce saves Billy’s life then Captain Marvel saves the day. He accepts his invitation back into the league and starts living with the Wayne’s again. Everyone is happy. Yay.

Lemme know if u think I should write this lol

[revelboo]

Hello Revel! How have your days been lately?

What do you think bots would think if they witnessed human infidelity?(like in some novel, movie or even human gossip 👀)

Still great Revel We love you! 🩷

Thank you all for reading my nonsense, y’all are awesome! Ngl, first thing I thought of was Everything Is Alright’s Starscream. That mech is so darn tired and having to watch his tiny mate like a hawk because their thirsty self collects husbands. Most of the poly groups, there was some form of agreement to share and then Star’s over here just stressed out and currently trying to beat back Shockwave with a stick thinking he’s interested. But once Star’s less salty about it, he’s going to play that card to win every argument.

Seekers

Starscream x Reader

• “At least I didn’t frag your mortal enemy. And Soundwave,” he growls, wings flared out and trembling and your eyes narrow. Because he’s never letting that go. Megatron wasn’t even really your fault, but Soundwave? You glance at where the communication officer’s sitting with your tiny daughter curled sleeping in the crook of his arm and he looks up at the sound of his name. Yeah, you absolutely chose him and you don’t regret it. Even if you still feel guilty.

• Watching your lips press into a thin line, before you slowly nod, for a klik he thought you were about to get angry and yell at him. “Touché,” you mutter and he’s not sure what that means, the word not translating right. “Fine. Humans have more than one name. Give her a Cybertronian middle name if it makes you happy, but I swear if you pick something like Skullcrusher or Starscreamette, I’ll smack you. Repeatedly.”

• “I know a Skullcrusher,” he mutters. “He’s a jerk.” Turning to watch the little one snuggle her face closer against Soundwave with a little noise, trusting the other mech with the innocence of a sparkling. Not knowing how cruel and hard the world can be and he wants it to stay that way. He drags you into his lap and rests his chin on your head. And you slowly relax into him, not as annoyed as you sound then. “I was thinking of Skyfall for her Cybertronian name?” Something that’s a bit of him, a bit of his trine. And that guilt twists through him, because he needs to reach out to Thundercracker and Skywarp. Apologize even if it’s going to kill him, but he wants them to know his daughter, to be a part of her life. And he misses them.

• “Sky,” you mumble, watching your daughter’s little wing nubs flick. Looking for anything human in her features. Sometimes you think you see the shape of your eyes in her optics, that little mouth is yours, right? The rest of her alien. More Star than you. You’d thought that would bother you, and it does, but not in the way you’d imagined. It’s an odd, lonely feeling, like you’re on the outside looking in when you see one of them with her. Megatron has her longer than you did, is she really still yours, then?

• “I want to nudge Nova Storm or one of his brothers into taking a human mate. She needs other Seekers,” he murmurs and you nod. Before slowly leaning back and frowning up at him to make his wings droop. And Soundwave makes a low hum of noise, paying attention to the conversation now. Because they both know that look on your face.

• “Why them, not your brothers?” You ask, and his wings flick. Oh, no. Nope. Absolutely not. “You are not pulling some arranged marriage crap with our newborn baby.” Because you don’t care if your kid falls in love with another Seeker or not as long as she’s happy. “She can have seeker playmates, they can learn to fly together. I’d love that,” you growl, chest hurting imagining your kid trying to fly. Will she just know or have to be taught? “But you’re not going to push someone at her. She’s going to decide.” And his jaw clenches letting you know that’s exactly what he was thinking. And it’s not happening.

There’s still time to vote on the kid’s human name!

Thanks to @drabbletron for suggesting the kid’s Cybertronian name. I figure most of the hybrid kids will have two names and will lean toward one or the other as they get older. And they know they’re in trouble when both names get used by a parent

[eightofpents]

alright i'm gonna talk about the letter apparently. i was just gonna write something petty to rot in my drafts but i've decided i actually wanna collect my thoughts here.

this got. too long. it's under the cut.

FIRST. The letter doesn't invalidate his choice in Re Creation. WHY would he give up the wish he is currently making with the expectation that Adrien Might make the wish he actually wants sometime in the future. He's not the brightest but he's not that dumb. It would be an absolutely nonsense decision to make.

For now I'm gonna assume Gabriel wrote the letter.

I think Intuition is probably when it would've happened. He's high key dying and Nathalie asks him to make arrangements for Adrien, and despite his general inability to envision his failure he Does ask Adrien about it. And in the letter he assumes Nathalie will still be there; as of Intuition they think she'll outlive him. So, arrangements: world's shittiest letter.

And he marks it as anachronistic and puts it in the box with Froggy. Which is in character. White!Gabriel constantly doles out affection to Adrien to manipulate him. Look at Froggy, remember we love each other, and then read this mind blowing letter. Then go beg Nathalie to help you stop being an orphan even though she'd given up on that.

The contents of the letter, for reference:

My son. If you're reading this letter, it means I'm with your mother. I sacrificed everything to save Emilie. Monarch was me. I did all I could to seize the miraculous of the ladybug and the black cat. With their powers, I could have brought your mother back. But I failed. It's your turn, now, to continue my mission. Don't worry. You'll have help. Nathalie will explain. You will seize the miraculous of that wretched Ladybug and her pathetic partner Cat Noir, and you will make the wish to bring your mother and me back. You will be perfect. I know these revelations will turn your life completely upside down. It was the case for your mother and me when we first found out about the miraculous. But we never regretted harnessing the peacock to-

The letter to me, largely sounds like Gabriel could've written it. He Would be petty about Chat Noir.

"My son." Gabriel calls Adrien that on relatively few occasions, but he considers it affectionate, and importantly, he does it in Both My-Son-Is-Chat timelines, and fairly frequently as white!Gabriel, specifically to manipulate him. We're off to a very Gabriel start.

I am curious about him calling her Emilie to Adrien. Not in a "That's not Gabriel*" way, just. It's weird to call your partner by their name to your kids right? Are they just reminding Us of her name?? (*not that he's ever done it before)

"But I failed." His inability to conceive of a world where he fails; you might consider this an issue of ego, stubbornness, whatever. I. Do not. When he says he can't live without Emilie in Re Creation, he fucking means it. He finally accepts her death and Immediately kills himself. He can't lose because the world can't go on without Emilie. So despite it being uncharacteristic to Make Arrangements (notably. he doesn't, like, find a caretaker for adrien. just this letter.), I'm not marking it against Gabriel writing the letter because the arrangements he's making are actually just to make sure Emilie comes back.

"It's your turn, now, to continue my mission. You'll have help. Nathalie will explain." It's not Nathalie will help. It's Nathalie will explain. You'll have help. From the cult. (Who notably refer to the diamond's "mission" at the end.) The point of this letter isn't to get Adrien to start hunting miraculous (on his own). It's to get Adrien into the cult. Which I'm sure Nathalie recognizes.

Perfect and revelation are both loaded words but I don't have any thoughts on em beyond that.

"But we never regretted harnessing the peacock" (A lie, but one I can appreciate.) This is what really gets me. He's going to tell Adrien he's a senti. Which doesn't make any sense for Gabriel to do. A deathbed confession about senti stuff? Yeah, Maybe. But if he plans on being back to deal with the consequences of Adrien knowing??? This isn't going to endear him to Adrien. I don't think it'll make him more likely to listen. All it'll do is fuck the boy up.

And as someone else (i do not recall who) pointed out, hiding the letter in the box when you're working with the very limited time frame of Nathalie's life from Gabriel's perspective as he's ostensibly writing this would be Exceptionally risky. Its been months, now that we're finding it. But if it was written after Gabriel's wish that's a moot point.

I legit went into this post without strong feelings on who wrote the letter but I've kinda fully convinced myself it wasn't Gabriel. (<says noted Gabriel Apologist. but I was managing that just fine when I thought he Did write it so.)

Anyway I'm officially putting my money on "written by the cult, for the cult."

[mistyshane30]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 12)

Synopsis: After last night’s kiss, everything feels different—but maybe that’s not a bad thing. With a camping trip ahead and your friends still in the dark, stolen glances and shared spaces make it impossible to ignore the shift between you and Agatha.

Word count: 6.9K

Warnings: Sexual tension, Mild language

A/N: Hey everyone, just wanted to say a massive thank you for all the love and support! It really means the world to me that you're reading my stuff. Love you all♡

You wake up to the sound of your phone alarm, the one you set last night with the full intention of regretting it. You reach out blindly, fumbling to silence it before the noise burrows too deep into your skull. Your fingers finally manage to swipe at the screen, and the room falls quiet again. 

You blink up at the ceiling. And then it hits you. Last night happened. The kiss happened. 

Your stomach flips—not in panic, but in a holy shit, that was real kind of way. A slow warmth spreads through you, settling in your chest like a secret. For a few seconds, you just lie there, letting it all sink in, no rush, no dramatic gasp—just the weight of realization curling around you like a blanket. 

And then, before you can stop it, a small smile tugs at your lips. 

You exhale, rolling onto your side and running a hand through your hair. No spiraling. You’re cool. You’re collected. Today is just… a day. A day after the kiss. A day where the world keeps spinning, even if it feels a little different now. 

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you stand up—only to immediately slam your knee against the nightstand. 

“Shit—!” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, sucking in a breath as a sharp sting shoots up your leg. Well, that’s one way to keep yourself grounded. 

Not today. Today is a great day. 

You grab your phone and scroll through your Spotify, looking for the right song. This Will Be (An Everlasting Love) by Natalie Cole catches your eye, and without thinking twice, you hit play—then set it on repeat. It just feels right. Humming along, you stretch your arms, the upbeat melody lifting your mood as you head to the bathroom. 

The memory of the kiss sneaks in—uninvited, but not exactly unwelcome. 

Her lips, softer than you expected. The way she hesitated, just for a second, before giving in. The way your heart tripped over itself, trying to catch up. 

You shake your head, grinning as you grab your toothbrush. You’re being ridiculous, but who cares? Pointing the toothbrush like a microphone, you mouth along to the lyrics, swaying a little as you brush. 

The shower is warm, the steam wrapping around you as you lather up, still humming along to the song. The tune has officially lodged itself in your brain, and before you know it, you’re full-on singing, letting your voice flow effortlessly through the lyrics. The acoustics in the bathroom are perfect, amplifying the richness of your tone, and you can’t help but revel in it. 

"This will be, an everlasting love..." 

You close your eyes as you rinse the shampoo from your hair, the melody carrying through the air with ease. You’re fully into it now, singing without a care, completely lost in the song. The ridiculous, giddy energy bubbling in your chest only makes the song sound even sweeter. A laugh escapes you between lines—you can’t help it. 

Last night happened. And it was great. 

With a final, perfectly controlled note of "You brought a lot of sunshine into my life!" you grin to yourself, stepping out and grabbing a towel. 

After your shower, you go through your luggage, picking out what you need for the hike. A black fitted moisture-wicking tank top, high-waisted dark gray hiking leggings, and sturdy brown hiking boots. You tie a light gray long-sleeve shirt around your waist—just in case the weather turns—and top it off with black shades and a deep olive-green cap. 

You always come prepared. 

You grab your small black hiking backpack, making sure you have the essentials—water bottle, sunscreen, windbreaker, wet wipes, tissue, power bank, extra shirt, and blanket. You didn’t exactly pack for camping, so you’ll have to stop by the resort shop on the way to the meeting place. 

Breakfast is quick, but This Will Be is still playing. You should probably switch it up, but honestly? You’re feeling it. You’re feeling all of it. 

You lean back in your chair, tapping your fingers against the table as you chew. You’re happy. Like, really happy. It’s kind of embarrassing, actually. Maybe you need to tone it down a little. 

You shake your head to yourself, taking another bite. 

Yeah. Maybe later. 

After your breakfast, you get up, stretching your arms as you push your plate aside. You give yourself one last look in the mirror, smoothing down your outfit before turning off the music. Satisfied, you grab your things and step out of your villa, heading toward the resort shop. 

The store is stocked with everything you need for the trip—flashlights, protein bars, bug spray, and a first aid kit. As you browse, you decide to grab six sleeping bags, just in case no one else remembered to buy them. You also pick up three tents because there’s absolutely no way you’re sleeping unprotected in the woods. Just as you’re about to check out, you pause. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, snapping your fingers as you remember Wanda doesn’t have hiking boots. With a sigh, you head back to the shelves and pick out a sturdy, comfortable pair in her size. 

By the time you make your way to the resort’s main entrance, you’re carrying shopping bags in both arms, the weight slightly annoying but manageable. As you walk, you start practicing how to casually greet Agatha when you see her. 

"Hey, Agatha." No, too chill. 

"Heyyy, Agatha!" Absolutely not. 

"Morning, Ags!" What did you just say? Ags?! 

You cringe to yourself before shaking your head. Right. You two don’t even greet each other like that. You decide to just wing it. 

When you finally reach the group, you realize you’re the last one to arrive. Your eyes scan over everyone before landing on Agatha. You do a double take—because, seriously? She looks unfairly good in hiking gear. Fitted, practical, and somehow still managing to make it look effortlessly stylish. You blink, trying not to stare too long. 

You clear your throat and offer a casual, “Hey.” 

“Finally,” Jennifer says with a smirk, eyeing your shopping bags. “Did you buy out the whole store?” 

“Very funny,” you deadpan, shifting the bags in your arms. “This isn’t just for me, by the way. I got tents, sleeping bags—you’re welcome, by the way.” 

Wanda perks up when you hand her the bag with the hiking boots. “Oh, you got these for me?” 

You nod. “Figured you’d need ‘em.” 

The group erupts into playful teasing, calling you their ‘sugar mommy.’ You roll your eyes. “Okay, first of all, I’m just being practical.” 

“Ohhh, practical,” Agatha drawls, smirking. “Is that what we’re calling it?” 

You narrow your eyes at her. “Would you prefer thoughtful and generous? Because I can work with that.” 

She chuckles, shaking her head. “Oh, you’re feeling bold today, huh?” 

You smirk. “I try.” 

You’re aware of how Agatha’s lips twitch, like she’s holding back another quip, and how her gaze lingers just a beat longer than necessary. It sends an unexpected warmth through your chest, one you stubbornly ignore. 

Before either of you can push it further, Jen claps her hands. “Alright, you two, let’s save the banter for later. We need to get going.” 

You blink, snapping back to reality, realizing the others have been watching the exchange with varying levels of amusement. Clearing your throat, you shift the bags in your arms and force a nonchalant shrug. 

You huff playfully, but nod, motioning toward the van. “Help me load this up, then.” 

With a few more laughs and a couple of nudges, the group moves to stash the supplies in the van. 

You guys pile into the van, the energy buzzing with excitement for the trip ahead. You slide into your seat beside Wanda, settling in when suddenly, Agatha slides in right next to you. The shift is subtle, but you feel it—the way her presence fills the small space between you. 

You glance at her, and just as your eyes meet, she winks. 

Your breath hitches for half a second before you force yourself to look away, clearing your throat as if that will help steady you. Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of your jeans, grounding yourself, but you swear you can feel her smirking beside you. She doesn’t need to say anything—you just know she’s enjoying this. 

A light nudge on your elbow snaps you out of your spiraling thoughts. Wanda, leaning in close, whispers, "Do you wanna switch seats?" 

Her voice is careful, almost hesitant, and when you turn to her, there’s concern in her eyes. Of course. The last thing she knows about you and Agatha is the kiss. The drunken, heart-wrenching kiss that she remembers you remember, but Agatha does not. 

You force a small smile. "I’m fine." 

"You sure?" Wanda presses, brows knitting together slightly. 

You nod, offering her what you hope is a reassuring look. "Yeah. I promise." 

She doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she just exhales and settles back into her seat, though you feel her steal a glance at you every now and then. 

Up front, Jen claps her hands together. "Alright, before we head straight to Malibu Creek, we need to stop by the Malibu Country Mart. We need food." 

She starts listing off things—rice, marinated chicken skewers, beef strips, crackers, chocolate, marshmallows for s’mores, maybe some mushrooms and bell peppers, foil, skewers. 

"Don’t worry about the drinks. That’s already taken care of," she adds with a smirk. 

The drive to Malibu Country Mart is short, filled with easy chatter and the occasional singing from Lilia and Jennifer. When you finally pull into the parking lot, you glance around and then casually say, "I got this. I’ll pay for whatever we need." 

The van goes silent for a second before the teasing starts. 

"Damn, okay, sugar mommy," Lilia snickers. 

"You feelin’ extra generous today, huh?" Wanda raises a brow, clearly amused. 

You just shrug. "It’s easier than splitting the bill. Besides, what’s the point of having money if I can’t spend it?" 

Without hesitation, you pull out your black card and hand it over to Jen. She takes it with zero shame, flipping it between her fingers. "Big mistake, handing this over to me. I could go wild with this." 

You just roll your eyes. "Go crazy. I won’t even notice." 

She laughs but wastes no time hopping out of the van, Lilia following close behind. 

You lean back in your seat, letting your eyes drift to the window as you exhale slowly. Agatha is still right there beside you, quiet now, but her presence is impossible to ignore. The space between you feels both too much and not enough. 

After a few minutes, Jen and Lilia return, arms full of bags. With everything loaded up, the van pulls out of the lot, and you’re officially on your way to Malibu Creek State Park Campground. 

The van is filled with easy conversation—your friends chatting, the occasional burst of laughter, going over the hike details—but you’re barely listening. You’re busy on your phone, scrolling through your socials, pretending not to notice Agatha beside you. But you do. You really do. Every brush of her arm against yours, every shift in her seat that makes her knee nudge against yours. 

And then the van hits a small bump, and this time, her knee stays pressed against yours. She doesn’t move away. Neither do you. 

Then Agatha speaks. "You're oddly quiet," she murmurs, just above a whisper. There's a teasing lilt to her tone, something knowing. 

You glance at her, keeping your voice light. "Just making sure I have enough energy to actually finish the hike. Unlike you." 

Agatha raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Unlike me?" 

You shrug. "I just have this feeling you’ll be the first one begging for a break." 

Agatha scoffs, turning slightly in her seat to face you. "Excuse you. I have incredible stamina." 

You bite back a smirk. "Right. I’ll believe that when I see it." 

She narrows her eyes, tilting her head. "You’re underestimating me." 

"No, I’m just being realistic," you counter, shifting on your seat. "I can already picture it—you, conveniently ‘admiring the scenery’ every five minutes while the rest of us keep going." 

"That’s called appreciating nature," Agatha corrects. "Some of us don’t just power-walk through everything like we’re being chased." 

You shake your head, eyes flickering back to your phone, scrolling aimlessly. "Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night." 

She hums, shifting slightly. "Guess we’ll just have to see who makes it to the top first," she muses, voice casual but laced with something else. 

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Didn’t know this was a competition." 

"Oh, it’s not," she says lightly, shifting in her seat. Her knee presses against yours again—just barely, just enough. "Unless you’re scared of a little challenge?" 

You don’t look up, but you smirk, thumb idly swiping across the screen. "Scared? No. Just wondering if I should take it easy on you." 

Agatha hums, tilting her head slightly. "How generous." Her voice is smooth, unreadable, like she’s enjoying this little back and forth a little too much. 

Your grip on your phone tightens—not enough to be noticeable, but enough that you feel it. There’s a weight in the air, a quiet, slow-building awareness that neither of you acknowledge out loud. Just a shift in the way she’s looking at you. The way your knee presses back against hers, deliberate now. No one else notices. 

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, the van slows to a stop. 

"We’re here!" Jen announces, pushing open the door. 

Just like that, the moment slips away. You and Agatha pull back, effortless, like nothing ever happened. 

You guys get off the van, stretching your legs after the long ride. The sun is high, filtering through the trees, casting dappled light over the trail ahead. Before setting off, everyone takes a moment to apply bug repellent lotion, the sharp citrus scent filling the air. 

Alice hefts the cooler packed with drinks, while Jen carries the one filled with meats. Lilia is in charge of the bag stuffed with utensils, cookware, foil, and skewers. Wanda and Agatha split the sleeping bags between them, their arms looped through the straps. And then there’s you—stuck with the three camping tents, each one heavier than you expected. Maybe around 5 kg each? It's definitely a lot to carry for a hike, but you’re not about to complain. Not yet. 

The campsite is an hour’s walk away, and Jen confidently takes the lead, guiding the group along the dirt trail. You lag behind a little, letting the others chat freely while you settle into the rhythm of the hike. The conversation ahead of you is filled with laughter, stories, and easy banter. You listen in, but your attention keeps flickering toward Agatha, walking just a few steps away. 

After about twenty minutes, the weight on your back starts to press in. Your shoulders ache, and a dull strain creeps up your spine. You shift the straps, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to ease the discomfort. 

Then Agatha nudges you lightly with her shoulder. "You okay?" Her voice is casual, but there’s a teasing lilt to it. "You’re awfully quiet. Getting tired already? I thought I was supposed to be the one who’d give up first." 

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward. "I’m fine," you mutter, brushing off the teasing. She doesn’t push, but you can tell she’s watching you. 

The two of you keep walking side by side. Occasionally, your arms brush—just light, fleeting touches, but each one makes your breath hitch. You fight the urge to glance at her, keeping your eyes trained on the path ahead. Then, distracted by your own thoughts, you stumble over a tree root. Before you can even react, Agatha’s hand shoots out, steadying you by the arm. Her grip is firm, warm, and it lingers just a little too long. 

"You okay?" she asks again, this time with a smirk. 

You nod quickly, chuckling. "Yeah. Just—these tents are heavy." 

"Want me to help?" she offers, though her hands are already full. 

You smirk back. "Oh, how generous of you." 

She laughs, shaking her head. "Hey, the thought counts." 

The trail grows steeper, and you pause, adjusting your grip on the straps. Without a word, Agatha extends a hand toward you. You hesitate for just a second before taking it, her fingers wrapping securely around yours. The touch lingers, her thumb brushing ever so slightly against your palm before she lets go. 

Eventually, you all arrive at the campsite, breathless but relieved. You waste no time dropping the tent bag from your shoulders, sighing at the sudden weightlessness. Your backpack follows, hitting the ground with a soft thud. The others do the same, stretching out sore muscles before flopping onto logs or leaning against nearby trees. 

You sit on a fallen log, gulping down water. As you lift your arm to wipe the sweat from your brow, your gaze unintentionally lands on Agatha across from you. She stands there, wiping the sweat from her forehead, down to her neck. The way she grips the towel, the slow drag of fabric against her skin—it shouldn’t be mesmerizing, but somehow, it is. Your eyes follow the movement, watching the way the towel traces the curve of her neck, the dip of her collarbone. 

Your breath catches. Just for a second.  

Then, Agatha’s eyes catch yours, her gaze unwavering, carrying an unreadable weight. 

Panic sets in, and you tear your gaze away, focusing way too hard on wiping your own sweat. But even without looking, you can still feel her smirking. Like she knows exactly what you were thinking. 

You guys are now about to set up the tents. The others are already making progress, but you find yourself struggling with the tent poles—maybe because your hands are clumsy, or maybe because you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you. You try to shake off the awareness, to focus, but it's impossible to ignore the weight of her gaze. 

You fumble with the pole again, cursing under your breath. And then, just as you expected, she approaches. You pretend not to notice, keeping your eyes on the tangled mess in front of you. 

Agatha’s voice comes low near your ear. "You’re doing it wrong." 

You stiffen, swallowing. "No, I’m not." 

She huffs a quiet laugh. "You are so stubborn." 

You roll your eyes, but before you can argue further, she reaches out and snatches the pole from your hands. "Here, let me—" she says, already fixing the issue before you can protest. 

Within seconds, she has it all in place, the tent poles standing firm. She turns to you with an amused smirk. "That was painful to watch. Were you even trying?" 

You scoff, shrugging. "It’s not like I do this every weekend." 

You reach to continue setting up, but she stops you with a hand on your wrist. "It’ll be faster if I just do it," she says matter-of-factly. "You’re clearly struggling." 

You frown. "I can do it." 

"Sure you did." She tilts her head, studying you, then places a hand on your shoulder before lightly pushing you down onto a nearby log. "Just sit there, hon. I’ll handle this." 

She gives you a look—one that clearly says she doesn’t believe you. "Just sit down." 

You hesitate, but eventually, you sigh and drop onto a nearby log. With nothing else to do, you watch her. She moves easily, assembling the tent with practiced efficiency. It’s unfair how effortless she makes it look. The way her fingers work the straps, the way she tugs on the fabric with precision—it’s almost mesmerizing. 

Then, a sharp nudge to your side nearly makes you lose your balance. 

"Ow—what?" you mutter, glaring at Wanda. 

She doesn’t even try to hide her irritation. "What are you doing?" 

"Sitting?" you say, feigning innocence. 

"Yeah. Sitting there while she does all the work and staring at her like she hung the damn moon." She folds her arms, unimpressed. 

You scoff. "I was not staring." 

Wanda gives you a flat look. "Right. And I’m the Queen of England." 

You huff, looking away again, but Wanda doesn’t let it go. She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. "You do remember what happened, right?" 

Your breath catches in your throat. 

Yeah, you remember. You remember Agatha’s lips on yours, warm and certain. The way she whispered your name between kisses, hands cradling your face like you were something she wanted to hold onto. The way your heart nearly gave out when you realized—finally, finally—that she wanted this too. That you weren’t alone in this. 

But that’s not what Wanda is talking about. 

You blink, snapping out of it. Your chest feels tight. 

"Yeah," you say quickly, your voice coming out rougher than intended. 

Wanda watches you for a moment, her expression unreadable, before exhaling sharply. "Then don’t forget it." Her voice softens—just a little. "I just don’t want to see you get hurt again." 

You nod, unable to meet her eyes. You know she means well. But she doesn’t know everything. 

Not yet. 

Jen instructs the group on their tasks. She, Wanda, and Lilia will cook lunch, Alice will handle the fire, and you and Agatha will gather wood. Wanda doesn’t look thrilled about this arrangement, but she doesn’t argue. She just throws you a warning glance before heading toward the campsite kitchen setup. 

The two of you wander a little farther from camp, the quiet settling in like a soft blanket. The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. The only sounds are the rustling of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. It’s peaceful, yet charged with something else—something unspoken. 

You shift the small bundle of sticks in your arms, stealing a glance at Agatha. She walks beside you with easy confidence, her posture relaxed, but her eyes are sharp, watchful. She’s quiet—not tense, just... observing. Like she’s waiting for something. 

"You’re staring," you murmur without looking at her. 

She huffs out a small laugh. "You’re one to talk." 

You frown slightly, glancing at her. "What’s that supposed to mean?" 

Agatha smirks, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Earlier. When we got to the campsite. Thought I didn’t notice?" 

Your grip on the firewood tightens. The memory flickers back—the relief of setting your bag down, the burn in your muscles finally easing. You had sat on a log, drinking water, wiping sweat from your face… and then, your gaze had drifted. 

Agatha had been standing across from you, dragging a towel along her forehead, down the side of her neck. Slow, deliberate movements. The towel skimming along her collarbone. The shift of her jaw. And then she saw you... 

"I wasn’t—" you start, but Agatha shakes her head, clearly entertained. 

"Relax, Y/N," she says lightly, nudging you with her elbow. "I didn’t mind." 

Your face warms, and you hate that she sees it. You clear your throat and keep walking, eyes ahead, but the distraction is there now. It lingers in the way your pulse picks up when she steps a little closer. 

Then, suddenly— 

Her fingers curl around your wrist. 

"Hey—" 

You don’t get to finish. Agatha tugs you off the trail, steering you behind a thick tree trunk, out of sight. Your back presses against the rough bark as she steps in close, too close, her hands bracketing your waist. 

Your breath stutters. "Agatha, what are you—" 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her fingers skim up, trailing along your jaw, tilting your chin up. Her gaze flickers to your lips, dark with intent. 

And then she kisses you. 

It’s not soft. It’s a claiming—hot, urgent, a head-spinning kind of kiss that makes your fingers tighten around the small bundle of sticks in your arms before they inevitably slip—falling to the ground with a quiet thud. 

Agatha smirks against your lips but doesn’t let up. Her fingers slip to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. She kisses you like she’s been waiting—like she’s finally giving in to something she’s wanted for too long. 

You gasp when she presses you harder against the tree, her lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then lower—to your neck. 

Her teeth graze your skin. 

"Agatha—" you start, but your voice falters the second you feel her suck, slow and deliberate, right beneath your jaw. 

Your entire body tenses. 

She hums against your skin, pleased, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. The sensation sends heat pooling in your stomach, a mix of pleasure and realization—she’s leaving a mark. 

"Agatha," you hiss, hands gripping at her sides, but she just grins against your skin. 

"Mhm?" she murmurs, her breath warm as she lingers there, pressing one last kiss to the spot before finally pulling back. 

Before you can react— 

The sharp sound of a twig snapping nearby makes you both freeze. 

Your heart jumps to your throat. 

Agatha barely moves, her body still pressed close to yours, her breath warm against your skin as her eyes flick toward the noise. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you strain to listen, but after a few beats of silence, nothing else follows. No footsteps, no rustling—just the distant hum of the wind through the trees. 

She tilts her head, eyes glinting with amusement. "Relax, Y/N," she murmurs, her voice low, teasing. "Probably just a squirrel." 

You let out a sharp breath, shoving her away slightly, your eyes wide with disbelief. "Agatha, you’ve got to be kidding me—" 

Agatha raises a brow, feigning innocence, a smirk already tugging at her lips. "What?" 

You gesture wildly at your neck. "Agatha, I’m wearing a tank top!" 

Her smirk deepens, slow and smug. "Yeah. I noticed." 

You groan, slapping a hand over the spot. Your fingers press against your skin, and—yep. It’s definitely there. 

Agatha bites back a laugh. 

You glare at her. "How am I supposed to hide this?! This wasn’t here when we left!" 

She tilts her head like she’s actually considering it. "Well, you could say you walked into a tree." 

You blink. "What?" 

"A tree branch. Scratched your neck. It happens." She shrugs. "Or, oh! A mosquito bite." 

You stare at her. "A mosquito bite?" 

She grins. "A very… passionate mosquito." 

You scoff. "You are insufferable." 

She just laughs, stepping back and casually picking up a stick like nothing happened. 

And that’s when it hits you. 

Your first aid kit. 

There are band-aids in your first aid kit. Back at camp. 

If you can just make it back there, you can cover it up. 

Only problem? 

You still have to carry the firewood back first. 

You groan internally. This is going to be hell. 

You continue gathering firewood, and so does Agatha. 

After a few minutes... 

Your arms are full—too full. The rough bark digs into your skin, and you’re struggling to keep everything balanced. And Agatha? She’s no help at all. 

She strolls beside you, hands in her pockets, smirking as she watches you suffer. 

Because carrying firewood is already a pain. But carrying firewood while also trying to keep a hand on your neck to cover a very obvious hickey? 

It’s borderline impossible. 

"You know," Agatha muses, hands still in her pockets, "if you admit I’m good at what I do, I might be convinced to help you out." 

You glare at her. "Not a chance." 

She snickers, clearly entertained. 

You shift awkwardly, attempting to balance the wood while keeping your other hand glued to your neck. The problem is—it’s not working. The firewood wobbles in your grasp, threatening to spill at any second. 

And then—you nearly trip over a rock. 

Agatha reacts fast, her hand darting out to catch your elbow. Her grin is downright evil. "Careful, hon. Hate for you to fall and add another mark." 

You grit your teeth. "I swear to God, Agatha—" 

And then— 

"Y/N?" 

You flinch violently, nearly dropping the firewood. 

Alice. 

You whip around, eyes wide. "YES??" 

Alice blinks at you, confused. "...Are you okay?" 

"YEP!" you rush out, forcing the most unnatural smile in existence. 

Alice eyes you suspiciously. "Why are you holding your neck like that?" 

You freeze. 

Before you can even think of an excuse, Agatha—being an absolute menace—sighs dramatically and drapes an arm over your shoulders. "Oh, don’t mind her," she says smoothly, voice dripping with amusement. "She’s just feeling a little... sensitive today." 

You elbow her immediately, trying to shove her away, but she barely budges. 

Alice frowns. "Sensitive how?" 

You panic. 

Agatha grins, clearly about to say something ridiculous. "Oh, you know—" 

You cut her off, practically yelling, "I GOT BIT. BY A BUG. A BIG ONE." 

Alice blinks. "Oh. Are you okay?" 

You nod aggressively. "Mhm! Just need a band-aid." 

Alice opens her mouth, probably to ask another question, but you don’t give her the chance. You bolt past her, speed-walking straight back to the camp. 

Okay. Okay. You can do this. Just—act casual. Act normal. 

When you reach the camp, you drop the firewood with a relieved sigh, finally free to use both hands again. You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering ache. The sting on your neck pulses, a dull reminder of your misfortune. You make a mental note to check it later—when no one’s watching. 

But then— 

"Y/N, wait." 

You stiffen. 

Alice. 

You turn slowly, already dreading what’s coming. "Yeah?" 

She’s eyeing you, concerned. "Are you sure you’re okay? Let me see." 

Your soul leaves your body. Your stomach twists. 

"SEE??" You choke out. "OH, UH, NO NEED." 

Alice frowns, clearly not convinced. "What if it’s a poisonous bite?" 

Panic grips you. 

And then— 

"Who got bit by what?" 

Jen appears out of nowhere, like she was summoned by the word "bite." 

Lilia, right behind her. "Wait, yeah, who got bit?" 

"Y/N did," Alice says helpfully. 

You wish she wasn’t so helpful. 

Wanda, hearing that, immediately looks alarmed. "WHAT?!" She steps closer, her brows furrowed as she scans you for injuries. "By WHAT? Are you okay??" 

Jen, intrigued. "Is it bad? Does it look weird?" 

Lilia, curious. "Ooo, maybe it’s swollen!" 

Your face burns. You feel cornered. 

"IT’S FINE. IT’S NOTHING. I’M GOOD. I’M—" 

Alice narrows her eyes. "Then why are you still covering it?" 

Crap. 

Jen, gasping. "WHAT IF IT LAID EGGS?" 

Lilia, horrified. "OH MY GOD—" 

Wanda, 100% serious, hands on your shoulders. "Y/N, we need to check. What if it's poisonous? Or infected? Just let us see, please." 

Your heartbeat spikes. You can practically feel the pressure of their stares drilling into you, suffocating you. 

And then— 

"OH MY GOD, LOOK!" you suddenly shout, pointing wildly behind them. 

It’s a long shot, but desperation fuels you. 

Everyone whirls around. 

"WHERE?!" Alice gasps. 

"WHAT?!" Lilia yells. 

"IS IT THE THING THAT BIT YOU?!" Jen demands. 

Wanda, more concerned for you than whatever they’re looking for. "Y/N, we need to get you checked—" 

But you don’t hear the rest because you BOLT. 

Straight to your bag. 

Straight to the damn first aid kit. 

Behind you, the confusion erupts into chaos. 

"I don't see anything??" Alice frowns. 

"Wait, where did Y/N go?" Lilia turns back. 

Jen gasps. "SHE FLED THE SCENE." 

Your hands are shaking as you rip open the first aid kit, slapping a band-aid onto your neck without even checking if it’s in the right spot. You exhale sharply, still feeling the ghost of their worried stares. 

You turn back, panting. 

Wanda is standing there, arms crossed, absolutely not buying it. 

"Y/N." 

You freeze. 

She’s staring at you. 

You follow her gaze. 

The band-aid is on the wrong side. 

Your stomach drops. 

Wanda narrows her eyes. "Why is the band-aid on the wrong side of your neck?" 

You mutter a low, fuck, mentally kicking yourself for the rookie mistake. 

Without missing a beat, you rip it off and slap it onto the right spot. 

"Fixed it," you say, forcing a smile. 

Wanda blinks. 

Jen squints. 

Lilia whispers, "Suspicious." 

Alice just shrugs. "Okay, well, as long as you're okay." 

Jen, still eyeing you. "If something hatches, we’re not helping." 

You exhale, pretending you didn’t just have a near-death experience. 

A quiet chuckle drifts through the air. You grit your teeth, already knowing who it is. 

You glance at her, catching the amused tilt of her lips as she adjusts her sleeves, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at you directly. 

Your irritation flares. You shoot her a sharp glare, but she only shakes her head slightly, like she’s enjoying the show. 

You huff, turning away, trying to will down the heat in your cheeks. 

After a few moments, the others move on—but not Wanda. She stands in front of you with her arms crossed, staring you down like a personal bodyguard. 

"Sit," she orders, pointing at a log. 

You sigh, but comply, dropping onto the rough wood with your arms crossed. "I can still move, you know. I didn’t lose a leg." 

"You got bit. It could be bad." Her hands find her hips, her stance firm. "What if it’s venomous?" 

"It’s literally nothing." 

"You don’t know that," she counters. "So sit. Stay. Rest." 

You groan, leaning back against the log. "You act like I’m dying." 

"Not on my watch," she quips before turning on her heel and heading off to help the others. 

So now you’re here. Doing nothing. Watching everyone else prepare food for lunch. Feeling useless. Bored. Restless. 

Then, a shadow falls over you. 

"You look very hardworking." 

You glance up. Agatha. 

She stands before you, arms crossed, head tilted, amusement flickering in her eyes. 

"Don’t start," you mutter, looking away. 

She hums, then—completely ignoring the availability of literally any other seat—plops down right next to you. Too close. Close enough that your shoulder brushes against hers for a split second, and your heart does something stupid in response. 

"You should be helping," you point out. 

She shrugs, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Since you can’t move, I might as well keep you company." 

You roll your eyes. "You just don’t wanna work." 

"Correct," she says easily. Then, with a smirk, she adds, "Besides… it’s kind of nice seeing you sit still for once." 

You narrow your eyes. "I can sit still." 

She raises an eyebrow. 

You cross your arms. "I can." 

Agatha leans in slightly, gaze flickering down—first to your face, then lower. It’s quick, barely a glance, but you catch it. And when her eyes land on your neck, lingering just a second longer, your skin burns like a brand was pressed against it. 

Your breath catches, but before you can react, she leans back, pretending nothing happened. She just sits there, relaxed, like she didn’t just set your entire body on fire. 

You stare at the ground, willing yourself to not combust on the spot. Agatha, completely unbothered, stretches her arms above her head like she has all the time in the world. 

Then you feel it. 

A stare. 

You glance up—and Wanda is walking toward you. 

She has firewood in her arms, her expression unreadable as she approaches. But when her eyes flick to Agatha, something sharp flashes across her face. 

"What are you doing here?" Wanda asks, her tone clipped, her gaze locked onto Agatha. 

Your breath stutters. You sit up straighter, pulling your shoulders in like that would somehow make you look less guilty. "I—she—uh—" 

Agatha, unbothered, finally acknowledges her. "She’s on strict ‘do nothing’ orders, remember?" 

Wanda narrows her eyes. "Right. And you’re here because...?" 

Agatha smirks. "Moral support." 

Wanda does not look convinced. 

You’re hyper-aware of your exposed shoulders, the way Agatha’s eyes had lingered earlier, and most importantly—the hickey on your neck that you barely covered in time. 

You resist the urge to rub at the band-aid. You can’t give Wanda a reason to look any closer. 

But she is looking. 

Too long. Too sharp. 

Your heart pounds. Does she see it? Did she notice?? 

Then, finally, Wanda just sighs. "Fine. But don’t let her get up, Agatha." 

You nod too fast. Agatha? She just smiles. 

Wanda gives you one last, long, considering look before walking off. 

You exhale. 

Agatha leans in slightly, voice low. "You looked like you were about to pass out." 

"Shut up." 

She grins. "Maybe I should check your pulse. You know, since you’re injured and all." 

Your face burns. 

The moment Wanda is out of sight, you spring to your feet like the ground just burned you. 

Agatha raises an eyebrow. "Where are you going?" 

You don’t answer. You just grab your backpack and a sleeping bag and beeline for one of the tents. 

There are three tents set up. You don’t even think before ducking into one, zipping it up behind you, and letting out a long, deep breath. 

Holy shit. 

Your heart is still pounding. 

You press a hand over the band-aid on your neck, as if that will somehow erase the very real, very recent mark Agatha left. 

Wanda was staring too hard. You’re sure she suspects something. 

You groan, flopping down onto the sleeping bag. What the hell was that? 

You can still feel the ghost of Agatha’s lips, the way she had tilted your head, the warmth of her breath before she— 

Nope. Not thinking about that. Not right now. 

You exhale sharply, running a hand down your face. Maybe if you just stay here for a while, let things settle, it won’t feel so… overwhelming. Maybe even take a nap. Yeah, that sounds like a plan. 

And then— 

The tent unzips. 

Your stomach drops as you sit up too fast, heart hammering. 

And Agatha steps inside. 

She doesn’t come empty-handed. No, she’s carrying her own backpack and a sleeping bag. 

Wait. What. 

She zips the tent back up behind her and smirks down at you. 

"Relax," she says, tossing her stuff onto the other side of the tent. "I figured we’re tentmates." 

Your brain short-circuits. "We—what?" 

She shrugs. "Three tents. Six people. Pairs make sense, don't you think?" 

You hadn't thought of that. 

And judging by the absolute gleam of mischief in her eyes, Agatha had definitely thought of it way before now. 

You swallow hard. “And you just… decided on your own that we’re sharing?” 

She smirks. “You ran in here first.” 

“That doesn’t mean—” 

“Oh, relax.” She flops down next to you, propping herself up on one elbow, her face way too close. “You’re acting like I bite.” 

You glare. “You literally did.” 

Her smirk deepens. “Want me to apologize?” 

You do not like where this is going. 

You scramble to put space between you, pressing a hand to your very much still sore neck. “We are not talking about that.” 

Agatha just hums, stretching out on her back like she belongs there. 

Silence settles between you for a moment, but your thoughts are far from quiet. You keep replaying last night in your head—the way her lips felt against yours, the way she looked at you right before— 

Nope. Not going there. 

Then a thought hits you, and panic creeps in. “Wait—what if our friends get suspicious?” 

Agatha blinks at you, then actually laughs. “Suspicious of what?” 

You wave vaguely between the two of you. “You. Me. This.” 

She just shrugs, completely unbothered. “Doubt it.” 

You narrow your eyes. “You sound way too confident about that.” 

Agatha smirks. “Come on, everyone thinks we’re always at each other’s throats. No one’s gonna assume we’re—” She gestures toward your neck. “—secretly doing… whatever this is.” 

Your breath catches. 

Whatever this is. 

You linger on those words. 

Because—what is this, really? 

You don’t ask. You don’t say anything. You just keep it to yourself. 

It’s too soon to even bring it up, right? 

You guys just kissed last night. 

The real kiss. 

You now know she likes you back. 

That’s enough… for now. 

Right? 

Agatha watches you for a beat, like she can tell you’re lost in thought, but she doesn’t push. 

She just smirks and stretches her arms over her head, her shirt riding up just enough to make you look away fast. 

"Anyway," she drawls, "get comfortable, tentmate. Looks like you’re stuck with me all night." 

You groan and flop back onto the sleeping bag, throwing an arm over your face. “Fantastic.” 

Agatha just chuckles, clearly enjoying herself way too much. “Try not to miss me too much in your sleep.” 

You turn onto your side, putting some distance between you. "Yeah, right." 

Agatha just hums, clearly entertained. "Oh, hon, I'm always right." 

You can hear the smirk in her voice, but you're too tired to argue. 

Your body finally relaxes, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Maybe it’s the long hike, maybe it’s the chaos of earlier, or maybe it’s just being in this tent with her—but you feel completely drained. 

Agatha stays quiet after that. 

Just as sleep starts pulling you under, you murmur, "Wake me up for lunch." 

There's a beat of silence, then a quiet chuckle. "Sure thing, sleeping beauty." 

If you weren’t already halfway gone, you might’ve rolled your eyes. Instead, you let the warmth of sleep take over, Agatha’s voice the last thing lingering in your mind. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx

[societyfolklore]

Yulefire and Shadows

Title: Yulefire and Shadows Pairing: Loki x Asgardian Female Reader (hinted established relationship)

Summary:   The Asgardian solstice tradition of lighting a great Yulefire is meant to drive away the lingering shadows of the past year. Loki, haunted by his own shadows, takes part reluctantly until the reader coaxes him into a private moment of vulnerability by the flames.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings:  Warnings // Explicit Content //18+, Minors DNI, Angsty, Kissing Unprotected Sex (Don’t do this!) (No Beta read)

A/N: Entry for @lokisgoodgirl  Winter Warmers collection The great hall of Asgard was alive with the warmth of the midwinter celebration. Golden light spilled from chandeliers overhead, reflecting off the polished stone floors and the ornate decorations that adorned the room. Yet, despite the laughter and the music, Loki stood on the periphery, a shadow among the revelers.

You noticed him immediately, leaning against one of the marble columns, his arms crossed over his chest and his emerald-green tunic catching the light of the massive Yulefire in the centre of the hall. The fire roared, crackling and snapping as it sent golden sparks into the air, but Loki’s gaze remained fixed on the flames, his expression unreadable.

“Not in a festive mood?” you asked, approaching him carefully. You held a goblet of spiced mead in your hand, offering it to him with a small smile.

Loki’s sharp blue eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to the fire. “Festivities are for those without burdens,” he replied, his tone clipped. “I’ll not pretend to revel when I have no cause to.”

You sighed but didn’t press him. You knew better than to challenge Loki directly when he was in one of his moods. Instead, you stepped closer, glancing toward the massive bonfire that served as the heart of the solstice celebration. Asgardians gathered around it, tossing small tokens into the flames—pieces of parchment, scraps of cloth, even bits of broken weapons. Each offering represented something they wished to leave behind: regrets, pain, grudges.

“It’s supposed to be cleansing, you know,” you said, gesturing toward the fire. “A way to start fresh.”

Loki’s lip curled into a faint sneer. “Do you truly believe a bit of fire can burn away one’s regrets?”

“Maybe not entirely,” you admitted. “But it’s symbolic. A way of saying, ‘I’m letting this go.’ It helps, even if just a little.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze still fixed on the fire. You studied him for a moment, noting the tension in his jaw and the way his hands clenched at his sides. Loki often wore his pain like armor, hiding it beneath layers of wit and sarcasm. But tonight, the cracks were showing.

“Come on,” you said gently, tugging at his sleeve. “Let’s give it a try.”

Loki arched a dark brow at you. “You expect me to partake in this asinine tradition?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “And you’re not getting out of it.”

To your surprise, he didn’t argue further. Instead, he allowed you to lead him toward the fire, though his steps were reluctant. The heat of the flames washed over you as you approached, and you pulled a small piece of parchment from your pocket.

“What’s that?” Loki asked, his tone laced with curiosity.

“Something I’ve been holding onto for too long,” you said. You didn’t elaborate, and Loki didn’t press you. Instead, he watched as you folded the parchment carefully and tossed it into the fire. The flames consumed it instantly, the edges curling and blackening before it disappeared entirely.

You turned to him, offering a small smile. “Your turn.”

Loki hesitated, his gaze flicking between you and the fire. “I have nothing to burn,” he said finally.

“Everyone has something,” you countered, looking over at the raven haired man. “Even you.”

For a long moment, he stood there, silent and still, sometimes he was stone. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he conjured a small token—a delicate silver chain, tarnished and broken in places. You recognized it immediately as one of his childhood trinkets, something he’d once treasured but had long since discarded.

“This is meaningless,” he said, holding it up. But there was a tremor in his voice, one you doubted anyone else would have noticed.

“Then it should be easy to let go,” you said softly.

Loki’s fingers tightened around the chain, his jaw clenching. For a moment, you thought he might refuse. But then he stepped forward and cast the chain into the fire. The flames leapt up, consuming it in a flash of brilliant light.

When he stepped back, his expression was unreadable, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his posture. The tension in his shoulders eased, and his gaze softened as he turned back to you.

“There,” he said quietly. “Satisfied?”

You smiled. “It’s a start.”

As the hours passed and the celebration wound down, the great hall began to empty. The laughter and music faded into the background as guests retired to their chambers or ventured outside to enjoy the solstice night. You wandered through the now-quiet hall, searching for Loki, only to find him seated near the dying embers of the Yulefire.

The golden glow illuminated his features, casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones and the faint crease between his brows. He sat with his elbows on his knees, staring into the fading flames with an intensity that made your chest ache. The glow of the fire seemed to burn in his eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, settling down beside him on the cool stone floor.

“Something like that,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the embers.

You were quiet for a moment, the two of you sitting in companionable silence. The air was still and heavy with the scent of wood smoke, and the warmth of the fire lingered, though it was fading fast. Finally, Loki broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think it’s possible to truly let go of the past?”

The question caught you off guard, and you turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was a vulnerability in his tone that you rarely heard.

“I think it takes time,” you said honestly, your own voice getting a little heavy. “And effort. But yes, I think it’s possible.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “Perhaps.”

Reaching out, you placed a hand on his, the warmth of your skin grounding you both. “You don’t have to do it all at once,” you said gently. “But you’re not alone, Loki. Not anymore.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers with yours. The gesture was small but significant, and it sent a warmth through you that had nothing to do with the fire.

“Darling,” he said softly, his voice almost breaking.

The two of you sat there for a while longer, watching as the last embers of the Yulefire faded into ash. The hall was quiet now, the echoes of the celebration long gone, but the silence was comforting rather than oppressive.

Eventually, Loki spoke again, his voice steadier this time. “You’ve always been annoyingly persistent, you know.”

You smiled, leaning your shoulder against his. “Suppose that’s better than you calling me stubborn. We balance each other out.”

A faint chuckle escaped him, and the sound was so rare that it made your heart swell, it was velvet sound.

“Perhaps we do,” he said quietly.

The moment lingered, and you felt the pull between you shift. Loki’s eyes flicked to yours, searching for something, and you didn’t look away. The shadows of doubt and pain that so often clouded his gaze seemed to soften, leaving only raw vulnerability.

“I’m still haunted by them,” he admitted, his voice breaking the quiet. “No amount of fire or tradition will chase them away.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek, the touch light but grounding. “Then let me help,” you said softly.

Loki’s breath hitched, and his hand came up to cover yours. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine as his sharp features softened, his barriers lowering. Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours with an unexpected tenderness that melted into something deeper, hungrier, as the kiss deepened.

The dying glow of the fire cast flickering shadows across the hall as Loki shifted, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer. Your back pressed against the cool stone floor as his weight settled over you, his lips never leaving yours. His kiss was a mix of desperation and need, as if trying to silence the ghosts that haunted him with every touch.

“Darling,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and filled with longing. “Let me lose myself in you.”

You nodded, your fingers threading through his raven hair, holding him to you as your breaths mingled. Loki’s hands roamed over you, his touch reverent yet possessive, as though he feared you might slip away. The heat between you built steadily, eclipsing the dying embers of the fire as he poured every unspoken word, every buried emotion, into his actions.

His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a path of searing kisses that made you arch beneath him. His voice was a rasp against your skin, a broken prayer that sent shivers through your body. “You’re my light,” he murmured, his words raw and unguarded. “My only light.”

Your breath caught at his confession, the raw honesty in his voice sending a tremor through your chest. “Loki…” you whispered, unsure of how to respond to the weight of his words.

His eyes met yours—stormy blue, filled with turmoil and yearning. For a moment, you saw the bare truth of him, stripped of his bravado and sharp edges. The God of Mischief was not a god here, but a man aching for something real, something to hold onto.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, though his voice held no bite. His forehead fell to rest against yours, his breath mingling with yours in a fragile pause. “You’ll ruin me.”

“Perhaps you need to be ruined,” you replied softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as your hands traced the line of his jaw. “And perhaps I do too.”

Loki groaned softly, a sound of surrender as he tilted his head to kiss you again—this time slower, as though memorizing the feel of you. His hands wandered with a gentleness that belied his desperation, caressing your sides before sliding up to cradle your face. The weight of him grounded you, and the fire between you burned hotter than any embers in the dying hearth.

“I need you,” he whispered between kisses, his voice a husky plea that made your pulse quicken. “Let me forget.”

You nodded, your chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths as you pulled him closer. “forget together.”

His lips curved into the faintest smile—brief, fleeting—before he dipped down again. His kisses trailed lower, his movements deliberate, reverent, as though committing every inch of you to memory. Your body responded to his touch instinctively, arching into him as soft sighs and whispered words filled the empty hall. The cool stone floor was forgotten as Loki's warmth surrounded you, his every caress chasing away the chill as His hand started bringing up the fabric of your gown. His face buried in your neck as his weight shifted on top of you on hand working between your legs, teasing though aching wetness while he freed himself from the leathers holding him. “Norms I need you pet.”

His voice demanding you make it better, make him better. It was all the warning you got as he bit down on you neck at lanced himself into you his hand over your mouth the moment you cried out. Muffling the noise before you nipped his fingers.

“Shhh darling..” He purred before slowly pulling his hips back moaning into your ear, your eyes going back as you felt every ridge of him pull along your slick walls. “got to be quiet..” His own voice shaking in whisper, his hand bringing your thigh up higher, letting him sink further as your hands gripped tightly to his shoulders. To be full of him was all you wanted. You walls holding him as your own body responded to his.

The shadows on the walls flickered like living things, dancing in time with the rise and fall of your bodies. Loki’s name slipped from your lips like a prayer, and he shuddered against you, his hands tightening on your skin.

“Say it again,” he pleaded softly, his voice trembling as he kissed the hollow of your throat. “Say my name.” AS she push into you again.

“Loki…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his raven hair and holding him close.

His response was a broken sound—one you couldn’t decipher, though it clung to you like a promise. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body moulding to yours as though you could banish every ghost that haunted him. His movements long and fluid as his hips rocked back in forth, taking his time.

Hours seemed to pass as the two of you moved in tandem, unspoken words conveyed through every kiss, every touch, building heat and need that seemed to rope through both of your so tight it seemed ready to break. “Loki…” You couldn’t hold it anymore, your body thrummed now. As you whispered his name again, Loki's body tensed, his hips freezing for a moment before he began to move with a newfound urgency. His strokes were deeper, harder, and more insistent, as if he was trying to claim you, to mark you as his own.

Your body responded in kind, your walls clenching around him, holding him tight as you felt the tension build to a crescendo. The shadows on the walls seemed to grow longer, darker, as if they were feeding off the energy between you.

Loki's hands were everywhere, touching, caressing, and claiming. His mouth was on your skin, kissing, biting, and sucking. You felt like you were being consumed, devoured by his passion, his need.

And then, in an instant, it was too much. Your body shattered, breaking apart into a thousand pieces as you came. The sound that escaped your lips was raw, primal, and unbridled, a scream of pleasure that was muffled only by Loki's hand over your mouth.

He followed you, his body jerking, convulsing, as he emptied himself into you, his breathing tight and strangled.

 And when the embers in the hearth finally gave way to darkness, the two of you lay tangled together, the stillness broken only by the sound of your breathing.

Loki’s hand found yours, his long fingers weaving between yours as though anchoring himself to you. He said nothing, but when you glanced at him, his gaze held a softness that spoke volumes. He looked at you like you were the answer to a question he’d been too afraid to ask, the balm to a wound too deep to heal.

You reached up, brushing your knuckles against his cheek once more. “You mine to carry..” you said quietly.

Loki’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yours,” he murmured, pulling you closer until his forehead pressed against yours. “Mine.”

For tonight, at least, the ghosts that seemed to haunt his eyes were chased way.

[xechu]

Dark Requiem

pairing: deity!sukuna x fem!reader wc: 1.9k cw: 18+ mdni. please read my blog rules before interacting. dark themes, power imbalance, near-asphyxiation, implied violence, psychological tension, non-traditional intimacy, forced-kiss scenario tag: drabble-ish, short one-shot, dark fantasy, dark divinity au summary: with no other choice, you turn to a god that was only supposed to exist in bedtime stories. a/n: a tiny spur of inspiration. I've been having writer's block lately. Thank you for reading and enjoy! x

Ask and thou shall receive.

But only at the price of thy soul—willingly offered, never begged for.

He was no saint, no righteous wish granter. He only spoke in contracts and vows.

Time and time again, it had always been the same—humans were proven to be so greedy and fickle. Wanting everything. Sacrificing nothing.

Did they not know? Great things come at an even greater cost?

Sukuna was generous, unlike many other false gods. He had allowed the vowed to revel in their blessings, if only for a while—before coming to collect the price they had dared to forget.

Yet, it was always the same. When it was time to reap—they immediately wallow in regret. Some even try to outsmart their giver and defy the oath they had sworn.

But Sukuna was no fool. He had not endured the turning of millennia by being daft. In the end, he had always found a way to claim what was promised.

And for those who resisted or tried to shirk their obligations, Sukuna reserved a special place in the afterlife for them—condemned to a lifetime of glorious torture and suffering. A place where they wished they had surrendered their soul sooner. Their cries for mercy are a symphony to his ears.

At the sound of the dark cathedral doors creaking open, he watches as his next contract comes through.

A tiny and timid thing: you.

You had heard whispers of a disgraced and banished god—primordial and cruel. Supposedly, he had once dwelled in this abandoned cathedral. For his arrogance and trickery, he was sealed within these thick stones and cold shadows. They said he would pluck children from their homes and eat them, trick fair maidens into offering their purity and virtue, and prey on men for their vitality.

Ryomen Sukuna was described as disgraceful. Deceitful. Glutinous. Cruel. Sadistic.

But it mattered not.

You had not come for salvation, nor redemption.

Only condemnation.

Because it was better to be condemned than to bow beneath a crueler fate.

“I have come to offer myself to you, Ryomen Sukuna,” you said. Despite the grimness of your situation, your voice was soft—but assured.

Standing among these ruins of darkness, rubble, and dust—there was nothing. Only a deafening and oppressive silence. It was quiet, so much so that you could hear the static hum in your own ears.

You wryly scoff to yourself. What had you expected? This was nothing more than fiction. A tale spun to frighten misbehaving children into obedience. And yet, you clung to this bedtime story like scripture. Because what else did you have left?

Then, as hope was about to fade, the moonlight shifted—spilling through the shattered cathedral window like a divine message from the night goddess herself. And there, before you, it illuminated an obsidian statue. Large. Imposing. Watching.

It radiated dark allure, beckoning you to come forth.

To reach out.

Only if you dared.

It felt as though phantom tendrils had begun to snake around your body the moment you locked eyes with the statue—a towering figure, chiseled like a fallen god. Even seated upon a throne of thorns, he felt impossibly tall, impossibly vast. There was a pull. Heavy. Magnetic. Inevitable. Your feet moved toward him, slowly but surely, as if being summoned.

Above you, the long-extinguished black chandelier creaked in protest—its rusted arms swaying with a voice of their own. An eerie warning: Proceed with caution.

You were about to reach a point of no return.

But you steeled yourself, letting instinct guide you, submitting to the darkness before you—for that was what you had desired.

Nothingness. Absolution.

As you ascended, each step reforged your certainty—until at last, you stood before him.

Your mind tells you to not be afraid, but your body trembles, as if it knew you stood before a god. Every fiber instinctively knew to revere, to worship, to submit.

“Sukuna.” His name slipped from your lips, a soft whisper. “I have an offer.”

Once more, you were met with silence. Yet, if this was merely a myth—why did your nerves scream to run?

“Please.” Your voice cracked, laced with desperation. Your heart began to pound. The internal warning becoming louder by each passing moment. “I will give you all that I have to offer.”

Then, suddenly, a crack split the sky. Thunder—loud and rumbling—reverberated so close it felt as though it had struck directly above you. You flinched, instinct to flee immediately kicking in. But before you could run, a large, stony grip closed around your wrist, rooting you in place. Your breath caught in your throat.

Stone became flesh. 

And staring back into your wide, terrified eyes were his—crimson, burning with the intensity and heat of hellfire.

His touch seared into your skin, a brand scorching into you. Around you, the long-dead candles of the cathedral simultaneously blazed to life. But they did not burn with their usual amber hues.

Crimson like blood.

It was the embers of hell.

“Have you suddenly lost the tongue to speak?” His voice boomed.

“I—” The words elude you. Fear gripped at your throat, as you come face to face with Sukuna himself.

“I implore you to find your words promptly,” he hissed, his grip tightening. “Before I silence you for good.”

“I-I have an offer to make with you, Sukuna.”

“Yes, and I have heard that one too many times from you. Are you broken?”

You shook your head. But it only seemed to enrage him further.

“So then speak,” he growled. Impatience lacing his voice. “What is it that you have to offer me?”

You met his burning gaze.

“I shall give you my soul—in exchange for nothing.”

For a moment, he fell silent.

Then he released your wrist. To your surprise, he left no marks behind—no burns, no bruises, not even a trace. Around you, the flames in the cathedral calmed, flickering softly back to their usual amber glow.

A low sigh rumbled from his chest, as if completely underwhelmed and disappointed by your proposal.

“Leave,” Sukuna said coldly.

It was part of the divine restriction. A strict decree written into the very laws of his existence. He could not ask for a soul outside the bounds of a contract. He could not take without giving something in return. Death was not an acceptable clause. And above all, he was forbidden from ever mentioning the restrictions. To do so would be seen as influencing choice and corrupting the offering.

You blinked a few times, eyes wide in disbelief.

He rejected your offer.

Was that possible?

You had thought your offer would be rather appealing. But more importantly, your life had depended on him taking you. Walking away was not an option.

“N-no!” You collapsed to your knees. “Please, take me…if not my soul.”

He stared down at you, expressionless.

“You are a rather dense and insolent little thing,” he snarled.

In a flash, his hand wrapped around your throat, harshly pulling you upward until your gaze was locked with his. Dark violence surged through him—to crush, to silence, to smother the defiance trembling in your voice.

You gasped for air as his hand constricted your airway unable to speak, unable to voice your defense. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as your comparatively small hands clawed feebly at his—a silent, instinctive plea for mercy.

A chill of excitement ran down Sukuna’s spine, at the sight of your struggle. The way you callously sign away your life…only to claw at it now.

Desperate. Pathetic. Human.

That selfish desire to live. To survive. It was the very trait he had come to despise. But in you…it intrigued him.

“Do not play me a fool. No one gives up their soul for nothing,” he said lowly.

You couldn’t answer. Your throat burned, your mind slipping into static. The world around you spun, and the corners of your vision began to darken, collapsing inwards.

Just as you thought he had granted you death—his grip released. Air. He drops you onto the stone cold floor by his feet. You crumple up, as your lungs violently convulse in broken gasps for air. But no matter how you fought to breathe, it seemed your lungs had forgotten how. Your breaths shallow and irregular. Failing.

“Weak,” Sukuna muttered, irritation lacing his voice.

Without warning, he scooped you up like a ragdoll, your limbs limp in his grasp. He sat down with you sprawled across his lap, one hand tilting your chin up.

And then, he crushed his lips to yours. Not in hunger. Not in lust.

But to breathe air into you.

Life flickered back into your eyes. As your gaze met his, Sukuna felt something coil dark and low in his gut. A sick pleasure. A thrill. A hunger.

But his hubris would never allow him to beg—divine restriction or not.

So instead, he would plant the seed. Water the thought. Nurture the desire. Until you were the one to offer it. Willingly.

“You should have let me go,” you whispered. Those were the first words you managed to speak.

Sukuna tilted his head, eyes glinting.

“But that is not what your body says.”

His sharp black nails scrape across your pulse—strong, alive.

“So tell me,” he purred. “What is it you truly desire?”

You did not hesitate. “I desire the freedom of death.”

Sukuna scoffed.

“Not good enough.”

Again, for the small and insignificant thing you were, you were irritatingly persistent. Had he not been bound by the laws of the universe, he would have claimed your soul long ago and savored the ruin of it.

He would have made you scream. 

Beg. 

Break.

And just as death reached for you—when that final stillness settled in your gaze, and you thought you had earned peace—he would have taken it all away. Simply because he could.

He wanted your pain. Your desperation. Your submission to your own hypocrisy.

He wanted to see you unravel. To witness the exact moment you realized you had betrayed your morals, your body, your heart, your dignity.

Even now—barely breathing—you wore that pathetic mask of defiance.

“If you cannot take my soul…then allow me to stay here. That is all I ask,” you said softly.

“That is all you ask?” he repeated, voice curling into a mockery.

“Please,” you breathed. “I have nowhere else to go.”

Sukuna regarded you in silence for a moment, his expression apathetic.

“I am no charitable god,” he said. “What will you offer me?”

Your eyes narrowed. If he did not want your soul, what else did you have to offer?

You felt pathetic. Your dignity shattered. You had walked through the doors thinking your offer would be enticing. That Sukuna, of all beings, would accept it without question.

Alas, your wretched soul was not even worthy of condemnation.

“Then tell me—what is it that you want?”

“What will you offer?” He asked again, voice low, quiet, and insistent. Yet, you still could not understand why.

“Please,” you whispered. “Reconsider it, Sukuna.”

You swallowed hard. Your body screamed to run—a final warning that you were treading dangerous waters. But you did not listen.

“My soul…for your shelter and protection.” Your trembling hands rose to his chest, fingers barely brushing the stone-cold flesh. “Please.”

His eyes darkened.

“Then let this vow be binding,” he said.

And then—he crushed his lips onto yours once more. Not to save. Not to silence. 

But to bind.

Writing © xechu - please do not redistribute, translate, or repost any of my works.

Graphic divider source: here via @/troublesomesnitch

[radioapplerevue]

Lucifer and Alastor becoming the guardian of each other's secrets.

Not intentionally, not at first. It starts with Lucifer, as he sees things that Alastor would really, really rather he not -- the angelic tint in his wound, the shackle around his neck. Some things you can't hide from the King of Hell, not if he bothers to truly look.

And unfortunately for Alastor, he's incapable of not drawing attention to himself. Perhaps more fortunately, Lucifer doesn't tell anyone. Alastor knows better than to think it's altruism. Surely, he's just keeping that knowledge to use against him later. It's what he would do. Blackmail, collateral.

The truth is, Alastor doesn't know quite as much as he thinks he does.

Alastor tries to claw back some sort of advantage. Lucifer is like his daughter -- powerful but softhearted, weak to a kind word or hint of praise. They clash, loudly and frequently, but over time the clashes become less vicious and turn more into a sort of game. A rivalry, a competition that is more tinged with "friendly" than not. How thrilling, to have someone who can match you word for word, blow for blow.

And sure enough, Lucifer begins to open up. And once he starts, it's hard for him to stop -- allowing Alastor windows into his soul, into his guilt and his sorrow and his regrets. Into the thoughts that drove him into solitude, surrounded by nothing but the empty gazes of thousands of rubber ducks. Alastor revels in this, this knowledge, this view into such weakness. Finally, he is balancing the scales, collecting the chinks in Lucifer's armor for the day in which he may need to slip a proverbial dagger into the gaps.

He doesn't realize, at first, that he's giving away more of himself. Hints into his own behavior, his own past, his own fears. Much as he may pretend, even to himself, that he doesn't have them... Lucifer's older than sin. He knows, more than anyone, that everybody is afraid of something. Alastor is no exception.

Alastor, who is convinced that he's cradling Lucifer's secrets close to his chest because he is saving them for the moment when they would do the most damage. Not acknowledging that such a moment could have come and gone many times already. Not listening to the small voice in the back of his mind whispering that he won't ever share these secrets, because no one else is worthy of them. No one else holds them.

The king's wounds belong to Alastor, and no one else. He isn't keen on sharing.

And Lucifer, for his part, guards Alastor's skeletons just as closely. Not because he intends to use them, no. He has no interest in such control. Instead if someone asks about them, he laughs, demurs, scoffs. Pretends ignorance.

After all, he understands pride.

[lowkeyerror]

The Family Business Ch.13

WandaNat x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Ch. Notes: short

Summary: Fisk gains a new unexpected ally that deeply affects a member of the family.

An: Short filler Ch. but with a warning. Sorry for the mistakes, just wanted to get something out for yall. Also fear not, we will be getting the very essential "date" chapter soon, but first some world building yknow.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

With the way life had been treating you lately, the ups and downs, you felt as though this should be harder. You felt like there was a funk or depression that should be settling into your mind, but there wasn’t. There should’ve been anxiety building up, but all you felt was calm.

After the beating you suffered you thought you’d be more on edge. However as your body healed itself, you found yourself at ease. There was something smug about your survival. Perhaps it had to do with the blossoming relationship that you had been reveling in.

Throughout the years you had prided yourself on changing and morphing into someone with a tough exterior and an even stronger interior. While you never regretted becoming that way, you admit that in it you lost some of your personality.

You were so much more than a victim of the abuse you had suffered at the hands of your mother. As you grew, after separating yourself from her you were set on not ever being a victim again that you hid everything that you thought made you vulnerable.

Your likes and leisurely activities all of sudden seemed like weak points. The only one who was able to make you let your guard down was Pietro.

Now however, having Wanda and Natasha by your side, you find yourself on a path of rediscovery. You feel like you’re coming into yourself again. The women are the perfect models of work life balance and you think it’s everything you’ve been missing.

The can go into the office work diligently and complete their jobs, but also clock out and relax. The enjoy themselves and they enjoy you.

Wanda personally loves seeing you open up a bit more, after seeing how much of yourself you pushed down. Natasha finds herself collecting bits and pieces of information about you that she plans to commit to memory.

In the very back of your mind you think about how quiet the streets have been. You expected Fisk to brag about your beating just like he did with Dragos. However there had been no commotion, and the intel that you were getting didn’t indicate any attacks soon.

It was eerie and you would've dwelled on it in the past, but Natasha and Wanda reassured you that everything was under control. Natasha constantly let you go over her team strategies to show you she was utilizing the soldiers given to her.

They tried to keep you out of the office for your recovery, but you just found yourself working from home until your ankle was healed. As soon as you were able, you stepped back into the office.

While you had made nearly a full recovery, you could not say the same for Dragos. It pained you hear that doctors have reported a stagnation in his progress. Flora relied that certain doctors were starting to suggest pulling the plug as a feasible option. The entire family was adamant to oppose any talk of such actions.

“Baby?”

Your eyes leave your compute to see Wanda and Natasha entering your office.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Natasha speaks, “We were wondering if you wanted to grab dinner tonight?”

You nod, “For sure.”

Wanda clarifies a bit, “Like a date, Y/n.”

Your eyes widen a bit, but you nod excitedly at the prospect, “Even better, of course.

“We’ll go home, get ready and go from there?” Nat suggests.

“Can’t wait,” a small smile plays on your lips.

Everything about this has felt casual and you love that, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t want to have the typical romantic experiences. This would amongst the first few dates you three had gone on.

Pietro storms into the office breaking up the relaxed atmosphere they had been sitting in. The man looks like he is complete emotional distress.

“I need to talk to Y/n.”

His sister wants to question him, but with one shake of your head she pulls her wife out of the office.

“What’s wrong, Piet?”

He doesn’t hold it together much longer as he signals he needs a hug. You stand up quickly and wrap your arms around him. You feel his tears hit his shoulder and admittedly, your worry multiplies.

“Monica,” he says in his broken tone.

You rub his back soothingly, “What about her?”

He pulls away, “ Two months we lasted, Y/n. I had asked her to be official she said yes, but she’s ended things with me.”

“Oh Piet.”

He shakes his head, “It’s worse than that. She indebted to Fisk, Y/n. She owes him money and favors, she never told me because he’s never come to collect. But now, he’s cashing in.”

You frown deeply, “So she’s protecting you.”

“I need to be protecting her,” he grits his teeth.

You feel for your friend, you don’t believe you have the right words to bring him comfort, “ But you don’t know how.”

Pietro has a new fire in his eyes, “With a bullet in his skull. He’s tried to take everything from me. Papa, you, and now the love of my life.”

You knew the man could be hotheaded at times, and for once you knew he had every right to be. Yet, you couldn’t justify him doing something irrational.

“When the time comes, he will be dealt with,” you say.

Pietro shakes his head, “Nothings happened since your attack, everything is settling. This war will drag on and on if we let it."

“We can’t tear apart the city for no reason, Piet. It’s a bad look from us,” you try to reason with him.

“I know that, but it’s not what I want to hear.”

He slumps down on your office couch with his head in his hands. You sit next to him and rub his shoulder.

“How about we do something tonight, like old times? Something so that we can feel normal for once,” you suggest.

“I can’t even text her because what if she becomes a pawn in this scheme,” he sighs.

“ We’re hanging out tonight. To take your mind off of this, even if it’s only for a moment,” you speak sincerely to him.

He nods slowly in agreement, “Fine, but only because I don’t want to be alone and maybe I’ve missed you. Wanda too, I miss when timed were simpler.”

You get a little excited, “Tonight, me, you, Wanda, Natasha we can do something together. It’ll be reminiscent of old times.”

Pietro agrees and you let him stay in the office as you work. You texted Wanda and Natasha filling them on the details. They were understanding about having to cancel your plans. Natasha also took note of Monica as one of Fisk’s new allies.

The three of you brainstorm to come up with some plans to help your friend for the time being. The night still had promise and none of you wanted to waste it.

Unfortunately for you all, the air was about become ten times more suffocating and no one would see it coming.

Fisk knew you all would become complacent sooner or later, drop you guards prematurely. He was watching unfold and getting ready to strike again, however this time, he planned for the kill shot.

Taglist: @natashaswife4125 @autorasexy @alexawynters @blkmxrvel @toouncreativeforausername @likemick @sgm616 @bstvst @dorabledewdroop @sapphic-simp4015 @natty-taffy @justarandomreaderxoxo @mmmmokdok @tarathia @bgwlsmahf25 @lezzylover @og-kxsh-420 @vanessashands @untoldreader @sxlfishbrokenheart @marvelgirlx @elle161989

[fanficsandstuffgod]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ competition ｡𖦹°‧

fem!reader!soccer x baseball!schlatt

College sports can get competitive, but... not normally against your own school.

heads up, this is based in a random uni so what i say goes! ha! also im aussie so if i get the american talk wrong, don't come for me 😓

reader

I was perched on the kitchen bench, legs swinging off the side, casually juggling a ball with one foot. In one hand: my phone. In the other: a Monster. Balance, baby.

Uni was solid. I’d made the soccer team—no surprise there, I’ve been kicking a ball since nappies. With that came free student housing, so long as I could juggle classes, training, and showing up for every match. Wasn’t worried.

The best part? The whole team lived together. One shared unit. Pure chaos. The fun kind. The kind that gets loud at 3 a.m. and somehow still makes it to 8 a.m. lectures. Mostly.

Then there was the baseball team. They were part of the chaos too, whether we liked it or not. Apparently, they’d been drinking tonight. Not that anyone warned us.

Kenzie—our keeper, serial flirt, and absolute menace—had briefly dated one of their guys. Kent, maybe? Kyle? Who knows. That little drama already put a crack in our teams’ friendship. And then, last week? It split wide open.

We’d clashed over the team bus. Both squads had games on the same day. One bus. No compromise. Voices rose. Someone threw something. Then someone else threw hands.

“Come on! Just give us the damn bus—what’s your team even good at?” some lanky guy said, aiming it straight at me.

I raised a brow. “Sorry?”

“You fuckin’ heard me, broad.”

Nah. That was it.

I swung first.

No regrets.

Schlatt

I was leaning against the back of someone’s beat-up car, half-heartedly nursing a warm beer, watching the boys around me get progressively more plastered. They were cracking open cans like it was a competitive sport, shouting over each other, tripping on absolutely nothing, and laughing like idiots at jokes that weren’t even jokes.

Honestly? It was kinda hilarious.

“Oi! Lads!” And there it was. Kyle.

The only Brit on the baseball team, and somehow both the loudest and saddest man in a three-mile radius. He was halfway through his fourth breakup beer, eyes red-rimmed, shirt half tucked, accent thicker than usual. Which meant: chaos was loading.

Now, I’m not usually one to get involved. I’m not one of those weird quiet kids lurking in corners or writing poems in a leather journal or anything—nah, I just prefer to speak when I’ve actually got something to say. And at that moment, I didn’t. Not until Kyle opened his dumb, brokenhearted mouth.

“Are we still pissed at those birds for stealin’ our bus?!”

A chorus of groans and muttered “fuck yeah”s broke out like we were in church and that was the call to prayer. Even I nodded. The memory of that bus fiasco still stung. Standing in the courtyard like clowns while the soccer girls sped off in what should’ve been our ride to the game? Disrespectful.

Kyle smacked his hand on the roof of the car like he’d just had a divine revelation. “Right, then. I say it’s payback time.”

We all looked at him. That look a pack of feral boys give when someone says something dumb but there’s beer involved so we’re listening.

“What if…” he swayed slightly, pointing dramatically, “…we raid their unit. Right now. With water guns.”

Silence. I blinked.

“…Filled with beer,” he added, dead serious.

There was a pause. A collective braincell trying to process it. Then someone cackled. Someone else shouted “Holy shit, YES.” And then it was on.

“AND NERF GUNS TOO,” someone screamed. “I GOT MINE IN MY ROOM!”

“USE THE SHITTY LIGHT BEER, THEY DON’T DESERVE THE GOOD STUFF.”

“NO, WE MIX IT WITH VODKA—BEER AND VODKA. THE ULTIMATE PISS COCKTAIL.”

I watched all of this spiral like a tornado in a beer can. The boys were running inside, loading up on anything that vaguely resembled a weapon. Water pistols. Nerf rifles. A damn Super Soaker someone had for some reason.

I stood there for a second, debating if I wanted to join this madness.

Then I shrugged, finished my beer, and grabbed a funnel. If we were gonna do this, we were gonna do it right.

“Let’s get stupid,” I muttered, following the chaos toward the girls’ unit like a man marching into glorious, foamy battle.

reader

I was still minding my business on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, sipping what was left of my drink, when Kenzie and Sophia came bounding down the stairs in their swimmers like they were starring in a low-budget summer movie.

“Y/N! We’re gonna hit the pool,” Kenzie called out, stretching her arms overhead. “Muscles are still fried from last night’s training.”

“Yeah, he had us running like damn dogs,” Sophia groaned, cutting her off, dramatically flopping onto the arm of the couch. “I hate stamina days.”

I chuckled, raising my can. “Let me finish this off and I’ll—”

BANG.

The front door rattled like someone had tried to kick it off the hinges.

The three of us didn’t freeze like characters in a horror movie. We just... paused. Confused more than anything. Like, was someone drunk? Locked out? Dropping off pizza with violence?

Voices—loud ones—boomed from outside, followed by more banging, and the unmistakable sound of people laughing their heads off.

Half the team came stumbling into the living room from all directions, some in swimmers, some in pajamas, all of us wearing the same “what the actual fuck” face. Nobody made a move for the door at first—we just stared at it like it was about to sprout legs and walk in itself.

Eventually, I stepped forward and pulled it open—

Boom.

The door flew the rest of the way in, shoved wide by a sweaty mass of chaos. A swarm of guys—reekin’ of beer, weed, and bad decisions—stumbled in holding actual Nerf guns and water pistols.

But they weren’t filled with water.

“Oh, what the fuck?” I sputtered as cold, foamy liquid sprayed across the room. The shrieks from my teammates were immediate, echoing off the walls as they dodged behind furniture and cushions.

They hadn’t even seen me. I was still by the door, plastered to the wall, watching them wage war on the living room like it was D-Day. The guys were too busy firing off their stupid foam bullets and beer-soaked squirt guns to notice me at all.

That’s when I clocked it.

The baseball guys.

Of course it was the fucking baseball guys.

“Oh hell no,” I muttered.

I didn’t think. I just launched.

One second I was standing there; the next I was sprinting across the room and throwing myself onto the nearest guy’s back. He staggered forward with a grunt, nearly dropping his beer-loaded water gun.

“Get off me—what the—Y/N?!”

It was Schlatt.

I clung to him like a damn backpack, fists full of his stupid party shirt. “You absolute dickhead!” I yelled, half-laughing, half-murderous. He stumbled around, trying to shake me off like I was a gremlin.

“Alright, alright! Jesus, get off—you’re gonna break my spine—”

“YOU SPRAYED ME WITH BEER, SCHLATT.”

“You opened the door!”

I didn’t get off.

In the background, someone was shouting “RETREAT!” while another girl pelted a guy in the head with a throw pillow. Someone else had turned the kitchen sink sprayer into a makeshift cannon. Sophia was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

Chaos. Glorious, wet, stupid chaos.

And I was still on Schlatt’s back.

Of course it was Schlatt.

Because the universe is hilarious like that.

The same smug, snarky idiot I’d clocked in the courtyard a week ago for mouthing off during the bus fight. The same one I awkwardly tried to apologise to afterward—tried being the key word—only for him to just stare at me with that blank, unimpressed brow raise, like I was a fly buzzing too close to his head.

God.

So yeah, maybe I did subconsciously aim for him. Maybe I wanted revenge. Or closure. Or maybe I just hated how he looked good in that stupid baseball tee and backwards cap like a walking frat boy cliché.

Either way, I clung to him like a koala with rage issues, and somehow—through the beer and chaos and bodies running out the front door—I managed to twist my weight enough to take him down.

He hit the floor with a grunt, landing face-down on the carpet that now smelled like a brewery. I didn’t even hesitate—I climbed on top and shoved my knee between his shoulder blades to keep him pinned.

He didn’t fight back. Just groaned into the floorboards.

“Are you fucking with me? What was that?!” I shouted, beer dripping from my shirt, hair stuck to my face.

Schlatt, muffled by the rug: “Tactical retaliation.”

I leaned down closer. “You beer-bombed half our team—”

“Equal and opposite reaction,” he replied, still not looking at me. “It’s physics. Should’ve paid attention in class.”

I let out a strangled laugh, half ready to murder him, half ready to laugh so hard I’d choke. “You smell like a frat house toilet.”

“And you’re crushing my spine.”

“Good.”

We stayed like that for a second—me, fuming and dripping beer, him, facedown on the floor with that ridiculous deadpan calm. Around us, the aftermath of the ambush lingered: soaked cushions, empty cans, someone’s water gun lying like a fallen weapon.

“You good now?” he asked finally, voice muffled. “You get it out of your system, Rocky?”

I paused, then shoved his head gently into the rug.

“Yeah,��� I muttered. “For now.”

[hocuspocusbabyy]

Like a Prayer - Casey Novak x Reader.

Neighbour Casey Novak?! Who always seems to be in the hallway between your apartments at the worst of times.

Like when you got locked out after a rave down town, covered in UV paint and smelling like a brewery.

Typically dressed to the nines, her hair being the only true depiction of her day. She’d leave perfectly tamed only for it to deteriorate throughout work. She has that habit of putting her hands in her hair, you noticed it with every passing conversation.

She’s usually wittering on the phone to someone, yet always stops to smile at you. Her hip cocked to keep the elevator open gesturing for you to get on first.

You avoided being in enclosed spaces with her since you’d spilt laundry detergent all over your favourite sweater when she appeared behind you in the communal laundry room.

“Hey there hotstuff.” She’d breathe out, her chest mere inches from your back.

She always smelt of something thick, like oil, it’s floral. Lavender? Though it isn’t peppery or sweet, it’s just Casey… and that mingled with the inevitable sweat that covered her body after softball practice. It was your undoing.

The camomile scent bleeding out over you as you squeezed the bottle in response.

“Someone’s excited to see me.” She laughed, looking over your shoulder at the mess. Strong, calloused hands gracing over your bare skin as she turned your shaking body towards her.

“Let’s get you cleaned up honey.”

You’d struggled not to bite your lip as she fussed over you, your back pressed to the washer as she gently scrubbed the stain from your clothing.

She’d insisted you take it off, your only regret now that you’d worn different underwear as you glanced down at the near see through, Stars and Stripes bra you had on > it was hardly your fault all that was left on wash day was from a Fourth of July boat party in college.

“Very patriotic.” Casey mused as she rolled the sweater from your body. A small laugh escaping her at the bewildered look on your face.

“It’s uh— it’s old.” You’d argued, failing to notice how often the other woman’s gaze had flicked towards you as she leant over the washer tending to the spill. Yet your focus remained aimed at the soft rise of her shirt. The smooth strip of her lower back that revealed a tattoo of a dragon, that curved between the dimples above her arse.

This woman was seriously trying to kill you. Turning to push the fabric over your head. The backs of her fingers gracing your neck as she fixes the collar.

“There.” She grinned, purposefully brushing down your front. Your own nails curling into the detergent draw behind you. “Good as new.” She whispered cheeky as she lent in and tucked a strand of hair away from your cheek.

“Thank you.” You jittered out, focusing on the hand which now grasped your own. Folded over yours as it clung to the plastic draw.

“Anytime.” Casey grinned, still utterly invading your personal space. You glance down to catch the shimmer of silver that lay against her neck, a familiar ring resting against her chest. One that used to reside on her finger.

She pulls back, fluffing her hair with an informed laugh. Removing her items from the washer beside yours before clutching a stupidly red basket to her waist.

“I’ll uh see you around Y/N, try to stay out of trouble yeh?”

“You too—“ you stupidly agreed, nodding without thinking as you stalked the woman’s exit from the room.

“Oh Y/N.” She called again, her head hung cross the door frame.

“Yes Casey?”

“If you ever want somebody to.” She stalled stepping back into the room. No more than three steps between you as she exaggerated a stretch. Shirt bunching, lifting to revel she was in fact not wearing underwear similar to you - in fact she wore none at all. Her hand drifts through the air, playing with you as though collecting her words.

You knew better than to accept Casey didn’t know what she was doing, the smirk that lay persistently against her face when she spoke to you said different.

“If you ever want someone to be…” again she stopped, taking that final step towards you, her laundry basket trapped against your ribs as her view traced your shape. “Patriotic with.” She ended with the briefest lick of her bottom lip. So close to your own that you could almost taste it. “You let me know.”

You barely even registered that she’d left the room, only the lingering scent of lavender as proof that you hadn’t imagined the entire thing.

[sagrandr]

i feel like your favorite yellowjackets character says a lot about you

like if your favorite is misty then you probably try your whole life to fit in and be included yet find yourself alone each time because people can't handle your strong personality and traits that others may find strange. all you want is to have people who appreciate you but find yourself putting more into your relationships than others do for you. it feels like your efforts go unnoticed- or that people have already made their assumptions about you that refuse to change no matter the actions you take.

or if your favorite is tai then you battle yourself constantly against two warring sides, never knowing which one will take over and you worry about what you do when the bad part of you is provoked. you feel guilty for it but the swings are out of your control, your actions spontaneous. only after do you feel the effects but you're powerless to stop them- a victim of your own mind.

or if it's nat then you spend your whole life trying to find your place in the world and fall short each time. all you long for is to be happy and yet it slips your grasp time and time again. you have a strong moral compass that terrifies others because it makes them think about their own moral shortcomings. in the face of adversity you still fight your hardest because nobody else has ever fought for you so you have to do it yourself. you use things like substances to help you cope and give you reprieve from the bad parts of your life but it doesn't make you feel good- not anymore.

or van- you are fiercely loyal to the ones you love and the actions you've taken to protect them haunt you sometimes but you don't regret it because they're safe because of you. you're stuck in the past and don't know how to move on, collecting items and memories from a time when things were better.

or lottie- you find yourself lost in what's real and what's a false reality to help you cope with your actions, give them some higher meaning. you struggle with yourself over whether you're truly doing good or if it's all a mirage. you've done some unjustifiable things but meet your shortcomings with grace and a hope that you can do better, help others in the way you wish you were helped. also you might be medicated (same though)

even shauna- your anger consumes you. it scares you sometimes how angry you are but no actions are taken to change yourself. you find yourself falling into old habits and trying to fit in but it never feels like enough. you pay little mind to how your actions affect others but there's still a part of you that longs for connection, and for things lost that you can never recover. the past haunts you and propels your actions and you feel powerless to the onslaught that comes with being provoked but you also often revel in your steadfastness. you find yourself longing for more out of life but you're not sure what that "more" really is.

all of the characters are so different and have such different journeys that it truly is telling who you are based on the character you feel most connected to.

[rafemotherfuckingcameron]

YOU LITERALLY SAVED MY LIFE

Word Count: 1.6k

Pairing(s): Dark!JJ x Reader, Sarah x Reader, Rafe x Reader

Warnings: domestic abuse, physical abuse, strangling, gaslighting, alcohol, mentions of blood, toxic relationship, controlling behavior, trauma, rape, 18+

Summary: Y/n trusted JJ, who initially seemed to be the love of her life, but ultimately became the source of her deepest fears.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Part 5 - Saved Me

After your surgery, despite feeling weak, you musters the strength to recount the harrowing details of the past few months to the female police officers. With Rafe by your side for support, you begins to explain what happened, starting from the night you had the Pogues over for drinks.

-

"We were all having drinks, and I remember feeling dizzy. Next thing I knew, I was falling down the stairs," you recounts, your voice trembling slightly. "At first, I thought it was just an accident, but now I realize he pushed me."

The officers listen attentively, jotting down notes as you continues, you recounting filled with pauses and deep breaths to steady yourself.

Then, on the night of Kiara's birthday," Jess continues, her voice gaining strength as she recalls the chilling events.

"I was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. JJ came in, and he was already angry about something trivial, like the thickness of the chicken. But it escalated quickly... he grabbed the knife out of my hand and showed me how to do it properly.” tears welling up in your eyes. 

“When he went to put the knife down he cut my arm and there was blood everywhere, he then yelled and said that was my fault. I yelled back at him and then he pushed me against the fridge and strangled me, then threw me in our room and locked the door”. You choke out, Rafe reaches out and gently squeezes your hand.

The officers take notes, their questions gentle yet probing, ensuring they capture every detail for the investigation. Through tears and trembling breaths, you reveal the worst part,

“It happened again on the poker night," you add, your voice quieter now, but no less filled with pain. “JJ invited some people over for a game and he made me wear this costume that barely covered my body, I received multiple comments and actions that were unwanted.

After the game, jj couldn’t pay what he lost, so he said they could have me. Which they did.” 

The officers' expressions darken with shock and concern. They exchange glances, their professional demeanor momentarily faltering at the gravity of your revelation.

One officer hesitates before carefully asking for more details, her voice edged with disbelief and sympathy. “They Raped me, and then after JJ did too.”

After recounting the painful details of the abuse you endured, your voice falters, your composure crumbling as emotions overwhelm you. Tears stream down your cheeks unchecked, your hands trembling in Rafe's reassuring grip.

"I... I just couldn't take it anymore," you whisper, your words choked with sorrow and fear. "I tried to ask Sarah for help, but she didn't believe me."

The weight of Sarah's disbelief adds to your anguish, intensifying the sense of betrayal and isolation you've felt. Rafe holds you tighter, his presence a comforting anchor amidst the storm of emotions.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through this alone," Rafe murmurs, his voice filled with empathy and regret.

The police officers listen intently, their expressions reflecting a mix of sadness and resolve. They offer you tissues and a moment to collect yourself, understanding the immense courage it took to speak out despite the disbelief you faced.

"We believe you, and we're here to help," one of the officers assures you gently, her voice a reassuring presence. "You're not alone anymore."

-

Rafe draped a warm blanket over you before starting the car, ensuring you weren't cold during the drive. His thoughtful gesture brought a brief moment of comfort as he navigated through the quiet streets, his expression grave with concern.

Upon arriving at his house, Rafe walked around to your side and gently asked, "Do you need help getting out?" You nodded silently, feeling a wave of exhaustion and relief wash over you. Leaning on him for support, you stepped out, grateful for his steadying presence.

Inside the warmth of his home, Rafe guided you to a cozy spare room where he prepared a bed with care. "You can stay here," he offered kindly, his voice a reassuring anchor in the midst of your turmoil.

You hesitated, uncertainty clouding your thoughts. "I... I don't want to be alone," you admitted softly, vulnerability tingeing your voice.

Understanding flickered in Rafe's eyes, his expression gentle yet resolute. "Alright," he replied, his voice steady. "You can stay with me."

Rafe escorted you to his bedroom, where he carefully tucked you in, ensuring you were comfortable under the soft covers. The storm outside intensified, the wind howling like a vengeful spirit against the windows. Exhaustion weighed heavily on your eyelids, and soon, sleep claimed you.

In the dead of night, a sudden crash of thunder shattered the fragile peace. Startled awake, you bolted upright, heart pounding in your chest. Panic gripped you as you scanned the room, disoriented and terrified. In the dim light, a figure moved towards you, and you screamed in terror, believing it to be JJ.

Unbeknownst to Rafe, you had been sleepwalking, caught in a nightmare that blurred the lines between dream and reality. His heart clenched at your scream, rushing to your side with urgency etched into his features.

It's me, Rafe," he called out firmly, his voice cutting through the darkness. He reached for you, his touch gentle yet firm, as you recoiled in fear.

"Stay back!" you pleaded, voice strained with panic, mistaking his presence for another's malevolent shadow.

Rafe froze, hurt flickering briefly in his eyes before resolve hardened his features. With steady steps, he approached you, his voice a soothing melody in the storm.

"It's okay," he murmured softly, his hands carefully grasping yours. "You're safe with me."

Trembling, you searched his eyes, "I'm scared." Rafe's expression softened with empathy, his arms wrapping around you protectively.

"I know," he murmured, his voice a comforting rumble against your ear. "But you're not alone anymore. I'm here."

——

Throughout the days, Rafe support anchored you through the lingering aftershocks of your ordeal. Whether it was sharing quiet meals together or simply sitting in companionable silence, his presence was a steady comfort.

One evening, as the sun dipped low over the horizon, the doorbell rang, shattering the quiet sanctuary of Rafe's home. Startled, you glanced at Rafe, a flicker of unease crossing your features. "I... I don't like being left alone," you admitted softly, a tremor in your voice.

Rafe nodded reassuringly, “Come with me,” he offered gently, his hand finding yours in a reassuring grip. Rafe reached for the door handle, his movements steady yet deliberate.

With a deep breath, he swung the door open, revealing JJ standing on the threshold.

"I heard you were here," JJ's voice was unhinged, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of JJ, fear clawing at the edges of your composure. Instinctively, you moved closer to Rafe.

"Y/n, baby, let's talk outside, away from this kook," he shouted. JJ moved to step inside, but Rafe blocked him with a firm push against his chest.

"You don't get to talk to her or even look at her. Now, get off my property," Rafe's voice cut through the tense air as he stood firm, his gaze unwavering.

JJ reached out again, attempting to grab your arm, but Rafe swiftly swung, his fist connecting with JJ's face. The blow sent JJ stumbling backward, his balance faltering.

"I thought I told you to leave, Pogue!" Rafe yelled, his grip on your hand tightening as he stood defiantly. JJ yelled defiantly, "Show me what you got, country club!"

Rafe turned to you urgently, his voice steady despite the tension. "Call the police and tell them JJ violated the AVO.” He released your hand as you hurried to grab the phone.

When you returned, chaos had erupted on the lawn. Rafe and JJ were locked in a fierce struggle, JJ’s punches were flying but none finding their mark. 

Moments later, sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer with each passing second. Blue and red lights bathed the scene as officers swarmed in. JJ's resistance was futile as they swiftly restrained him, leading him away in handcuffs.

As you stood there, shaken but relieved, one of the officers approached you with a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "He won't bother you again. He's going away for a long time."

Rafe returned to your side, pulling you into a tight embrace. His arms around you were both comforting and protective, his voice filled with genuine concern.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry for leaving you alone. I just had to give him what he deserved."

You leaned into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his presence and the weight of the ordeal slowly lifting off your shoulders.

"I'm okay," you whispered, grateful for his support.

-

Six months later, Rafe surprised you with a beach date, the waves crashing against the shore as the sun painted the sky in shades of gold and crimson.

As you walked hand in hand along the water's edge, the weight of past events lingered in the air. Finally, Rafe stopped, turning to face you with a mix of nervousness and determination in his eyes. His voice was steady but filled with emotion as he spoke,

“Y/n, I... I love you."

Your heart skipped a beat, emotions swelling inside you as you looked into his eyes, seeing the sincerity and vulnerability etched on his face.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you realized the depth of his feelings and the journey you had shared.

"You don't have to say it back right now," Rafe continued softly, his hand reaching to gently brush a tear from your cheek. "After everything you’ve been through, I just needed you to know."

Overwhelmed with gratitude and love, you took a deep breath, your voice trembling slightly but filled with certainty,

"Rafe, I love you too." Rafe gently cupped your face in his hands. Without another word, he leaned in, pressing his lips softly against yours. 

"I want to thank you for everything. You literally saved my life that day," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion as tears streamed down your cheeks.

Rafe's eyes glistened with tears as he held you close.

...The End...