#I had no idea using 'he' so much would be such a pain that I would need to rewrite bits to avoid confusion on who was doing what

[tojicide]

JEALOU$Y. ☆ CALEB.

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦. at the end of the day, you and caleb are just childhood friends—nothing more, nothing less. so, when you mention going on a date, it’s totally logical that he wouldn’t care, right? if only that were the truth.

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. fem! reader, current! caleb, zayne mention, jealousy, pet names, praise, oral ( fem. receiving ), cowgirl, unprotected p in v, creampie. 𝑤𝑐. 5.4k.

𝑛𝘰𝑤 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. jealou$y — the neighbourhood.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Doomsday has finally dawned upon Linkon City, though Caleb seems to be the only person truly affected by this catastrophe.

It was all his fault in the grand scheme of things. He hadn’t been clear enough, hadn’t shown the full extent of his feelings for you. But above all, he should have never offered Zayne those measly words of advice.

He should have known that the doctor had ulterior motives. Why else would he have called Caleb up one week ago to ask about you of all people?

It was a mean ploy, truly. Anyone and everyone knows about Caleb’s inability to shut up about you, his sole weakness was being exploited right in front of his eyes and he was none the wiser. The questions seemed harmless then. Posed as genuine curiosity, Caleb would have never been able to decipher the hidden intent behind each word that Zayne spoke into the receiver.

What are her days off? What does she do in her free time? You said that the restaurant around the corner from Akso Hospital was her favorite, yes?

In retrospect, he should have absolutely seen this coming. But then again, nothing could have ever prepared Caleb to hear those four life-altering words slipping from your lips.

“I have a date.”

A record scratches in his brain, forcing him to halt his steps for an abnormally long time before he slowly turns to face you. “You… what?”

Hearing the words repeated in that saccharine tone of yours only added salt to the wound, oddly enough. It physically pained him to ask for more information about your date, though he managed to hide his disdain with that boyish grin of his and a bit of lighthearted teasing.

But inside? That little green monster was stirring, and there was very little he could do to quell it.

Begrudgingly, he managed to get the key details before forcing himself to stow away in his bedroom and… think. Next Thursday. 6 PM. Maltosio Restaurant. With Zayne.

The next week passed by in an agonizingly slow fashion. It was as though each X that marked a passing day was a physical blow to his already aching heart, and those adorable images of the kittens on his calendar (the calendar that you picked out) did very little to help him.

Subtlety was never his strong suit, but then again, desperate times call for desperate measures. And believe Caleb when he says that he is very much desperate.

“Soo…” he���d drawl, leaning over the back of the couch to peer down at you. “I heard there’s a screening of that movie you’ve been wanting to see at the drive-in next Thursday. Wanna come with?”

You perked up like a ball of excitement, and for a moment, Caleb allowed himself to get his hopes up, but your frown quickly dissipated them. “Next Thursday? Oh, no, I can’t make it! I’m going out with Zayne, remember?”

Of course he remembered. That was exactly why he hadn’t let up—not even once—in his attempts to distract you just enough to make you forget all about your dinner plans. He could take you out for a nice dinner too. Say, that’s actually a good idea…

The next day, Caleb tried that one.

“Oh, pip-squeak,” he sang, his airy voice ringing through your apartment as he walked down the hallway. “I got us reservations at the restaurant in Skyhaven that you’ve been itchin’ to check out.”

You perked up, just like you did before. “Really?”

He nodded with a triumphant grin, internally patting himself on the back for his own good idea. “Mm-hmm. Next Thursday. Got us those window seats you wanted too—the ones that overlook the city.”

And once again, your gaze softened, and an all-too-adorable pout tugged at the corners of your mouth. “Oh, Caleb, I’m sorry. I’m busy that day.”

You really are too sweet for your own good. He can’t even blame Zayne for taking an interest in you, he’d be downright shocked if any man with two seeing eyes had the audacity to not think that you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Caleb sure does. He always has. He always will.

It wasn’t long before the day of reckoning was upon him. Thursday evening. Sunlight cut through the blinds in the living room, casting golden hues across the vast space. Much to his dismay, the trashy reality television you’d left on the screen did very little to soothe his worries.

He fidgeted with the dog chains you’d gifted him, his thumb brushing along the gift that you had so kindly given him. It was a testament to your bond. A bond that something as trivial as a single evening apart couldn’t tamper with… right?

“Caleb!” Your antsy voice cut through the air, forcing his wandering mind to snap back to reality.

He was up and down the hallway before you could even say another word, pressing a flat hand to your door to nudge it open. It was then that he saw you, all dolled up in your robe with your favorite dresses laid out on your bed.

Your hands grasp onto two of the hangers, holding them up side-by-side to help him get a better look at them. Though, his eyes were noticeably distracted, contorted in an unfamiliar lovesick expression as they pierced into yours. “Quick! Which do you think is cuter?”

Caleb blinks—once, twice, three times—until he forces himself to finally look down at the dress options in your grasp. He’d seen you wear them plenty of times before, and the thought of someone else seeing you in such beautiful fabric nearly made his stomach lurch.

He raises his forearm, leaning against the doorframe as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, c’mon, that’s an impossible choice. You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.”

It was a typical response, one that you were expecting, though his lack of advice made you hmph as you lost yourself in your thoughts. “Well… I hear polka dots symbolize happiness and stripes symbolize slipping between realms. Pretty interesting stuff, huh?”

“Very interesting,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging up at the mere sound of your voice. “Is that why you buy so many things in those patterns?”

You quirk an eyebrow, confusion etching into your expression. “Huh? What else do I buy that’s…” It quickly dawns on you, and you can feel heat creep up your neck and reach your face. “You’re a jerk.”

Caleb can’t help but laugh, taking a few steps into the room so that he can properly look at each and every one of the dress options laid out on your bed. “What’s the matter? If I remember correctly, someone was beggin’ me to do her laundry. Somethin’ about the laundry machine being sooo far and your feet hurting sooo bad.”

Huffing and far too flustered for your own good, you shake your head. “Well… well I didn’t realize you were so observant.”

He clicks his tongue, absentmindedly pinching your side as he leans down to rest his chin in the dip of your shoulder. “Tsk. You know I’m always observant when it comes to you. Even if it’s remembering something as trivial as the patterns of your cute little undies.”

You swat him away. “You’re so annoying!”

To that, he can only chuckle, giving your sides a brief squeeze before taking a few steps back. “Alriiight, alright, I’ll leave you alone.” Before exiting the room entirely, he hangs onto the doorframe, giving you a soft smile. “I’m serious though. You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” His lips curve into a smirk. “But if you want my input—you know I’ve always been a sucker for seeing you in florals.”

And with that, he whisks away, silently hoping and praying that this date will fall through on its own. Plopping back down on the couch, his eyes are practically glued to his watch. 5:48 PM. It wouldn’t be long before Zayne would be knocking at the front door—punctual as ever. Oh, it made him sick.

How could he have done this? To you, to himself? Caleb should be ashamed. He should be the one sitting across from you later tonight, holding your hand and listening to you ramble about whatever your heart desires. It should be him. It would have been him if he wasn’t so damn afraid.

But the sound of approaching heels clicking along the hardwood floor quickly snapped him out of his pity party, prompting him to look over his shoulder. And there you were once again, now adorned in a floral sundress that had made him lose his mind more times than he’d like to admit.

Under his breath, he can’t help but mutter, “Yeah, you’re gonna kill me…”

It was his favorite dress of yours, too. You really were trying to kill him. A white dress that was littered with blue flowers, the fabric fit you perfectly, loose and fitted in all of the right places.

Zayne didn’t deserve to see you like this. Plain and simple.

Standing from the couch, he lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “There she is,” he says, taking your hand to spin you around a single time. His smile only widens as he sees yours. “You look gorgeous, just like I knew you would.”

You roll your eyes with a bashful smile, one that he has to physically fight the urge to kiss away. “Oh, you flatter me,” you say through a laugh.

He shakes his head, bringing a hand up to gently smooth down a pesky hair on the top of your head. “Can’t be flattery if I mean every word of it.”

A breeze wafted through the open window, blowing the fabric of your dress ever so slightly. The scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers infiltrates the living room, though the scent of your perfume and something that was uniquely you had his full attention.

“Y’know, you can be pretty nice when you want to be,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

Chuckling, he simply nods, his large hands settling on your middle. “Yeah. When I want to be.”

You brush past him, padding over to the back door. Pushing it open, you step out onto the warm concrete patio, breathing in the fresh air that the backyard had to offer you. Spring in Linkon was always a delight, though the warmth that Caleb radiates behind you serves to be the most comforting thing about the entire scene.

His hand comes to rest on the curve of your shoulder, his fingers nimbly pulling at one of the straps of your dress. With his heart rate shooting through the roof, he forces himself to take a moment. He needs to get this right. This may be the last chance he’ll be able to do this.

“I… look, there’s something that I—”

But suddenly, the sound of rapping knuckles at the front door cuts through the tense silence. Both of your attention is drawn to the closed door, and having left the back door open, you both have a clear view of it.

You turn around to face Caleb, offering him a sheepish smile. “That’s probably Zayne.”

He only nods, forcing his hand to fall back to his side. “Yeah, probably.”

This was it. He was losing you. It stung to know that this was no one’s fault apart from his own. His inability to be honest about his feelings, his lack of forwardness with you… what was he expecting? That you’d never date? That he could keep you happy forever without offering you anything more?

It was a stupid fantasy, one that had earned him this spot. But when he saw you turn to leave, your eyes still locked on his, a surge of panic shot up his spine. His eyes flit around—the grass, the flowerbeds, the hose… that was currently filling up the pool…

“Be mad at me later,” he suddenly says.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Wha— ah!”

Before you could even begin to process what was happening, you were suddenly pushed back into the chamber full of chlorine infested water. Caleb watches with a wry expression as you shoot up from beneath the water, splashing aimlessly as you swim towards the edge.

“What the fuck was that?” you bark, perching one elbow up onto the concrete as you reach the other one out to him. “What the hell are you looking at? Help me out!”

Caleb can’t even protest, not with the incredibly irrational stunt he’d just pulled. “I’m sorry, pip-squeak, I just…” And so, he reaches down, his hand clasping around yours… until you pull him forward with all of your strength and send him tumbling into the pool too.

And when he comes up for air, you splash him the moment he opens his eyes. Serves him right. The chlorine will sting his eyes almost as much as your mascara is stinging yours right now.

With that, you pull yourself out of the pool, a trail of water marking your path as you wring out the fabric of your dress. After that, you disappear inside of the house, leaving Caleb to rub his eyes in utter defeat.

He gives you both a long stretch of alone time before he retreats back into the house like a kicked puppy, his head hanging low as he runs a hand through his wet strands of hair. You’ve evidently told Zayne that today wasn’t going to work anymore, judging by his lack of presence, and that thought alone makes Caleb more happy than he should be.

Sucking in a short breath, he knocks twice at your shut bedroom door. “Honey? It… it’s me.”

“Go away,” you retort without missing a single beat.

Caleb pokes his tongue into his cheek as he leans forward, resting his forehead on the cool surface of your bedroom door. “C’mon. Just… talk to me.”

It doesn’t take long before the door is swung open, revealing an incredibly angry version of you with a freshly cleaned face. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, to try and rectify the situation in any way he can, but you beat him to it. Quickly.

“How dare you?” you spit, jabbing your index finger into his chest. “What was that, Caleb? Are we ten years old again? Your method of communication is… is pushing me into the damn pool?”

He sighs, catching your hand to unfold your closed fingers. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I—”

“No!” you cut him off, sticking your other index finger into his chest. “It’s your turn to listen. You’ve been my best friend for as long as I can remember, you’re all I’ve ever known, all I’ve ever wanted. Do you know how it feels to have everything you want dangled in front of you for so many years, and… and just torn away? Time and time again?”

Caleb is rendered speechless, his brows furrowed in both confusion and a sense of odd relief as you unleash all of the thoughts that you’ve kept hidden for so long. He doesn’t bother catching your other hand, instead, he allows you to repeatedly jab at his chest. It hurts, but he can handle it. Just like he can handle the words you’re saying.

“So, you know what? I decided that enough was enough!” you continue, your index finger pressing wildly into the hard planes of his chest. “I wasn’t going to wait around, I wasn’t going to pretend, I was going to move on! And… and I was going to!”

He tilts his head, his amethyst eyes growing fuzzy as he looks down at you. “Was going to?”

You huff, eyes narrowing as you jab your finger into his chest for a final time before turning away from him. “Well, I’m not exactly going on a date anymore, am I?”

Caleb nods, though you can’t see it. He leans against the doorframe, his gaze tracing your silhouette through the soaked fabric of your dress. Sighing, he straightens off the wall, but before he can turn away, you spin around to face him.

“And you know what else?” you huff. “You know the solution to this problem just as well as I do.”

He nods his head with a single jerk of his chin, beckoning you to continue. “Yeah? What’s that?”

You step closer, and for the final time, you stab your finger into his pec. “You need to grow a pair.”

Inhaling deeply, all he can do is smile. It infuriates you and he knows it, but he just can’t help himself. He takes both of your wrists and tugs you forward until your chest presses against his own, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek.

You’re slowly simmering down, the heat of your outburst dissipating as your skin cooled. With your eyebrows still furrowed, all you can do is look up at him, daring him to speak. To do anything.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip.

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “A little.”

He slowly nods his head, his fingers curving along your jaw before he cups your chin in between his thumb and forefinger. “Is there anything I can do to help with that?”

You can feel his breath fan along your lips, cool and minty and just about everything you could have ever fantasized about on your own. You part your lips to reply, but this time, Caleb is the one who beats you to it.

“We’re making puddles all over the floor, you know.”

Glancing down, you see the truth in his words. The pool water dripped from your respective clothing and gathered around the two of you, making a wry smile find your lips.

“Oh,” you breathe, “I didn’t even notice.”

“I like to think I’m pretty observant when it comes to you,” he murmurs, smoothing his free hand along your side until it grasps onto the fabric of your dress. “Need some help with this?”

You look up, meeting his gaze once more. “With… with what?”

“Well,” he drawls, his fingertips brushing along your outer thigh as he slowly drags the fabric upward. His movements are hesitant and cautious, his eyes flickering between each of yours. “You’re wet. I’m wet. Maybe we can… help each other dry off.”

Your eyelids falter as they flit between his, your gaze instinctively falling to the plush curve of his bottom lip. “Okay,” you murmur.

A smile tugs at his mouth. “Okay. Arms up.”

Slowly, you lift your arms above your head. His hands work together to slowly push the fabric of your dress up and over your head, letting it slip onto the floor with a wet plop.

His breath is nearly torn from his lungs the moment he sees your bare skin, so beautiful and soft and made to be his. Hesitantly, his fingertips trace the curve of your hips with a sense of reverence.

“Do you need help too?” you ask, your voice breathy from the restrained sense of need that has come over you.

Pausing his exploration of your bare skin, Caleb finds himself nodding, almost immediately lifting his arms over his head. “Please.”

And now, you take the opportunity to do the same. Slowly, you peel his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aimlessly into the laundry hamper near the door. Your gaze traces over the defining lines of his abdomen, your touch doing the same as it trails southward.

His lower stomach tenses up as your fingers brush against the hem of his jeans. He can’t help the way his eyes flutter shut, the way a touch so simple can nearly bring him to his knees. Breathing shakily, he leans down to rest his forehead on yours.

“Careful,” he breathes in warning, his voice taking on a raspy tone.

You almost startle at the unfamiliarity of his voice, though you push your hesitation aside as your thumb brushes over the button of his pants. “But… these are wet too.”

A huff of air leaves his mouth, the sound something between a low laugh and a groan. He forces his eyes open, his stare meeting your own. “Trying to get me naked before our first kiss? I have to say, you’re full of surprises.”

Faltering, your hands fall away from his pants. “You’re right, I… I’m—”

Caleb can’t help but chuckle, taking a hold of your hands to bring them right back to where they were before. This time, he guides your fingers through the motion of unbuttoning his pants. “Kidding,” he whispers against your lips. “Besides… we’re good at multitasking, yeah?”

You’re nodding before you can truly process his words. “Yeah.”

His lips crash onto yours with a groan that omits from deep within, the button of his jeans finally popping open from your ministry. The zipper went next, tugged down along with the fabric entirety until he was left in only his boxers.

His hands roam your curves greedily, eating up every inch of skin that he has deprived himself of for far too long. Your waist, your hips, your thighs—he needs to feel you in any way possible.

And you return his eagerness so well, wrapping your arms around his neck as you draw him in even closer. His hands worked quickly, hoisting you up until your legs wrapped around his waist as he walked the both of you over to your bed.

Laying you down on the mattress, he takes the initiative to deepen the kiss, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip to gain access that you readily give him. He can’t help but moan into your mouth, the sweet taste of your tongue tangling with his own forcing his brain to short circuit in a way he’s never experienced before.

You kissed him like there was no tomorrow, and he was loving every second of it. Your hands fisted into his hair while your lips moved in tandem with his, a soft whimper leaving your mouth as his hands gave your hips a firm squeeze.

His lips trail down your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your neck and the curve of your shoulder as he uses his grip on your hips to pull you flush against him. A gasp leaves you at the feeling of his erection pressing against your clothes sex, the friction so delicious that it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach.

Caleb is so far gone, kissing his way along your arms, your neck, your sternum, all up until he reaches the valley of your breasts. He wastes very little time there, licking a trail to your nipple before sucking the peak into his mouth. His other hand palms at your other breast, kneading the soft flesh in his palm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against your skin, his hips rocking forward as he switches sides, latching onto your neglected breast and giving it a hard suck. “So beautiful.”

His descent continues as he mouths at the soft skin of your belly, your hips, your inner thighs. His eyes depart from yours as they settle onto the fabric covering your cunt, and a grin stretches across his face. Polka dots.

You scoff, softly shoving his shoulder. “Don’t even say it.”

Chuckling, he leans in to press a kiss on the damp patch of fabric. “Wasn’t gonna say anything, baby.”

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your legs and tossing them aimlessly. His lips press feverish kisses to your ankles, your calves, your inner thighs, and eventually, the mound of your pussy.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispers into your heat, hiking your legs up and over his shoulders and he pulls your sex closer to his mouth. “So damn worth it.”

A cry leaves you as his tongue delves in deep between your legs, his eyes slipping shut as he lets out an unabashed whimper into your sex. His grip on your thighs only tightens, keeping your legs spread apart as they threaten to press in on his head.

He wouldn’t have that. He couldn’t. He needed to have you in the way that he’s dreamt of for so long, in the way that he’s thought of time and time again as he fucked his own fist to the thought of you. It was filthy, it was lewd, but it was honest.

You tasted better than he could have ever imagined, his tongue eagerly lapping at your inner walls before his lips sealed around your puffy clit, sucking hard enough to make your back bow off the plush mattress.

The stimulation is leaving you feeling overwhelmed, your hands pushing into his hair as your trembling thighs test the strength of his grip. You whine, eyes slipping shut as your head tilts back against the pillows.

“It— it’s too much—”

“Be good,” he finds himself saying, pulling you right back to his mouth as he continues to feast on your pussy like a man starved. “You can take it, baby.” Caleb cracks open his eyes, sucking harshly onto your clit before releasing it with a wet pop. “Go on, pretty girl. Say it.”

You whine, though you hardly have the brain power to say anything else apart from what he’s asked of you. “I… I can take it,” you breathe.

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your sensitive pearl before nipping at it. “There you go.”

It doesn’t take much longer for your legs to begin to tremble once more, your body writhing in his grasp as he sets you any way but loose. Your hips buck up, a final resort for reprieve as he works you over the edge.

Caleb redoubled his efforts, spreading your thighs even wider. Soon, the warmth pooling in your lower stomach was far too much to bear, far more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

“I’m… I’m coming,” you gasp out, hands gripping tightly onto his dark locks of hair.

And when you do, his flattened tongue laps at your honeyed release. He works you through your high, his movements eventually slowing down as the twitching of your hips gradually calms.

He pulls off of you with a wet pop, pressing soft kisses to your swollen clit. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, pressing another peck on your mound before he moves back up your body once more to slot his lips against yours.

You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it only spurs you on further. Your hands grasp onto his shoulders, and in one swift motion, you flip him onto his back. Caleb looks up at you with a starry-eyed expression, but when you straddle his hips and sit in his lap, he has no words of protest. None at all.

“You really are full of surprises,” he says, running his hands along the warm skin of your thighs.

Tugging him free from his boxers, he helps you remove them from his body, leaving you both entirely bare together. He sits up, his back pressing against the headboard as he tugs you closer to him.

“I need you,” he whispers, pressing a longing kiss on your stomach as you shift to straddle him once more. “Please, baby.”

You gaze down at him, your fingers brushing through his hair. “Please what?”

He leans into your touch, his hands settling onto your waist as he pulls you lower, the head of his cock pressing against your pussy. “Make yourself feel good. Please.”

Caleb’s own cheeks were flushed with a rosy hue, both from the embarrassment that his own lack of experience brought upon him and the reality of finally having the love of his life in such an intimate way. His amethyst eyes search your face, as if searching for a permission that he didn’t know how to ask for.

Dipping your head, you press a soft kiss on his lips. Simultaneously, you swivel your hips until the tip of his length catches your entrance. You slowly lower yourself, feeling the way his cock stretches you out, filling you up in a way that only he can.

He smiles at you, cupping your cheek with his hand. Brushing a thumb over your bottom lip, he kisses you gently. “You feel so good,” he whimpers into your mouth, his other hand resting on your hip as you roll your hips in a way that has his breath hitching in his throat. “So fucking perfect.”

Your movements are timid at first, consisting of a slow and meticulous rocking of your hips. His cock stuffed you full, his tip kissing the deepest points of your inner walls with ease, earning a muffled whimper from your mouth that his lips swallowed up eagerly.

Caleb’s hands grasped tightly onto your hips, helping you set a pace that had the both of you losing your mind. He leans backward, his head tilting against the headboard as it slams against the wall with each intense grind of your hips.

“Good girl, give it to me how you like it,” he breathes, eyes cracking open to watch the way you look down at him as you work yourself on his length. “Use me however you need me, baby, there you go.”

Your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him in for a longing kiss. “I… you— you feel so…” you stammer, leaning forward to rest your head on his shoulder as you lose yourself on his cock.

He nods his head in agreement, turning his head to press a kiss on your damp cheek as he gently pets your hair. “I know, I know.”

You lose yourself all together, your legs shaking as you tighten your hold on him. “Caleb!” you moan.

His hips help you the rest of the way, his grip on your hips keeping you firmly planted as he meets your movements with thrusts of his own. “I know it, baby, I’ve got you,” he pants through a smile, guiding you through a few more fleshed out grinds on his lap. “Atta girl, use those hips.”

His arms wrap around you entirely, crushing you against the hard planes of his chest as you slowly ride the both of you through your shared orgasm. In that moment, in your house, in this space that belonged to you and Caleb alone—the two of you became one.

Heavy breathing and hammering heartbeats is all that consumes the two of you for a long while, skin to skin with far too much bliss brewing in your chests for either of you to handle alone.

Huffing softly, Caleb runs a hand up your side. “You okay in there?” he asks, turning his head to pepper soft kisses along your cheek. “C’mon, I need some proof of life.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. “Shut up, give me a second.”

He merely smiles, wrapping his arms around your middle once more as he tucks your head beneath his chin. Thirty seconds after finishing and you’re already mean. “There’s my girl.”

Caleb’s hands smooth over the soft planes of your back, giving your hips a soft squeeze as he revels in the feeling of your heartbeat drumming against his own. He can’t help himself from pressing a few kisses on the top of your head, his arms opting to wrap even tighter around you.

“I love—” he cuts himself off, eyes widening dazedly. Would that be too much? A confession of his undying love not long after ruining your date and making love with you for the first time? After a stretch of awkward silence, he kisses your head once more. “I love… cuddling with you. You’re so soft.”

You smile, nuzzling even closer to his chest, your nose brushing against skin. “Mm, I love you too, Caleb.”

His eyes widened, though he knows that communicating his confusion is futile. You knew him so well, too well.

“You do?” he whispers, turning his head just enough to look down at you.

In response to that, you nod. “Mm-hmm. I’ll love you even more if you tell me that you didn’t cancel those dinner reservations.”

Caleb smiles, running a hand over your hair. As if he’d given up his last ditch effort to take you out. “You know I didn’t.”

𝑛𝘰𝘵𝑒. rip zayne i still love you king!!! also i actually don’t really know how to write for caleb… so… i hope this didn’t suck! this is the only fic that managed to break my intense writer’s block that i’ve had for the past two months. reblog/comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate you reading so much <3

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[kyunzin]

☆𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘?☆ - 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

✰ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ✰ 𝐆. 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮, 𝐆. 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮, 𝐅. 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢, 𝐒. 𝐑𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧, 𝐍. 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨, 𝐊. 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 ✰ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ✰ them overhearing you say you can take all of them at once (f!reader) ✰ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒/𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ✰ pussy licking, fingering, hair pulling, praise, face fucking, manhandling, degrading, sloppy make out, spit kink, cum eating, blowjobs ✰ 𝐊𝐘𝐔𝐍’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ✰did you guys know word counters are useful😀 why had i already hit the word count ages ago (i roughly count by paragraphs 10 lines= 100 words/ 10 paragraphs =1k words yk so 30 paragraphs =3k words. i hit 3 k in like the 27th paragraph) also if you see any words that look like they’re missing a ‘h’ its because that key is broken for me and i probably forgot to edit it in :D

w.c ✰ 3.4

it's almost too much for you to handle

it's probably not a good idea to make promises you might not be able to keep

it's going to be fine, you’ll find a way to get through it since after all you can take it, cant you?

geto sucks in the whine you let out when gojo's tongue doesn't move, taking the opportunity to slip his tongue inside your mouth, holding you down when you try to roll your hips into gojo's face. "you'll get what you want soon. 'm gonna give him a little taste so he doesn't bitch, keep your tongue flat and don't move it or else you wont get anything for the rest of the night" you can tell the last bit was directed at gojo as he responds with a hum of 'mm-hmm', the vibrations against your pussy cause your legs to twitch. geto guides your hands down towards gojo's hair and you instinctively you grip onto it.

you're near breathless, panting heavily when geto's lips part from yours, trying to chase his hips but he only breaks the kiss to quickly whisper to you "pull his hair he loves it" you follow his command, tugging firmly at his hair as instructed and the result doesn’t disappoint. gojo's moan goes straight to your core and you shudder in pleasure. "told you, he's a little pain slut" gojo lets out a whine at geto's comment and toji laughs clearly amused by the interaction yet you can only sit there aching for some more stimulation. "i thought you said it was rude to keep your guests waiting, yet here i am still waiting"

even though your words come out breathy toji smirks up at your little quip "fine. since you can't seem to wait, fuck yourself on his tongue but when i tell you to stop you do. understand?" he stands from is position on the floor, making his way to sit in a small arm chair off the side of the queen sized bed. "yes, fuck finally" you get to work immediately drag gojo’s tongue over your aching cunt, pulling his face further into your pussy while he keeps himself still for you to use. "where d’ya find this one, she's so demanding" in your periphery you can see him stroking is cock through his pants.

you ignore his words and focus on working gojo’s tongue, throwing your head back relieved that you’re finally able to gain some stimulation after being left waiting for so long. you can tell gojo’s enjoying this from the little vibrations of noises he lets out as well as his firm grip keeping your legs spread wide out next to him. geto's soft chuckle tickles the crook of your neck at the clear desperation of your movements "found her and her friend talking about all the things she would let us do to her in the middle of campus so proudly" you curl into his touch without halting the movement of your hands.

toji raises is eye brows at geto's words but you're too occupied with the feeling of gojo's wet tongue to notice. "and what exactly would she let us do to her?" toji says with a curious smirk eager to hear the answer. "why don't you tell him, i'm sure you had a lot more to say than what you told us, right?" you can hear the teasing tone in is voice, wishing that you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. a couple of seconds pass without your reply and the two of them realise that you didn't hear them, head thrown back on geto's shoulder, lost in the way gojo's tongue glides up and down your folds.

it’s hard to focus on what their saying when you’re so lost in your pleasure. gojo’s saliva oozes out his mouth, creating a hot wet mess between your legs as he practically drools all over you yet your pleasure is lost without any warning. "i asked you a question," you let out a choked sob when gojo is ripped away from you and try to chase his mouth with your hips only to be stopped by geto, opening your eyes to see gojo's spit soaked face smiling up at you mockingly while he inwardly mourns the loss of your taste on his tongue. "how will we know what to do, if you don't tell us?"

you know there's no use in trying to evade the question yet you're too frustrated to even care. "i want you to fuck my throat. want you to mess me up inside and out. i don't wanna be able to talk or walk after you're done with me," you turn to look at toji who's grin stretches from ear to ear. there's a very visible wet spot marking out where the tip if his cock lies yet his makes no moves to remove himself from his confines. you’d leave it at that but you might as well tell them the full extent of what you want "want you to fuck me up real good, whatever you want. do your worst, i can take it"

even though you may have skipped over a few minor major details you're sure that they would be able to get the gist. "atta girl, that wasn't so hard now was it. now we can finally get to the good shit" he rises from his place on the chair and makes his way over to the three of you with his yes locked with yours. toji's words paired with geto's soft "good girl" sends a thrill down your spine. geto’s calloused hands keep you grounded where you are as you start to get fidgety again “keep still, you’ll get what you want soon princess” his words still your little tremors as the promise of more eases your mind.

"toru' move i didn't get a good taste earlier" toji winks at gojo and as if on cue he follows his words without a moments fail, letting his hair loose from your hands you mourn the loss of his warmth between your legs, and you catch a glimpse of his dejected face as he stands up taking toji's previous place on the seat and you spot the raging tent in his joggers. "looks big doesn't it?" you nod your head as you continue to stare and upon noticing your gaping, gojo’s face lights up again. as if to show off gojo makes quick work of pulling out his cock, geto scoffs as his display and focuses his attention on you.

"i'm sure you'll be able to take it and if not, well i guess that's your problem isn't" you can hear his soft laughter from above you. gojo's size should be the least of your problems right now because the feeling of whatever is poking your head is breaking any hopes you had before of them being average. it’s stupid to keep that idealistic thought. your head snaps downward at the edge of the bed as toji settles himself between your legs with a predatory look in his eyes, stopping a few inches from you. “don’t worry, you’ll be able to take it with a little practice” that does little to ease your worries.

the yelp that you let out when toji lifts your calf and bites it has the other three in the room laughing at you. he keeps up his ministrations while placing each leg over his shoulders. "don't act so surprised sweet cheeks, i'm just getting into position" you can hear gojo mumble something about ‘taking his spot from him’ but pay him no mind as toji licks his way along your thigh "squeeze ya legs if you want, that way i’ll be able to tell how good i'm making you feel since you wont be able to speak" confusion must show on your face yet instead of satisfying your curiosity toji just winks at you.

toji’s calloused hands run up the length of your left leg pushing it to the side ever so gently, while he scatters ostentatious kisses along the other. his frequent kisses have your legs twitching in anticipation as he teases you, taking his sweet time, eyeing you closely until he finally presses a feather light kiss to your spit soaked clit. he pulls back and you watch as a thin wet string connects his lips, glistening with your slick, to your pussy until he licks them clean “s’ as sweet as sugar princess,” he leans down and repeats the motion this time with more emphasis “where’ve you been hiding?”

your response is a choked moan and your hands reach into his hair which he takes that as a sign to continue, sucking on you clit as if he’s expecting something to come out. he soon lets up and smiles down at your now puffy clit like a child proud of their drawing, rubbing his thumb in circles over it while your hand uselessly holds onto his thick wrist as his hand abuses your clit. “that feel good sweet cheeks?” you frantically nod your head as you bite your lips while trying to buck your hips into his touch but he suddenly stops with a harsh slap to your outer thigh which has you whining at the loss of stimulation.

“I want words cheeks and look at me when I’m talking to you” you don’t remember closing your eyes but you open them not surprised to see toji looking up at you from between your legs with a slick covered smile. a few seconds pass without your reply so he pinches your clit in warning and you quickly remember what else he wanted “fuck- yes it feels so fucking good please don’t stop” seemingly satisfied with your response he releases his hold on you and presses a kiss to your clit as if it’s an apology. “there we go. keep makin 'em pretty noises for me and I won’t have to check in so often”

a sudden movement behind you almost causes you to jolt in surprise, in one swift movement your hands are pinned above your head and your vision of toji is obscured by geto’s thighs straddling your chest, looking up to see him smiling at you. his hair frames his face as he looks down at you and he swiftly ties his hair into a bun at the back of his head. from this angle you're faced nearly directly under the swelling in his pants and you're slowly catching onto the meaning of toji's words. "don't look so surprised, this is what you said you wanted isn't it. i'm just giving you what you asked for"

geto's words remind you that even though his smile may look sweet and harmless he's just as cunning as the other two, he’s just able to hide it well. you're pulled out of your thoughts when geto starts to pull down his waistband, lowering it just underneath his balls. feeling it was one thing but seeing it right in front of you makes you worry for the state of your throat after he's done with you. at first glance you can tell that it'll be a mouthful, thick and girthy. geto’s hands gently lift you head from it’s position and your brought out of your thoughts.

"open nice and wide for me" you follow his words without question and two things happen at the same time. one, geto thrusts as much of his cock as he can down your throat causing your throat to constrict around him as you try not to choke and struggle to breathe at the same time. simultaneously toji decides at that exact moment to lick a stipe up your pussy to collect all of yours and his mess on his tongue, laying his tongue flat on your pussy only for it all to dribble back out his mouth creating an even wetter mess. “sounds like you’re having fun over there” gojo taunts.

both motions leave you spluttering around geto's cock and your legs threaten to close around toji's head despite the firm hold he has on them and you can hear gojo’s sardonic laugh in the background. tears begin to well in your eyes until geto taps your cheek to get your attention. “princess, breathe through your nose” you cant help but notice his voice comes out near strained and you hope you’re the reason for it. following his instructions you find that you can actually breath better though you still struggle a bit “isn't that much better?” you let out an appreciative hum and his response is immediate.

your just barely able to make out the small tensing of his abdomen through his shirt however you do feel the way his cock pulses down your throat as you try to maintain a steady breathing pattern. “told you you could take it” your lured into a false sense of security when geto slowly starts to pull back out of your throat only by a couple inches before he practically plunges back in, throwing your breathing off balance again however you remember his advice and try to regain composer as he waits for you. “such a good girl, taking me so well” he praises and you can feel tears begin to well in your eyes.

just when your able to control your breathing again toji agrees with him and his response is short hum into your pussy, which vibrations straight to you core. you had forgotten he was there with how consistent he’s been. as if before had only been a warm up he begins to lap hungrily at your pussy, letting his tongue edge slightly into you as if to tease you. instead of holding your legs apart like before he leaves them to clamp firmly around his head as you slowly try rock your hips into his face as much as you can but he holds you down by your hips “stop fucking moving and let me take care of you”

you hips still at his command and he presses a kiss to your pussy, causing your legs to tense from the feather like touch. “‘s like she’s eager to get her holes stuffed ” gojo snorts from the side of the room. you let out a whine of protest that gets swallowed by geto’s cock and he looks down at you with a disapproving face. “don’t lie to us sweet cheeks” toji bites into the flesh of your thigh and you feels the tears fall rolling down the side of your face from the sting of his teeth digging into your leg. you soon realise denying anything won’t get you anywhere as all motion stops around you.

“that won’t do will it,” geto stars to ease his way out of your mouth “if you’re not eager to be filled then I guess we can wait for the others to get here before we continue then” you hear gojo laugh out from the side of the room “seems like it’s gonna be at least another ten minutes before they all get her, sure you can wait that long princess?” they should know the answer to that question already but you know they won’t be satisfied until they hear it from your mouth. “let her speak” knew it. geto pulls out completely and you can feel the strain in your jaw from having it stretched for so long.

your throat feels raw and a bit too empty without geto occupying it but you push the feeling down so that you can respond before they begin to grow impatient. “please don’t make me wait,” you raise yourself onto your elbows, leaving your face mere centimeters away from geto's dripping tip and look over to gojo “I’m sure if they really wanted to be here they would make an effort to get here faster. so if they miss anything it’s their loss” toji strokes your thigh seemingly pleased with your answer “polite with an attitude, I like her. we might have to keep her” gojo lets out an agreeing hum.

“think she deserves a treat for bein such a good girl for us” before you can even begin to think about what the treat might be toji runs two fingers up your pussy, collecting all the wet mess. you can only assume that he sucks it into his mouth when you hear a pop sound after he removes his fingers from his mouth and your legs twitch again at the stimulation. only a second later does geto begin to inch his cock back into your mouth, holding the sides of your head gently “such cute noises she’s makin for us” geto agrees with a hum as he comes to a halt when he feels your throat close around him.

it’s only then do you realise that the soft mewls and whimpers that you’re hearing are coming from your mouth that’s wrapped around geto’s cock. “since I know you’re begging to be fucked, i’ll do ya a favor "your legs fall back onto the bed when toji rises from his position between your legs “toru come over here and open her up” in the corner of your eye you see gojo hop up with glee jumping almost too eagerly onto the bed, using his hand to practically shove toji out of the way. geto seems to be ignoring their interactions in favor of teasing his cock down your throat with shallow thrusts.

you can tell that he’s holding back from choking you with his cock from the concentrated look on his face as well as the fact that he’s not reaching nearly as deep as he was before. “that’s it. nice and easy” his soft spoken words soothe your nerves however it’s a futile attempt, as without warning gojo slides a nimble finger into you with little resistance and you can feel as his second knuckle breaches your entrance. the stretch of his finger has your throat sporadically closing around geto's cock which causes his concentration slips as his hips stutter, forcing his cock down your throat.

“s-shit sorry” he apologises while wiping tears that fall from you eyes as gojo slides in another finger, pushing in all the way to his knuckles. geto slowly eases his cock out of your throat allowing you to take in a few breaths of air loosening his grip on your hair. “don’t apologise to her,” your eyes dart to the side where you watch toji lazily stroking his cock until gojo curls his fingers and your eyes shoot upwards to geto who is letting out soft breaths while he massages his cock. “remember she said she could take it,” there's a sadistic undertone in his voice when he says “I’m sure she’ll be fine”

gojo repeats the motion and you let out a loud wail and your back fails to arch off the bed with geto’s weight on top of you “she’s squeezing me real tight down here, bet she likes it when you’re rough with her, isn't that right” it’s impossible to respond with how deep geto is now lodged down your throat. “you’re not gonna answer me cutie?” you knows he’s taunting you and you’re sure he’s smirking when he presses his thumb on your clit waiting for a response. your issue is resolved when geto’s pulls you off his cock and your head drops back down onto the pillow and your response is practically immediate.

“yesyesyes- fuck, it feels so good don’t stop” your eyes are a bit glossy from the few tears you shed earlier but you're still able to make out the rise in the corners of geto's lips while he looks down at your disheveled face. he adds insult to injury by rubbing the tip of his cock against your lips, letting his cockhead slightly slip but not fully teasing both himself and you in the process only making bigger mess of your face when it passes the corner of your lips and onto your cheeks. "sorry didn't mean to make such a mess, s'shame you can't clean it yourself." you know the apology’s fake but accept it anyway.

you would try to protest but gojo's relentless assault on your cunt prevents your mouth from making any coherent sounds other than what they can only presume to be his name. "want someone else to clean it up for you princess?" you know that it's futile to speak with geto's cock head laying heavy on the tip of you tongue so you lazily nod your head hoping that it's an accepted answer, in the process you also coat geto's cock with more of you saliva. yet before geto can even acknowledge your answer toji rises from his spot with pace and purpose in his steps. "i'll help ya out, move back"

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐉𝐔𝐉𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍

end note ✰ I didn’t want the note to take up too much space but I talk quite a bit so here's an end note ;p. who do you guys want to join next { i might make a poll}? it’s already a challenge to give four people things to do at the same time idk how im going to manage seven.

✰ taglist ✰ @lik0 @yaygurist @dvarlinggg @valleydoli @yeet-ur-feet @silkija @nuggetalli @zillahgocrazy @satoryaa @yaya4thawin @nowhoremones @yeetlixs @happy2delivur @heliumshorns @chocopuchino @luvv4lurd @sorceira @maniaerodesi @chysalxsm @cobraisveryhorny @servalswifey @chrissysblog @futureittomainn @zacatecanaaaa @ichikanu @ameeeeeliie @bluupen @prettybakerswife @blankwashed @klumrine @chadychadyy2k @hantenguclonesimp-minuszoha @dl-yum @jalepp @kibananya @jjksimp3579 @xemmysblog @shawnberry @bleachisfood @barryatsumu @zennyxxy @dyeforkenma @bloomingheartss @sousblogga @alluresenses @zwmbizz @queenkassradite @dawnhero @xthatpottahfanx @loavibeycipoosan

[itsmypagenotyours]

despite how awful of a person Harley Sawyer is, there is something so fascinating and horrifying about his situation. It's karma for everything he's done, and yet barely a fraction of the pain he's inflicted upon the experiments he worked on. Tethered down and forced away from his own vision, seeing himself as an artist of progress. Dragged to the level of the creations he views as objects; yet lesser. Sawyer insists that something was done incorrectly in the surgery to make him The Doctor. He would never make such a mistake, he could never be what he made others. It isn't the way of the world - his way.

Yet even with his body destroyed and torn in an attempt to force him into complacency, he still holds power. Sawyer is necessary for operations to continue, otherwise they would have simply killed him. I imagine that overtime and as his rage subsides, he recognises this. Leith Pierre needs him. Playtime Co. needs him. The Prototype will later need him. He cannot be on the same level as those who dragged him down or those he created. The Doctor is his own rank of existence with just as much power as he had before. While they ruined his body, the one thing they need from him is exactly what makes him dangerous.

Of course, The Doctor still holds resentment about how he became what he did - he's still severely limited. But the idea of the horror fizzling away as he gets used to the new system, learns to operate his parts and figures out loopholes and ways to work in the shadows. He becomes something else, maybe not greater, but different with new resources. Humans are most creative when they're under limitation, and as a young Sawyer once said, progress doesn't care for how anyone feels about it.

[moonlitstoriess]

Heyyy so I saw you wanting to write more for Kallias, and idk I just saw this soul shattering tiktok and the winter faerie actually reminded me of Kallias (yk because.. winter.. yh) … this is not a direct ask but maybe it can inspire you for further Kallias fics https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNeoxbvYr/ much much love, I really enjoyed your latest work with Kallias, you portrayed him so beautifully 🫶🏼

When the Ice Cracks- Kallias x fem!reader (oneshot)

Summary: Y/N, a bubbly healer, is summoned to treat the cold, brooding High Lord of Winter. Determined to befriend him, she pushes past his icy walls—until he finally breaks her spirit with cruel words. When she withdraws, Kallias tells himself it’s for the best… until he realizes he misses her warmth. Now, he must mend what he shattered before it’s too late.

Warnings: angst, mentions of injuries, fluff in the end, also I apologize in advance if you do not like my writing in this one cuz I am currently dealing with a painful eye infection which caused me to delay everything and idk if this will live up to the expectations you guys😔

See masterlist

A/N: Hi! The video was really something, the pain I felt as I watched it…😭 but it did give me an idea, although a different one but with enough angst loll. Also, thank you for the love, it makes me truly happy knowing my work is being appreciated<3

The apothecary chamber was warm, despite the eternal cold of the Winter Court just beyond its frost-laced windows. The scent of crushed herbs and simmering tonics swirled in the air, wrapping Y/N in a comforting embrace as she worked, carefully grinding a handful of dried roots into a fine powder. The mortar and pestle moved rhythmically in her hands, the familiar motion grounding her as she hummed softly to herself.

Healing had always been her purpose. From the moment she discovered her gift—the ability to soothe pain with a touch, to knit together flesh and bone with her power—it had felt like breathing. But talent alone was never enough. She had clawed her way through the ranks, training tirelessly under the best healers of the Winter Court, proving herself again and again until there had been no choice but to acknowledge her skill. Now, she was the youngest to ever hold the title of Master Healer, a position of high honor within the court.

The title had come with its share of challenges. The Winter Court was not an easy place for someone like her—a female who spoke too freely, smiled too easily, and refused to be swallowed by the cold, unspoken rules of the icy kingdom. She knew she was different from the others who served in Kallias’s court. Most healers were quiet, composed, reserved. Y/N? She talked too much. She got too close. She teased the soldiers she patched up, fussed over the sentries when they neglected their wounds, and made even the gruffest warriors crack a reluctant smile.

Warmth had always been her way. And warmth was not often welcomed in a place ruled by ice.

But she had earned her place. Through skill, through sheer willpower, through proving time and time again that she belonged.

She exhaled slowly, tipping the powdered root into a steaming vial, watching as the tonic darkened into a rich amber hue. This one would be useful—an enhanced healing elixir, meant to speed up the mending of deep wounds. She had been experimenting with stronger potions lately, determined to push the limits of her craft.

She reached for another vial, about to measure out the next ingredient, when—

“Y/N!”

The sharp call shattered the quiet, making her jolt so hard she nearly sent the entire potion spilling across the table. She twisted around, heart hammering, to find Healer Maerith standing in the doorway, her usually composed face drawn tight with urgency.

Y/N frowned, wiping her hands on her apron. “Maerith? What—”

“You are needed,” the older healer interrupted, breathless, her thick furs rustling as she strode into the room. “Immediately.”

Y/N straightened, brows knitting. “Needed for what?”

Maerith’s icy blue eyes met hers, and when she spoke, Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“The High Lord has been injured.”

For a moment, she could only stare. The words didn’t make sense. Kallias? Injured? The High Lord of Winter was a warrior, one of the most powerful High Lords in all of Prythian. She had never—never—been summoned to treat him before.

“I—” she started, struggling to process it. “What happened? Is he—”

“There’s no time for questions,” Maerith snapped, already moving toward the door. “Gather your supplies and get to his chambers. Now.”

Y/N barely hesitated. Years of training, of discipline, took over. She grabbed her satchel, shoving in every tonic, poultice, and salve she could think of—something for pain, something for wounds, something for internal injuries in case it was worse than they were letting on.

Her mind raced as she slung the heavy leather strap over her shoulder and sprinted out of the room, Maerith’s words echoing in her head.

The High Lord has been injured.

Her boots pounded against the marble floors as she tore through the palace corridors, weaving past startled servants and guards. The familiar halls felt different now, heavier, filled with an almost suffocating tension.

How had it happened? A training accident? An attack? Was it serious?

The thought made her pulse stutter. She had treated hundreds of warriors, seen males with grievous wounds, but this—this was different. This was the ruler of their court, their kingdom. And she had no idea what to expect when she reached his chambers.

One thing was certain, though.

She was about to come face-to-face with the High Lord of Winter himself.

Pain throbbed in his side, deep and unrelenting.

Kallias sat stiffly in the high-backed chair near the roaring fireplace of his chambers, his jaw tight as he pressed a cloth against the wound that refused to heal. Blood had long since soaked through the fabric, staining his fingers a deep crimson, but still, the gash remained. Even with his Fae healing, even with his magic, the injury lingered—mocking him.

He exhaled sharply, tilting his head back against the chair, ice creeping along the edges of the wound in a feeble attempt to numb the pain. How had it come to this?

A routine patrol beyond the palace walls, that was all it had been. He had been investigating strange reports near the northern borders when a group of rogue Fae attacked. Rogues. In his court. It infuriated him. They had been strong—trained, even—but not stronger than him. Kallias had made quick work of them, his ice shattering bones, freezing bodies where they stood.

But one had gotten close. One had touched him.

A poisoned blade, slashing across his ribs before he cut the male down where he stood. He hadn’t felt it at first, the cold consuming his rage, his focus on eliminating every last one of them. But then, as the bodies lay frozen at his feet, the pain had set in. The wound had burned, spread, and despite every attempt to use his magic to seal it, it would not close.

He clenched his teeth, fingers curling into a fist as frustration curled in his gut. He loathed being touched, and now his own mistake—the one moment he had let his guard slip—had left him with no choice but to endure it.

A healer had to see to him.

Kallias could hardly stomach the idea. He was High Lord of the Winter Court, the most powerful male in this palace, and now he sat injured like some weakling in his own chambers. It should have healed by now. But it hadn’t. Which meant he had to tolerate someone else's hands on him.

He exhaled sharply, preparing himself. At the very least, he knew the healer would be professional—quiet, efficient, distant, like all the others who served under him.

Then, the doors burst open.

"Master Healer Y/N, my lord," a voice announced before the heavy doors shut once more.

Kallias barely had a second to process the name before she stepped in.

His first thought was that she did not look like a healer. Or at least, not like any healer he had encountered before.

The female before him—Y/N—was not reserved. She did not carry the cold demeanor of his court. No, she radiated warmth.

Bright eyes, a quick, eager smile. Her hair was slightly tousled, a satchel slung over her shoulder, filled with an assortment of tonics, bandages, and salves. She was smaller than he expected but walked with a confidence that somehow filled the room.

And then she bowed—deeply, properly—before flashing him that same, blinding smile.

"My lord! An honor, truly. You’re my first High Lord patient, you know? What a milestone! And what a lovely room—I should’ve guessed it would be grand, of course, you’re the High Lord, but still! Very cozy for such a serious place."

Kallias just stared.

She moved toward him with an energy that was… unnatural for the Winter Court. His people did not behave this way. Healers did not behave this way.

Was she… babbling?

She reached his side, dropping to a crouch beside his chair. “Now, let’s see—oh! Wait. Sorry, my lord, I got ahead of myself. Where was the injury again?”

Kallias blinked at her.

What. The. Hell.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond, only studying her as his brain tried to process what had just happened. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not a courtier, not a soldier, and certainly not a healer.

She didn’t cower, didn’t hesitate, didn’t treat him like some untouchable force of nature.

And gods help him, a part of him almost found it… endearing.

He shoved the thought away immediately.

Wordlessly, he lifted his hand from the wound, exposing the long, deep gash along his ribs.

Her eyes widened.

A gasp left her lips, so dramatic it made something in him twitch. "By the Cauldron! This is terrible. Absolutely terrible. No wonder your magic isn’t closing it—look at that! That’s not just a wound, my lord, that’s a full-on crisis!"

His nostrils flared as he tried not to react.

She was already rummaging through her bag, muttering under her breath. "My great-great-grandfather had a wound like this once, you know? Not poisoned, but deep enough that it wouldn’t close—granted, he was a fisherman, not a High Lord, but still. Oh! And this reminds me of that soldier from the southern border last spring, nasty gash, nearly lost his whole side—poor guy, cried like a baby, but don’t worry, my lord, I’m sure you’ll handle this much better than he did."

What. The. Hell. Was. Happening.

She was still talking as she placed a warm, gentle hand over the wound. He barely had a second to brace himself before power pulsed from her palm.

White-hot pain lanced through him, burning from the inside out. A sharp hiss escaped through his teeth, his body instinctively jerking at the sensation.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry! I know it hurts," she said quickly, not stopping. "It’s the first part of the healing process, the pain means it’s working—”

“Just do your damn job,” he snapped.

Her hands stilled for a second.

Then—to his utter disbelief—she laughed.

A bright, unapologetic laugh.

“Alright, alright, High Lord of Impatience, I’ll be quick,” she teased, carefully pressing her hand back to the wound. “No need to get all grumpy.”

Kallias barely managed to bite back his shock.

No one. No one spoke to him that way.

Yet this strange, bubbly, utterly unafraid healer did so without hesitation.

He didn’t know whether to be infuriated or intrigued.

She worked efficiently, despite her chatter, cleaning the wound, applying some sort of cooling salve before carefully wrapping the bandages around his torso. Her touch was gentle, careful—not the cold, clinical detachment he was used to.

When she finished, she straightened, brushing her hands off and nodding in satisfaction. "Alright, my lord! You’re all patched up. Now, since this wound is serious, I’ll be checking on you daily to ensure proper healing. You’ll need to rest, no strenuous activity, and absolutely no magic use on the injury—magic interference could worsen the effects. Take this tonic twice a day, avoid anything too cold—oh wait, your whole court is cold, hmm—well, maybe don’t sit in the snow for too long. And—”

She paused, realizing she was still talking.

She gave him a sheepish smile.

“Oh. Uh—sorry, my lord.” She bowed deeply. “I’ll… take my leave now.”

And just like that, she whirled around and left as quickly as she had come, the door clicking shut behind her.

Silence settled in his chambers.

Kallias just sat there, stunned, trying to process what the hell had just happened.

His gaze flickered to the door, as if expecting her to burst back in with another round of chatter.

She didn’t.

And yet—for some godsdamned reason, his chambers suddenly felt much colder.

The soft sound of the door clicking behind her echoed down the empty hallway. Y/N let out a long breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she straightened her robe and took a moment to steady her thoughts. The High Lord's chambers were eerily quiet, and now that she was outside, the weight of the moment hit her. She had never, in all her years as a healer, been summoned to tend to a High Lord—especially not Kallias, Lord of Winter.

She had always heard the rumors: Kallias was cold, distant, and completely unapproachable. His icy powers were a reflection of his personality—a male who trusted no one, who allowed only the bare minimum of interaction. She had always thought, maybe even hoped, that she wouldn’t be the one to face him. But here she was, having just treated his wound, with nothing but the cold, sterile scent of the palace halls to remind her of it.

It was strange, really. She had been nervous walking in, of course—who wouldn't be? But when she saw him, sitting there, with that sharp, regal posture, she couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of calm settle over her. She had seen plenty of injured soldiers and nobles in her time, but Kallias was different. His gaze had been piercing, his silence unnerving, but she had managed to push past it. Maybe it was her natural exuberance, or maybe it was the quiet desperation inside of her that made her speak to him so freely. But once she started talking, she couldn't stop. It was as if she couldn’t help herself—he was so cold, so distant, that she wanted to break through that ice, even if it meant talking his ear off.

Her stomach twisted as she walked down the hall, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the stone. The image of him—his sharp, icy eyes, the tension in his posture—kept replaying in her mind. And yet, despite his cold exterior, she found herself thinking about him. Was it the way he seemed so unaffected by her? Or was it the strange feeling that had settled in her chest when she’d touched his skin to heal him, when his sharp hiss had cut through the silence?

She ran a hand through her hair, sighing. She hadn’t intended to make a spectacle of herself. She had never acted so loosearound a patient before. But something about Kallias had made her lose her usual professionalism. She had simply been… herself. And she couldn’t decide if she regretted it or not.

As she reached her chambers, Y/N quickly removed her healing satchel from her shoulder, placing it on the small table by the window. Her mind was still buzzing, and her hands itched to keep busy. She grabbed a small vial of herb tonic from the shelf, staring down at it for a long moment. The liquid inside shimmered in the low light, a soft blue-green glow. She started preparing another tonic to keep herself distracted, her movements swift and practiced as she crushed the dried herbs. But her mind was elsewhere.

It was silly, really. She had treated countless soldiers, nobles, even the occasional member of the court. But something about Kallias was… different. The way he’d stared at her when she had walked in—no one looked at her like that. It was the look of a man who had lived through decades of isolation, someone who was both imposing and dangerous, but there was also something else. Curiosity, perhaps? Or maybe it was just her imagination running wild.

She cursed herself for allowing her thoughts to wander back to him. Why was she even thinking about him? It wasn’t like he had shown her any kindness. In fact, he had barely spoken to her. That bitter coldness had wrapped around him like a blanket, and she had been the one to dive right into it. It was foolish. But then again, maybe she hadn’t been entirely wrong in doing so. He had let her heal him. He hadn’t called for another healer, and he hadn’t thrown her out. Maybe that was something, wasn’t it?

Y/N suddenly stopped mid-motion, her eyes wide. Was she sighing over Kallias? Her face flushed with embarrassment as she forced her mind back to her work. She would need to check on him tomorrow—his wound was deep, and it was going to take more than just a quick treatment to heal.

She gathered her thoughts, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling swirling in her stomach. Tomorrow would be another day. The High Lord was injured, yes, but he was just another patient. Another patient she needed to focus on. And when she went back to see him, she would keep things professional. No more talking, no more trying to break through his icy facade. She needed to be a healer, not a friend.

Her stomach twisted again as her mind flashed back to the way he had hissed when she touched him, the sharpness of it cutting through the air. It was as if she had momentarily crossed a boundary—one that he hadn’t allowed anyone to cross for a long time.

Y/N bit her lip, pushing the thoughts away. Tomorrow, she’d focus on the wound. Tomorrow, she’d make sure it healed properly, and nothing more. That was the job. That was what she was here for.

Y/N walked briskly down the palace corridors, the scent of morning dew still lingering in the air despite the heavy chill that seemed to follow the Winter Court even in the early hours. Her thoughts were consumed by the High Lord’s injury and how her treatment of it had left a curious impression on her. She had not expected the wound to be so severe, nor had she anticipated the subtle tension that had grown between her and Kallias during their brief interaction.

She had been awake since the crack of dawn, preparing her usual healing supplies, trying to find a quiet moment to gather her thoughts. But now, here she was, making her way to the High Lord's chambers to check on his recovery. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she had missed something. She had treated him with care—surely he would be resting. It had been such a deep injury after all.

But when Y/N arrived at his chambers, confusion struck her first. The door stood wide open, the room empty. The bed was unmade, the thick blankets thrown aside as if he had not even been there. A cold shiver slid down her spine, a strange sense of panic washing over her. Why isn’t he here?

Her brows furrowed. She stepped closer to the window, looking out at the stillness of the courtyard, but there was no sign of the High Lord. Her eyes darted around, searching the rooms for any clue. The last time she had seen him, he had been wounded, fragile, and now—now he was gone.

A sinking feeling settled in her gut. The hell is going on?

With determination, she turned on her heel and began walking quickly down the hallway, calling out to a few servants along the way, trying to catch wind of any gossip or movement that might explain where the High Lord had gone. No one seemed to know anything.

Her steps became quicker, her thoughts swirling with concern. She wasn't worried about his safety—no, she knew Kallias was more than capable of taking care of himself—but the fact that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be nagged at her. He should be resting. He shouldn’t be out there, moving around so soon. What was he thinking?

After a few more moments of searching, she found a servant outside a side door, speaking with another. She stopped in her tracks and approached him.

“Excuse me,” she asked, trying to keep the sharpness from her voice, “Have you seen the High Lord this morning?”

The servant blinked, pausing for a second before bowing deeply. “Ah, Lady Healer. The High Lord is not in his chambers this morning. He’s in the training grounds.” He quickly added, “He insisted on continuing his training despite the injury.”

Y/N felt frustration claw at her throat as she nodded curtly. “Training grounds, you say?” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t have to be told twice. Without another word, she turned and stormed off, her boots slapping against the stone floor with every furious step. She was angry, worried, but mostly, she was disappointed. After everything I said last night, he’s still going out there to train like this?

The more she thought about it, the more infuriated she became. What kind of fae would ignore their own orders, their own well-being, just to look strong?

As she neared the training grounds, the cold, crisp air hit her full force, but her temper kept her warm. She was already fuming by the time she stepped out into the open field. The sight before her was more infuriating than she could have imagined.

There, in the middle of the training grounds, stood Kallias, half-naked, his broad chest exposed to the biting cold. His chest and torso were rippling with muscle—sharply defined, each movement a testament to his power. But what struck Y/N the most was the wound—still visible, still raw, bandaged and still not properly healed despite her efforts.

Her heart raced for a moment as her eyes lingered, taking in his impressive form. But she immediately shoved those thoughts away—there was no time for that. No time to think about how attractive he looked standing there.

“Damnit, Lord Kallias!” she muttered, her voice low but seething with irritation.

She stormed toward him, her anger propelling her forward, and the soldiers training around them watched her approach, their eyes widening at the sight of the healer marching directly into the middle of the field. Y/N didn’t care. She didn’t care about the stares or the whispers that followed her. She didn’t care that all of them were staring in stunned silence as she pushed through their ranks.

Kallias, however, did care.

He turned just in time to see her standing there, arms crossed in front of him, a deep frown etched on her face. For a split second, she thought she saw surprise flicker in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with that same cold, steely expression he always wore.

“Miss Y/N?” His voice was laced with confusion, his posture stiffening.

But before he could say another word, she reached out and pinched his arm, hard.

He shifted away from her with a low growl, his icy gaze snapping to hers. His lips curled in irritation as he finally spoke through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here, miss Y/N?”

Y/N didn’t back down. She stood tall, chin lifted, her eyes filled with both exasperation and frustration. “Me? I should be asking you the same question, my lord!” she snapped, her voice carrying across the training grounds.

The soldiers exchanged stunned glances, some of them gasping at her words. Kallias’s expression shifted to one of cold indifference as he grasped her arm and began pulling her away from the field, his fingers biting into her skin.

“Keep the work going,” he ordered his second in command, who nodded and continued the training as Kallias led Y/N to a quieter area on the side.

Once they were far enough from the soldiers, Kallias let go of her arm, stepping back, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at her. “Listen to me and listen very well, because I will be saying this only once, Miss Y/N. I don’t know what gives you the confidence to act this way, but you may do this to anyone, anyone but me. I am your High Lord, not some sleazyfriend of yours. I demand a professional, respectful approach. Understood?”

Y/N stared at him, her face unchanging, before letting out a long, exasperated sigh. “No.”

Kallias’s icy demeanor faltered for a second, his eyes flashing with disbelief. “No?”

“No,” she repeated defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest. “You got injured just yesterday! And today you’re up and training? Have you no care for your body?”

Her voice cracked through the air as she stepped closer, her anger bubbling over. “Didn’t you hear my orders last night?! On top of all this, you’re training shirtless in the cold! You’ll make the injury worse!”

Kallias raised an eyebrow, his gaze darkening. “Shirtless? In the cold?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Miss Y/N, look around you. We’re in the Winter Court. I’m the gods-damned High Lord of Winter. The cold doesn’t affect me in the least.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her frustration reaching its peak. She marched right up to him and pointed a finger at his chest. “So what?” she hissed. “It still has negative effects on the injury! The wound could get worse! You could develop an infection or—”

Kallias interrupted her, cutting her off in an exasperated tone. “Alright, very well. Cauldron boil me—just shut your mouth!” He rubbed his forehead, clearly trying to hold back his own rising temper. “Wait for me to put on a shirt, and then follow me to my bedchambers.”

Y/N, caught off guard by his sudden change in tone, found herself beaming. “Alright, High Lord,” she said, her voice lighter than it had been all morning.

But before Kallias could even blink, Y/N squealed in delight and threw her arms around him, pulling him into an unexpected hug.

Kallias’s eyes widened, his body tensing as he let out a sharp hiss of surprise. “Don’t ever touch me like that again,” he muttered coldly, pushing her away with an icy shove. “Unless it's for healing purposes.”

Y/N stepped back sheepishly, a flush creeping up her neck as she muttered an apology. “Sorry…”

He shot her a glare, the frost in his gaze never faltering. “Let’s go,” he ordered, turning to lead the way.

Y/N followed, still smiling faintly, the words of their exchange dancing in her mind. The day had barely begun, but she had a feeling it was going to be a long one.

Kallias walked beside Y/N, his movements brisk, and his mind occupied with the tumultuous thoughts that seemed to swirl in the wake of her presence. He kept his gaze forward, trying to block out the sound of her incessant chatter, but it was impossible not to hear her. She was speaking—again.

“I still don’t get why you’re so stubborn about it, my lord. Yesterday, you were practically on the verge of collapsing, and today, you’re already training like nothing happened! Like you’ve never even had a wound.”

She paused briefly for a breath, and Kallias’ lips twitched slightly in irritation. He could feel the weight of her words pressing against him, and even though she didn’t mean to, her concern did something to him. Something he could not afford to acknowledge.

“You’re lucky I’m not treating you like a child, My Lord,” she continued, oblivious to the narrowing of his icy eyes. “I mean, how do you expect to heal if you keep pushing yourself? I’ve heard of high lords being stubborn, but you—”

“I didn’t ask,” Kallias interjected in a clipped tone, his cold eyes flickering toward her for a moment, his breath steady despite the frustration rising inside him.

Y/N, undeterred, responded with a casual shrug. “Well, you should have, because it’s ridiculous, really. You’re supposed to be healing, not playing soldier, and—”

“Miss Y/N,” he growled, his patience starting to thin like ice cracking beneath the weight of her words. “I’m well aware of my body’s limits, but you don’t need to remind me every minute.”

She glanced up at him, eyes full of defiance as always, but he noticed the slight shift in her expression when he didn’t break eye contact. She was starting to pick up on the tension between them, even if she didn’t fully understand it.

The cold silence that followed didn’t last long. She had a tendency to fill it with more chatter.

"Anyway, I’m just saying, if you’re not careful, you might aggravate the injury even more! Did you know that could lead to—"

“I did not ask,” Kallias repeated, his words colder than before, his tone carrying a warning. “Do you ever stop talking, lady Y/N?”

For a brief moment, she seemed to consider his words, but the inevitable happened. “Well, I just think—”

“Enough,” he snapped, not bothering to hide the edge of his irritation any longer. “Please, for the love of the gods, can you hold your tongue for one minute?”

She looked taken aback but held her silence, the stubbornness in her gaze still present, and he couldn’t quite decide if it annoyed him or intrigued him. It wasn’t often that someone dared to speak to him this way. His gaze flickered over her, eyes narrowing as he noticed how she still walked so determinedly at his side, as though everything in the world could be solved by her prattling. It was infuriating, yet... somehow, it wasn’t.

A tinge of something unfamiliar stirred beneath the icy surface of his thoughts, but he pushed it aside, burying it in the deep recesses of his mind. He would not indulge these feelings. Not for her.

When they finally reached his chambers, Kallias stepped forward, opening the door for her without a word, his mind already working on the next set of instructions he would need to give her. He just wanted to get this over with quickly—have her do whatever healing she thought necessary, and then let him be.

Y/N walked inside with a quiet hum, her energy filling the room as she made her way to the table to prepare the healing supplies. Kallias couldn’t help but glance at her again, the way her hair swayed with every movement, the soft curve of her figure, the subtle grace with which she moved. It was like a goddamn pull on him, but he couldn’t understand it. He shouldn’t feel it. And yet—

He forced himself to look away, his thoughts twisting and his mood darkening.

“I’m glad you’re being so cooperative,” she murmured as she gathered her supplies, giving him a teasing smile. “Now, just sit back, will you? I promise I won’t bite.”

Her light tone irritated him more than it should have. His jaw tightened, and without thinking, he sat down on the chair she had indicated, his hands resting on the armrests. He felt her gaze on him again, heard her soft breathing as she moved around him, preparing everything with a hum of concentration.

“Alright, now let’s talk healing,” she began, her voice soft yet insistent. “Tell me if it still hurts, any sharp twinges, discomfort, anything. I need to know how your body’s reacting so I can better gauge what’s wrong.”

Kallias clenched his jaw, staring ahead as she moved closer. His thoughts were fighting him now, the fluttering feeling in his chest rising again as she stood over him, examining him with that endless curiosity in her gaze. His eyes flicked to her hands, noting how carefully she began to touch his shoulder, working her fingers over the injury. He winced slightly at the pressure.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual.

“No, you’re not,” she shot back, her tone serious now. “You’re hurt. I saw it yesterday. Don’t lie to me, lord Kallias. I’m here to fix this, not let you ruin yourself.”

The way she said his name, the way she took charge without asking for permission—it rattled him, more than he’d like to admit. He clenched his hands tightly, but the knot of frustration in his chest only tightened.

“Stop pushing yourself so hard,” she continued, her voice softening. “You’re not invincible, you know.”

But Kallias wasn’t about to let her know how much her words affected him. He wasn’t about to let himself think of her as anything other than an irritating healer who needed to leave. Now.

Yet still, there was something in the way she touched him—so unexpectedly gentle, yet firm—that made his heart flutter.

He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling sharply as he focused on the icy indifference that had long been his armor. He would not break. Not now.

And when she finally stepped away, satisfied with her work, he sighed heavily, leaning back into the chair with a cold expression. “Is that all?” he muttered, his voice low and rough.

She nodded with that damnable grin of hers. “For now. I’ll check in on you later, but don’t try to sneak off anywhere, okay? You’ll be back in here again soon.”

He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t need her worrying about him. He didn’t need anyone.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered again, though his heart wasn’t entirely convinced of that.

Y/N sat in the bustling dining hall, the scent of warm bread and roasted meat filling the air as she absently stirred her tea. She was seated at a long wooden table with two other healers—Eira and Lillian—both of whom had been working in the palace for years. The conversation had been lighthearted at first, filled with chatter about the usual daily struggles: difficult patients, the upcoming winter solstice celebrations, and the latest gossip about court politics.

“I swear, if I have to deal with another whiny noble complaining about a bruise,” Eira sighed dramatically, dragging her spoon through her soup. “Like, Cauldron forbid they suffer an actual wound for once in their pampered lives.”

Lillian chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, please. The nobles are nothing compared to the warriors. Those brutes act as if they don’t need healers. I had to physically restrain one the other day just to keep him from walking off mid-stitching.”

Y/N hummed in agreement, sipping her tea, until Eira suddenly turned to her with a smirk. “Speaking of stubborn warriors… I still can’t believe you were the one chosen to heal the High Lord.”

Y/N nearly choked on her tea. She coughed, placing her cup down carefully, trying to appear unaffected. “Oh, well. I am a master healer, after all,” she said, waving a hand as if it was no big deal. “It’s just my job.”

Lillian snorted. “Just your job? Please. Do you know how many of us would kill to be in your position? The High Lord of Winter, alone, in his chambers, letting you touch him?”

Y/N stiffened. “It’s not like that.”

Eira sighed dreamily. “Gods, I would give anything to see him up close and personal. Just once.”

Lillian nudged her playfully. “Oh, don’t act like you’d be able to do anything if you were chosen. You’d probably faint the moment he looked at you.”

“Excuse me,” Eira said with mock offense. “I would not faint. I’d just… appreciate the moment. His eyes, his voice… that body.”

Lillian let out a snicker. “And his temperament?”

Eira winced. “Okay, fair point.”

Y/N stayed silent, feeling an unusual warmth creep up her neck. She had never been the shy type—she could hold her own in any conversation, throw sarcasm and wit as easily as she wielded her healing magic—but there was something about the way they were talking about Kallias that made her… uncomfortable.

“I heard he hates everyone anyway,” Lillian added after a pause, leaning in slightly. “There was even a rumor once that he probably doesn’t have a mate because of how distant he is.”

Eira hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, I mean… I can’t imagine him actually loving someone. He’s like an icicle brought to life. No warmth, no softness. Just duty and power.”

Lillian nodded. “Exactly. It’s like… he was made to rule, not to love.”

Y/N remained silent, staring at her untouched plate of food, her thoughts a tangled mess.

She had only known Kallias for a short while—had only spent a few hours in his presence, really—but something about what they were saying didn’t sit right with her.

Yes, he was cold. Yes, he was distant. But there was something else beneath that icy exterior. Something she couldn’t quite place. A weight he carried, a loneliness he hid behind sharp words and an even sharper gaze.

She thought about the way he had looked at her earlier, how he had reacted to her presence, how his irritation had flickered into something else before he had swiftly buried it away.

She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care.

And yet…

“…Y/N?”

She blinked, realizing that Lillian and Eira were both staring at her, waiting for a response.

“Oh,” she said quickly, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I suppose he is quite the mystery.”

Lillian shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll get an answer to that mystery.”

Eira scoffed. “Unlikely. The High Lord doesn’t let anyone close enough to find out.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her cup as her mind continued to swirl with thoughts she definitelyshould not be having.

By now, she really shouldn’t have been surprised.

And yet, when she stepped into Kallias’ chambers only to find them empty once more, a frustrated sigh tore from her throat before she could stop it.

Cauldron damn him.

She had explicitly told him to rest. He had agreed—or at least hadn’t argued against her orders when she’d last left him. And yet, here she was, standing in an empty bedroom, staring at the neatly made bed that had very obviously not been used.

Her thoughts churned as she whirled around and stormed out, flagging down the first passing servant she could find. “Where is he?” she demanded, not even bothering with pleasantries.

The servant, a young fae male, blinked at her in surprise. “Who, my lady?”

She narrowed her eyes. “The High Lord,” she said through gritted teeth, though she was this close to just calling him that infuriating man who refuses to listen to basic healing instructions.

The servant quickly dipped his head in respect. “He’s in his study, my lady.”

The tension in her shoulders eased—just slightly. At least he wasn’t outside aggravating his injury further. She nodded in thanks before making her way toward the study, still brimming with frustration.

By the time she reached the grand doors, she had almost convinced herself to be patient. Almost.

But the moment she stepped inside, the cool, indifferent voice that greeted her immediately shattered whatever patience she had managed to gather.

“Another checkup?”

Kallias didn’t even look at her as he spoke. His attention remained fixed on the papers in front of him, a single candle casting flickering shadows over his sharp features.

Y/N’s irritation flared all over again. “Well, it’s not like I enjoy chasing after you across this entire palace just to make sure you haven’t bled out somewhere,” she snapped, shutting the door behind her. “But seeing as someone is incapable of following simple instructions—”

She marched closer, and it was only then that she noticed what he was doing. His fingers were smudged with ink, an elegant quill in hand as he moved it across parchment in sharp, fluid strokes. He was writing something—letters, perhaps, or reports. His focus was unwavering, the crease between his brows deep with concentration.

“And what are you even doing here?” she went on, glancing at the neatly stacked piles of paper surrounding him. “Shouldn’t you be resting? I mean, really, you barely listen to anything I—”

She stopped mid-rant, her hands already moving on their own. Before he could protest, she reached forward and gently lifted the hem of his shirt just enough to check his wound.

A quick glance told her that, despite his recklessness, the injury hadn’t worsened. The healing process was slow, but steady. Still, she muttered under her breath as she pulled out the soothing balm she had brought with her, rubbing a generous amount between her fingers before applying it to his skin.

She could feel the way his muscles tensed slightly under her touch, but he didn’t say a word. Didn’t react. Just sat there, the same cold, indifferent mask on his face.

Fine. If he wasn’t going to talk, she would talk enough for the both of them.

“You know, most people actually listen to their healers,” she grumbled as she worked. “Most people don’t make their healer’s job ten times harder by actively ignoring the most basic instructions.”

Silence.

She huffed. “At this point, I should start charging extra for how much trouble you’re putting me through.”

Still, nothing.

She narrowed her eyes, pausing for a moment to glance up at his face. “Are you always this difficult, or do you just save it for me?”

That earned her a flicker of something in his eyes, but he still said nothing.

She sighed dramatically. “You know, a normal person would at least say thank you for all this.”

His only response was an unimpressed glance.

Y/N rolled her eyes and finished up, wiping her hands on a spare cloth before gathering her things.

“There,” she said, standing up and dusting off her hands. “You’re good for tonight. Try to actually stay put this time.”

She turned toward the door, ready to leave and get some well-earned rest, when—

“…Is it true you have no mate?”

The words were out before she could stop them.

Y/N froze.

Cauldron damn her mouth.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turned back around—just in time to see Kallias’ head slowly lift. His eyes locked onto hers, cold and unreadable, as one elegant brow arched ever so slightly.

She went scarlet.

“I—I mean—” She let out a nervous laugh, waving her hands in front of her. “Not that it’s any of my business! It’s just—um—I heard something, and I didn’t mean to say it out loud but then my mouth just—”

She saw the sharp way his jaw tightened, the way his expression became even icier, and she instantly knew she had made a grave mistake.

“Leave.”

Her breath caught. “I—sorry?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Instead of asking questions that don’t concern you in the tiniest bit,” he said, his voice like cutting ice, “do me a great favor by excusing yourself.”

Oh.

Oh, she really screwed up.

Her heart pounded as she quickly bowed her head. “Of course. I—my apologies, my lord. I didn’t mean—”

“Leave,” he repeated, his voice final.

She didn’t need to be told again.

Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and all but fled the study, cursing herself all the way down the dimly lit hallways.

It was two days later when the harsh blizzard finally descended upon the Winter Court. It wasn’t unusual—if anything, it was tradition. Towards the end of each year, without fail, the worst storm of the season would roll in, blanketing the land in thick, unforgiving snow. A storm that lasted precisely three days, as if the Winter Court itself abided by a law older than time.

For most, this meant retreating into the warmth of their homes, waiting out the storm beside crackling hearths, wrapped in thick furs with a cup of steaming tea in hand. For Y/N and the rest of the healers, however, it was hell.

The worst time of the year.

Unlike the palace, the healers’ ward was situated a little away from the main estate, standing separately within the court’s walls. Usually, it wasn’t a problem. The short walk from the palace to the ward was a simple, if not refreshing, journey. But during this storm? It was nothing short of a nightmare.

The winds howled like raging beasts, slicing through even the thickest of layers. The snow came down in sheets, covering everything in sight, and with each gust of wind, it felt as if the world itself were screaming. And Y/N—idiot that she was—had to trek through this chaos twice a day.

For the past two days, she had been cursing everything and everyone—including herself. Because despite the storm, despite the fact that she could barely see two feet in front of her, she still found herself trudging her way to the palace. The howling winds deafened her ears, the ice clung to her skin, and she felt like she might actually die before reaching her destination.

So when she finally, finally stumbled past the palace gates, nearly collapsing against the guards stationed there, she could’ve kissed them both in gratitude.

She was frozen. A literal icicle. She barely registered the concerned murmurs of the guards before they reached for her, offering warm cloaks, offering to guide her to one of the fires so she could thaw.

She shook her head, her voice crackling with cold. “W-Where’s the High Lord?”

The guards exchanged a glance before one of them hesitantly answered. “In the sitting room, my lady.”

Y/N barely nodded before setting off, her limbs trembling as she forced herself forward. Every step felt heavy, her soaked boots dragging against the marble floors as she made her way through the palace halls.

By the time she reached the sitting room, her entire body ached—her fingers stiff, her face numb. She had half a mind to collapse right then and there, but she pushed through, willing herself to move.

Slowly, she pushed the doors open.

And there he was.

Kallias sat in one of the cushioned chairs, a book in his hand, his expression cold and unreadable. His focus remained entirely on the page before him as he turned it, his voice carrying through the room, sharp as a blade.

“I told you, Talen, I don’t want anyone coming in—”

He cut off mid-sentence.

His gaze snapped up, locking onto her, and she watched as his expression shifted—his usual coldness melting into something sharper, angrier.

Slowly, he shut his book. Set it aside.

Then, in a voice laced with fury, he asked, “Why the hell are you here?”

Y/N tried to speak, but her lips barely moved. She was so cold, her breath uneven as she forced herself to answer. “I—I had to check up on you—”

She yapped on, explaining how she had to come, how his injury needed proper tending, how—

He cut her off, stepping closer, his sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe. “In this weather?” His voice was dangerously low. “Couldn’t you have waited for the blizzard to end?”

She surprised even herself when she answered, her words quiet but firm. “I could have waited, but the injury couldn’t. If it doesn’t get treated daily, it could fester—”

A frustrated sigh left him. She watched as he turned around, striding towards a nearby chair, grabbing something before—

A thick, fur-lined blanket was thrown at her.

“Sit,” he ordered.

She blinked at him, her frozen hands clutching at the warmth now draped over her shoulders. “N-No need,” she stammered. “I just need to check—”

“Miss Y/N,” he said coolly, his eyes flashing as he moved past her, yanking the door open. “Just sit, will you?”

She clamped her mouth shut.

The servants outside barely had time to straighten before he commanded them to bring in warm tea. And then, just as quickly, he shut the door again, turning back toward her.

His gaze locked onto hers.

“Now,” he said, his voice like ice, “let’s get one thing clear, alright? You do not, ever, risk your life for me. No one does.”

Her brow furrowed. Confusion flickered across her face before something else settled in its place. Anger.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said stiffly, “but it’s my job. My duty. Your health, and the rest of our people’s health, is always my priority—”

He stepped closer.

His presence loomed over her as he looked down, his gaze cold as he cut her off.

“I don’t need your death to then be a burden on my shoulders, alright?” His words were quiet, but they were sharp, unwavering. “So keep the hero complex to yourself and stop risking your life for every damned thing or one. Includingme.”

Y/N opened her mouth, ready to snap back, but before she could, the door opened once more.

The servants entered, setting down the tray of steaming tea before stepping back.

Kallias barely spared them a glance before dismissing them with a nod.

And then, with a firm voice, he said, “Drink.”

She stared at him, bewildered.

“The checkup can wait,” he added, moving back to his seat, picking up his book once more. “You’ll do no healing if you freeze to death first.”

Silence settled between them.

Y/N sat there, the warm blanket wrapped around her, her fingers stiff as they reached for the tea.

She didn’t speak—not yet.

Instead, her mind churned with thoughts, with feelings she couldn’t quite place.

And across from her, Kallias simply turned a page in his book, as if nothing had happened at all.

The warmth seeped into her fingers first, then her limbs, then the rest of her body as she slowly nursed her tea. Each sip melted away the ice that had settled deep in her bones, thawing her from the inside out.

By the time she placed the empty cup down on the small table before her, she felt somewhat herself again.

She sighed, stretching out her fingers before rubbing some feeling back into them. Then, with a quiet exhale, she straightened and—almost like an announcement—sighed, “Alright. Let’s see how your injury is doing.”

She stood, her movements still a little stiff as she reached for her supplies. But when she turned back toward him, she nearly froze again.

Kallias was already shirtless.

Without a word, without even acknowledging her statement, he had discarded his layers, revealing the lean, sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders. The light from the nearby hearth cast shadows along his frame, emphasizing the tautness of his muscles, the pale stretch of his skin, the deep gash along his side that she had been tending to.

But he wasn’t looking at her.

His head was turned slightly to the side, his book still in his hands, his expression unreadable as he continued to read, as if this was all just routine. As if he wasn’t half-naked in the middle of a dimly lit sitting room with a woman standing behind him, staring.

Staring.

Y/N swallowed. Goddess above.

She wasn’t unused to tending injuries—far from it. She had seen countless wounds, countless bodies, countless scars in her years as a healer. But this?

This was different.

Because it was him.

And it was just them.

She forced herself to move, her boots barely making a sound against the floor as she stepped closer, her eyes flickering to the injury on his side.

It had healed well. The once-raw wound had closed significantly, no longer angry and inflamed. But it was still tender, still prone to irritation if left unchecked.

She reached out, gently pressing her fingers to the unbroken skin around the wound. His muscles tensed under her touch, a barely noticeable shift—but she felt it.

“The healing is going well,” she murmured, focusing on her work rather than the way the heat of his skin radiated beneath her fingertips. “No signs of infection. But you still need treatment for a few more days.”

He said nothing.

Didn’t even glance at her.

Only turned another page in his book.

Y/N shook her head to herself, pulling away to grab the salve from her kit. Silently, she worked, smoothing the mixture over the injury with practiced, delicate movements. And the entire time, he remained completely still—silent and composed, as if her touch, the cold ointment, the entire situation, meant nothing.

By the time she finished, she was still half-convinced she had imagined the subtle tension in his frame, the brief flicker of his fingers gripping the book tighter.

She stepped back, wiping her hands on a cloth before beginning to pack her supplies. But before she could finish—

“You’re staying in the palace tonight.”

The unexpected words cut through the quiet, and she stilled.

Blinking, she turned toward him, confused. “What?”

Finally, finally, Kallias shifted his gaze from his book, his cool, sharp eyes landing on her. “You cannot withstand another blizzard,” he said simply. “You’re not leaving.”

Her lips parted slightly. “I—no, it’s fine. I can make it back.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Are you disobeying my orders, Miss Y/N?”

The way he said it—low, quiet, unwavering—made her pulse stutter.

A test. A challenge. A command.

Her breath hitched slightly before she exhaled in defeat, her hands clenching at her sides.

“…Fine.”

Clearly satisfied, Kallias inclined his head slightly before shifting his attention back to his book. A few moments later, a quiet knock came at the door, and he barely glanced up as he said, “The servants will escort you to your quarters.”

Y/N turned, seeing one of the waiting staff standing at the entrance, head bowed.

But instead of following them, she hesitated.

Then, before she could even think about what she was doing, she turned away from the door and walked back into the room, back toward the sofa.

She sat down.

And stayed.

For the first time since she arrived, Kallias actually looked surprised.

His cold, unreadable expression flickered ever so slightly as he turned his head toward her, his brows lowering in silent question.

She settled deeper into the sofa, ignoring the clear expectation that she would leave. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him as he resumed reading.

“I figured I could ask you some questions.”

Kallias didn’t even look up. “No.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t entertain meaningless conversations.”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it’s meaningless.”

He sighed quietly, flipping a page in his book.

Unbothered, she pressed on. “How long have you been High Lord?”

Silence.

Then—

“…A while.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”

“I believe it is.”

She shook her head. “Alright, let’s try this. Were you trained for it your whole life?”

This time, there was a longer pause. Then—

“Yes.”

Progress.

She settled in further, warming her fingers against the fading heat of her tea. “And did you ever want to be something else?”

That got his attention.

For the first time since the conversation began, he glanced at her, his pale blue eyes assessing.

She held his gaze, waiting.

But after a moment, he simply turned back to his book.

Interesting.

She continued, undeterred. “I wasn’t trained to be a healer, you know.”

He didn’t respond, but she caught the way his fingers stilled slightly against the book’s spine.

“I wanted to be a scholar,” she admitted. “A historian.”

This time, his gaze flickered back to her, his expression unreadable.

“…Then why didn’t you?”

She exhaled quietly. “Because people needed me. My family, my friends, my court—they needed someone to tend to them, to make sure they lived.” She offered a small, wry smile. “So I chose healing.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, to her surprise, he murmured, “I see.”

Encouraged, she tilted her head. “And you? Did you ever want something else?”

Nothing.

She gave him a moment, then tried again. “Come on. You must’ve had some kind of dream when you were younger.”

Still, he remained silent.

She sighed dramatically. “Alright, fine. If you won’t answer that, then let’s go simpler. What’s your favorite season?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You do realize where you are, don’t you?”

She grinned slightly. “So… winter, then?”

He shot her a look but said nothing.

She decided to push a little further. “What about books? You read a lot, clearly. Do you have a favorite?”

His fingers tightened on the pages ever so slightly.

But he still didn’t answer.

Her grin widened. “Are you just refusing to speak now out of sheer stubbornness?”

No response.

She sighed again, feigning disappointment. “Fine, then. I’ll guess.”

She tapped her chin dramatically. “You seem like the type to prefer strategy books. Maybe war tactics? Or—no, wait—ancient philosophy.”

Nothing.

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t tell me you secretly enjoy romance novels.”

His sharp gaze snapped to hers.

And that was all the confirmation she needed.

A slow, delighted smile spread across her face.

“Oh,” she breathed. “You do, don’t you?”

His expression darkened. “I do not.”

She grinned. “Right. Of course. The icy, brooding High Lord of Winter doesn’t secretly read tragic love stories.”

His glare was withering. “You are insufferable.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

Still, she could see the subtle tension in his shoulders now—the faint stiffness of someone unused to being the center of such questioning.

Good.

She adjusted her position on the sofa, tilting her head again. “Alright, I’ll stop pestering you about books.”

A long exhale left his lips, as if he’d won a battle.

But then she added, “Instead, tell me about your family.”

His body went still.

That was different.

It was a shift, a crack in the cold, unaffected mask he had been wearing.

She watched as his fingers curled just slightly around the book, his shoulders stiffening—not with irritation, but with something else.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t even blink.

The tension was different this time.

And she knew, knew, she had finally pushed too far.

Before she could say another word, Kallias abruptly shut his book with a decisive snap.

“The servants will show you to your room,” he said coolly, rising to his feet. “Good night, Miss Y/N.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

But before she could protest, he was already heading toward the door, already moving past her as if the conversation had never happened.

And just before he left, his voice—quiet, controlled—echoed one last time.

“…Get some rest.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving Y/N staring after him, her mind racing with everything unsaid.

After that night—the night she had stayed in the palace—her days followed a routine.

Every afternoon, she would make the long trek from the healers’ quarters to the palace, the Winter winds biting at her skin. Every afternoon, she would be granted entrance, and every afternoon, she would find Kallias in the same spot—seated in his chair, a book in his hands, his icy demeanor never thawing.

And every afternoon, without fail, she would talk.

Not because he ever encouraged it. No, Kallias had made it very clear from the beginning that he had no interest in conversation. But that never stopped her.

She spoke of her past, of her childhood in the harsh winters of their court, of the first time she had ever seen magic and how it had terrified and mesmerized her in equal measure. She told him of her first patient, a boy who had nearly lost his hand in an accident but had left the healer’s hut grinning, whole and healed. She told him about her mother, who had always scolded her for not dressing warmly enough, and about the first time she had snuck out during a blizzard—how it had been so terrifying, so exhilarating.

Kallias never responded.

Or, at least, not in words.

He would sit there, book in hand, casting her the occasional sharp glance. When she asked him questions—How old were you when you first used magic? Did you always want to be High Lord? Do you have any hobbies besides glaring at me like I’m a pest?—he would shut her down with silence, or a curt, That is none of your concern.

Still, she pressed on.

She asked about his court, his people, his childhood. She made comments about how the palace had the most ridiculously large fireplaces she’d ever seen, about how the food was much better than what she usually had at the healers' quarters, about how he really should get a dog.

And every time, he would just look at her, cold and unimpressed.

She knew he hated it—her endless chattering, her insistence on filling the silence. But the strangest part?

He never told her to stop.

Not once.

Even when he glared, even when he shut her down, even when he looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world, he never told her to leave.

And that was enough for her to keep going.

But then—

Then the injury started healing.

And with every passing day, the realization settled heavier in her chest.

Soon, she would have no reason to see him again.

It was a ridiculous thought. This was her job. She had done this with countless patients before—treated them, helped them heal, and then moved on.

So why did the idea of moving on from this patient feel… wrong?

Why did it feel like a loss?

She tried not to dwell on it.

Instead, she continued her routine—her visits, her stories, her relentless attempts to break through the ice.

One afternoon, as she checked his wound, she found herself grinning before she even realized she was speaking.

“So,” she said lightly, wrapping fresh bandages around his torso. “Now that I’ve been tending to you for nearly three weeks, does this mean we’re best friends?”

She had meant it as a joke.

A small tease.

But when she looked up, she found his cold gaze locked onto her, unreadable.

And then—

A sharp, quiet No.

The word cut through the space between them like a blade.

And even though she had meant the question as nothing more than a playful jab, the answer—his answer—stung more than she expected.

She let out a small, breathy laugh, trying to shake off the odd ache in her chest.

“Well,” she said, forcing a smile. “That was unnecessarily harsh.”

He didn’t respond.

Of course he didn’t.

But for the first time since she had started tending to him, she found she didn’t want to keep talking.

For the first time, she wondered if she had imagined it all—if she had imagined the progress, the tiny cracks in his walls, the way he never told her to stop, the way he let her speak, even if he never contributed.

Maybe she had been a fool.

Maybe Kallias really was just as cold as everyone claimed him to be.

And maybe—just maybe—she cared more than she should.

But did that stop her? Hell no. If anything, it just encouraged her stubborn self more.

The palace glittered with ice and silver, chandeliers casting cold light across the grand ballroom. The music wove through the space like a delicate snowfall, each note crisp and elegant. Nobles in their finest attire swayed in effortless dances, their laughter and conversation blending into the background hum of aristocratic life.

She wasn’t here as a guest.

None of the healers were.

Dressed in her best gown—her only luxurious dress—she stood at the edges of the hall with the others, waiting in case their services were required. It was a simple thing, her gown. A soft, glittering silver that caught the candlelight whenever she moved. Nothing extravagant, nothing adorned with jewels like the noblewomen who glided across the floor, but beautiful in its own quiet way.

Not that it mattered.

She wasn’t here to be seen.

And yet, she still found her eyes drawn toward him.

Kallias stood at the head of the room, exuding that same untouchable air, dressed in regal white and deep winter blue. He was everything a High Lord should be—cold, composed, a vision of power and control.

It had been weeks since she had first begun tending to him. Weeks of sitting by his side, pressing salves into his skin, wrapping fresh bandages, filling the silence with stories about herself while he listened in his usual silence.

The wound was nearly healed now. Soon, she would no longer have a reason to visit him.

That thought had settled uneasily in her chest all evening, but she had shoved it away, refusing to dwell on it.

She had no reason to.

And then—

Her breath caught.

From her place near the back of the room, she watched as a noblewoman—tall, poised, with pale silver-blonde hair—approached Kallias.

And Kallias… looked at her.

Not in passing, not with the cold indifference he usually carried.

No, he took her hand.

And then, with a faint smirk—a smirk she had never seen directed at herself—he led the woman onto the dance floor.

Her world tilted.

She should have looked away. Should have turned her attention elsewhere. But she couldn’t.

She could only watch.

Watch as he placed a hand on the woman’s waist, as they moved together with effortless grace. As the world around them blurred into nothing.

It was the kind of dance meant for lovers.

Slow, intimate, a silent conversation spoken through the closeness of their bodies.

And Kallias—so often cold, so often distant—allowed it.

Welcomed it.

The realization slammed into her, sharper than any winter wind.

She felt the sting behind her eyes before she even understood what was happening.

A foolish, ridiculous pain bloomed in her chest, spreading through her like ice cracking beneath the weight of something unbearable.

It made no sense.

She had no claim over him.

No reason to feel this way.

And yet—

Why does it hurt?

The thought sent her reeling, her breathing suddenly uneven.

She needed to leave.

“I—excuse me,” she murmured, barely even aware of who she spoke to as she turned, walking swiftly out of the ballroom.

The moment she was out of sight, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

The air outside was cold, the night wind biting at her skin, but it did nothing to dull the ache in her chest.

She pressed a hand to her ribs, as if she could hold herself together.

Idiot, she cursed herself. Fool.

What did you expect?

Had she really convinced herself that these weeks had meant something?

That she had mattered to him?

A bitter laugh slipped from her lips, and she tilted her head back to the sky, blinking rapidly, forcing the tears down.

She would not cry.

Not over this.

Not over him.

And yet, the thought of facing him again tomorrow, of pressing her fingers to his skin, of pretending that none of this mattered—

It made her feel like she was unraveling.

Taking a shuddering breath, she straightened.

And then, like slipping on armor, she schooled her features into something unreadable.

The fakest, brightest smile she could muster.

Because this was who she was.

Someone who put others before herself.

She was fine.

She was fine.

She was fine.

Or at least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

Y/N sat beside Kallias once again, her hands methodically unwrapping the bandages from his injury. She had done this countless times before—press, check, apply, rewrap. But today, it felt different.

Because you’re an idiot.

The words replayed in her mind over and over again. She had barely slept the previous night, her thoughts filled with the image of Kallias on that dance floor, his hand resting so easily on that noblewoman’s waist, the way he had smirked at her.

Had he ever smirked at her?

No.

The thought shouldn’t sting, but it did.

So she did what she always did. She talked.

She talked, and talked, and talked, desperate to fill the silence, to cover up the ache in her chest.

“Oh, and did I tell you about the time I accidentally healed a sprained ankle instead of a broken rib? You should’ve seen the poor man’s face—he looked so betrayed. Honestly, I don’t blame him, but in my defense, he was very unclear about where the pain actually was, and—”

She glanced up at Kallias, expecting the usual impassive look, the distant, unreadable gaze. But instead, she found him… tense.

More so than usual.

His jaw was clenched, his shoulders taut beneath the loose fabric of his tunic. Every word she spoke seemed to wind him tighter, like a string about to snap.

She swallowed, but forced a laugh.

“Anyway, he ended up having to go to another healer because I was so embarrassed I refused to fix my mistake. You should’ve seen my mentor’s face—gods, she was furious—”

“Gods,” Kallias suddenly snapped, his voice low and rough, “do you ever shut up?!”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Kallias had risen abruptly, turning to her with a sharp, ice-cold glare. His usual controlled demeanor was gone, replaced by sheer exasperation—by anger.

“It’s always talking and talking with you,” he continued, his tone laced with venom. “You never stop to consider whether I even want to hear you talk. I tried, for the past month, I really fucking did, Miss Y/N. But I am at my tipping point with you and your useless babbling.”

Her heart stopped.

“This is it,” he bit out. “You may leave. And don’t think of coming back tomorrow because I will have another healer replace you. One that is more quiet.”

The room felt suffocating.

Her ears rang.

She just sat there, frozen, her eyes locked on his face as the words—every single one of them—settled deep into her bones, into the very marrow of her being.

Useless babbling.

Do you ever shut up?

It was like someone had taken a knife and sliced straight through her, splitting her open for the world to see.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, gaping at him like an idiot.

Her throat was so tight it physically hurt.

Then—she forced herself to move.

Forced herself to swallow down the burning sting in her chest, to keep her face as neutral as possible even though her heart felt like it had just been crushed.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, smoothing out her skirts as she bowed her head deeply.

“I… I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

She bowed lower.

“It was an honor serving you.”

And then, before she could completely break, she turned and darted out of the room.

She didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t let herself think.

Her vision blurred at the edges, but she refused to let the tears fall.

Not here.

Not now.

Gods, do you ever shut up?

She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.

And finally, when she was alone—when there was no one around to see—

She let herself break.

The new healer arrived promptly the next morning. Kallias did not bother to glance at her, merely gave a curt nod as she set down her supplies and began tending to his wound.

It was silent.

For the first time in over a month, the room held nothing but the distant crackling of the fire and the occasional sound of bandages being unwrapped. No rambling. No unnecessary commentary. No her.

Kallias exhaled slowly. This is better.

The healer finished and stepped back. “Your recovery is progressing well, my Lord. I will return at the same time tomorrow.”

He gave a dismissive nod, watching her leave.

The door clicked shut. The silence stretched on.

This is what I wanted.

He told himself that again.

Then again.

Then again.

And yet, as he sat there, the silence pressed in—thicker, heavier than it should have been.

It started with the small things.

Passing by the dining hall and hearing a burst of laughter—one that wasn’t hers. It was softer, quieter. Not the kind that filled a space effortlessly, not the kind that made his head snap up in exasperation and… something else he didn’t want to name.

Sitting in his study, book in hand, expecting an interruption that never came. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. He turned a page but read nothing. His eyes kept flicking to the door, as if expecting her to come waltzing in with some nonsense observation or another pointless story.

She never did.

The snowstorm outside raged on, swirling in thick flurries. He stared at it for a moment too long before catching himself.

She got home safely, he told himself. She must have.

And yet—

He caught himself glancing toward the healer’s wing when passing through the halls, his steps slowing despite himself. The air was always still there. Orderly. Lacking the warmth of an insufferable voice filling the space with chatter.

During court meetings, he almost—almost—looked toward the doors, expecting her to be lingering outside, waiting for his schedule to free up so she could tend to him.

But there was no one there.

And the unease settled in his chest like frost, refusing to thaw.

Five days passed. His wound was nearly healed.

The new healer was efficient, competent. There was nothing wrong with her work.

And yet—

Kallias tensed when she touched his arm, entirely too aware that it was the wrong hands. The wrong voice telling him his recovery was progressing well. The wrong presence in the room, one that did not fill the silence the way she had.

The healer worked quickly, adjusting the bandages with careful precision. He barely felt it. She was gentle—too gentle. Measured in a way that did not demand his attention, did not poke and prod at the edges of his patience with endless chatter.

He should have been grateful.

Instead, he clenched his jaw.

The healer hesitated slightly, sensing his stiffness. She withdrew her hands and stepped back, lowering her head.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” she said softly.

It was polite. Respectful. Exactly as a healer should address him.

But it wasn’t her.

The realization struck deeper than it should have. He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulder once as if testing the strength in it. Almost healed. Soon, there would be no need for a healer at all. No reason for anyone to linger in his chambers, filling the space with warmth and words he had never asked for.

For the first time since that night, the truth slithered into his mind like a sharp-edged blade.

I should not have sent her away.

Kallias moved through the days in a way that should have been normal. Should have been routine.

Except nothing felt normal.

Nothing felt right.

He told himself it was better this way. That the quiet was long overdue. That his chambers, his halls, his life had returned to the way they were meant to be—undisturbed, controlled, peaceful.

And yet—

When passing through the halls, his gaze flickered toward the healers' wing more often than he cared to admit. It was instinct, unconscious, a part of him still expecting—hoping—to see her. To catch a glimpse of her moving between rooms, head held high, determination set in her every step.

He did not linger. Would not. But the urge to was there.

During court meetings, when his mind drifted for even a second too long, his lips nearly shaped her name by mistake. He caught himself just in time, swallowing the slip before anyone noticed.

But he noticed.

The weight of it settled in his chest, unwelcome and unrelenting.

It was not just a passing thought. Not just a moment of fleeting habit.

He was thinking about her.

Too much.

Far too much.

And that was the most dangerous realization of all.

The ball was in full swing.

Laughter, conversation, and music wove through the grand hall, filling it with warmth and life. Goblets clinked, skirts swayed, gloved hands brushed in elegant passes across the dance floor. It was a celebration, a night of indulgence and revelry.

Kallias barely heard any of it.

His eyes drifted—automatically—to the corner where the healers usually stood on standby, their presence a mere formality.

She was not there.

She should not have been there. There was no reason for her to be present. And yet, something in him had expected her, had searched for her, had been waiting to catch a glimpse of silver and frost.

His jaw clenched as he forced his gaze away. It does not matter.

He did not care.

But when a noblewoman approached, hand brushing his arm in polite greeting, he nearly flinched. The light, easy conversation around him faded to a distant hum, drowned out by the weight settling in his chest.

When someone spoke to him, he did not hear them.

When a toast was raised, he did not lift his goblet.

And when he caught himself looking toward that corner again, some stubborn, unwelcome part of him refused to let go of the hollow absence he found there.

The music swelled, laughter rang out, and yet—

With quiet, shattering finality, the truth settled in.

He had made a mistake.

A grave one.

And now, he did not know if it was one he could ever undo.

Kallias did not look for her.

That’s what he told himself, at least.

Yet, somehow, his feet carried him toward the healers' wing more often than before. A habit, he reasoned. He had spent a month there—of course, it made sense that his body still followed the familiar route.

And yet, every time he passed by, he felt it. The wrongness.

The quiet was different now. Not the comforting kind, but the hollow, lacking kind. He found himself listening, waiting—for what, he did not allow himself to answer. But the realization always came in the same, bitter way: she was not there.

He should not have cared.

And yet, one day, he caught a conversation between two healers in the hall.

"She’s been taking on extra shifts in the lower wing."

"I heard she even requested to transfer out of the palace soon."

The words nearly made him stop in his tracks. Leaving the palace? The thought sent an unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation curling through his chest.

But he forced himself forward, forced himself not to react.

She was free to do as she pleased. He had dismissed her. Pushed her away. He had wanted peace, had wanted her endless talking to stop, and now he had exactly that.

So why did it feel like he had carved something out of himself in the process?

The court had begun to notice.

Kallias was sharper these days. Impatient. The weight of his words heavier, his glares colder. The council meetings, the daily court affairs—none of it held his focus the way it should have.

The worst part?

It had been days since he had last spoken to her, and yet she was everywhere.

A joke someone made at a meeting—something ridiculous, something lighthearted. He had almost glanced toward where she should have been, where she would have been grinning at him with that look in her eyes, waiting for his reaction.

She was not there.

She would never be there again.

When the letter arrived, Y/N almost didn’t open it.

A small, plain envelope had been slipped beneath her door, its presence silent but insistent.

She stared at it for a moment, unease curling in her stomach. No messenger had knocked. No one had called for her directly. Just this—this single piece of parchment, waiting for her to acknowledge it.

Slowly, she picked it up, feeling the weight of it in her hands before breaking the seal.

The message inside was brief, written in a careful, deliberate hand.

Your expertise is needed in the royal gardens. Do not delay.

No name. No explanation.

Y/N frowned. Healers were rarely summoned without specifics. If someone had been injured, there would have been details—a location, a name, something.

And the gardens? At this hour?

It made no sense.

Her first instinct was to ignore it. To toss the letter aside and stay where she was, safe within the walls of the healers’ quarters.

But—

What if it was real?

What if someone did need her?

The doubt, the nagging uncertainty, was enough to push her into action.

So, she wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders, braced herself against the cold, and stepped into the night.

The gardens were empty.

Silent. Still.

A frown pulled at her lips as she stepped further in, glancing around for any sign of movement. No one was here. No patient. No suffering figure waiting for aid.

She exhaled sharply.

This was a mistake.

She turned on her heel, ready to leave—

"Wait."

The voice—deep, familiar, unmistakable—halted her steps.

Her breath caught. She did not turn around.

A part of her screamed to flee, to walk away, to pretend she had never come here in the first place. But her feet remained rooted to the ground, her hands clenching into fists.

She knew that voice.

And she hated that she still recognized it so easily.

"Please."

Not an order. A request.

She swallowed hard as she heard the quiet crunch of boots on gravel. Slow, measured steps.

He was moving—around her, toward her.

She could have walked away. Should have. But she didn’t.

And then—

His chest was right in front of her.

Her eyes stayed fixed on his tunic, on the rise and fall of his breathing. She did not dare look up.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Then—

"I regret it."

The words were rough, like they had been torn from him unwillingly. As if they hurt to say.

She said nothing.

"I was cruel," he continued, voice tight. "I—" A sharp exhale. "I should not have spoken to you that way. I should not have sent you away."

Still, she did not speak.

He shifted, uneasy. Kallias, the untouchable. The untouchable, now desperate for words.

"I am not—", he hesitated, his voice quieter now. "I am not accustomed to...to this."

She finally looked up.

His eyes—icy blue, usually so cold, so distant—held something else now. Something raw, something unguarded.

She could forgive him. Right now, she could let it go. She could tell him it was alright, that she would return, that all was well—

But it would be a lie.

A bitter, burning rage stirred in her chest.

"No."

One word. Sharp, final.

Kallias’s brows pulled together, as if he had not expected the rejection.

Good.

"No?" His voice was measured, but she could see the tension in his jaw.

She stepped back, just enough to breathe.

"Do you even understand?" she demanded, voice trembling with frustration. "Do you understand what you did to me?"

His expression darkened slightly, but he said nothing.

So she let the words spill out.

"You humiliated me. You made me feel—like I was nothing. Like I was annoying, like I was some burden that you just had to tolerate." She shook her head. "I served you. I cared for you. And you threw me aside like I was disposable."

Silence.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t excuse himself.

Instead, after a long, agonizing pause, he said—

"I know."

She faltered.

"I know," he repeated, his voice quieter now. "And I am...trying." He exhaled. "Tell me what I must do to make this right."

She studied him carefully.

He was genuine. Perhaps clumsy in his attempt, hesitant in his words, but genuine.

Still—

"I want actions, my Lord."

He stiffened slightly at the title.

"Not words."

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Kallias."

She blinked.

"What?"

"Call me Kallias."

His voice was quiet, almost pleading.

Hesitantly, barely above a whisper—

"Kallias."

His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, as if he was reliving something.

But she did not let him sink into it for long.

Her voice cut through the night, sharp and cold.

"I want you to prove your sincerity to me, Kallias."

His eyes snapped open.

"Only then may I consider forgiving you."

And before he could say another word, she turned sharply on her heel, moving to leave—

Only to pause at the last second.

She spun back around, meeting his gaze with one last piercing look.

"Oh." She tilted her head. "You only have two weeks."

His lips parted slightly.

"I will be leaving after that."

And before he could argue, before he could try to stop her, she disappeared into the night, leaving Kallias alone in the garden, the weight of her ultimatum pressing down on him like an unforgiving storm.

Kallias did not seek her out again the next day. Or the day after.

But something had shifted.

At first, it was subtle.

When Y/N entered the healers' ward one morning, she nearly tripped over a stack of wooden crates lined neatly by the entrance. Frowning, she crouched down, fingers trailing over the stamped sigil on the side. The insignia of the Winter Court’s official supply chains.

Inside, she found expensive salves imported from distant courts, fresh linens, new sets of surgical tools wrapped in pristine cloth. Even additional firewood to warm the rooms as the cold deepened.

Her fingers curled over the edge of one of the crates.

They had needed these supplies for months. Had been told there were delays, that their requests were lower priority than the military or the palace.

Yet now, all at once, they had everything they had asked for.

Y/N’s eyes darkened.

This was not a coincidence.

She turned sharply, scanning the ward, looking for the head healer. “Who brought these?”

The older healer glanced up from her records, expression tired but pleased. “An order came from the palace. Directly from the High Lord himself.”

Y/N’s chest went tight.

She said nothing as she turned back toward the crates.

This was not an apology. This was not a request for forgiveness.

This was something else entirely.

The second time, she saw it.

She had been passing through the main halls of the ward when a flicker of white caught her eye beyond the archway leading into one of the recovery rooms.

She stopped.

Through the partially open door, Kallias stood before the head healer.

And he was listening.

Not speaking, not giving orders, not ensuring his presence dominated the space.

But listening.

His arms were crossed, posture rigid as always, but his brows were furrowed in concentration as the head healer spoke. Her words were quiet but firm, explaining in detail what the ward required—not only in supplies but in structure. How they needed more hands, how the new allocation of funds should be distributed, how the growing needs of the people could not be ignored.

Kallias did not interrupt. He did not challenge her. He simply nodded once, asked something in return, and listened again.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

This was not for her.

This was not a calculated move meant to draw her back in.

She swallowed hard and turned away before she could hear more.

Then, that night—

It was late. Too late for anyone to be awake.

Y/N had been tending to a restless patient, checking their fever one last time before slipping out of the ward’s main rooms. The halls were quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights.

But then—

A voice. Low and quiet, nearly swallowed by the silence.

“… I was cruel to her.”

Y/N froze mid-step.

It was Kallias.

She pressed herself against the wall just beyond the archway.

“She did not deserve it,” he continued, his voice wrong somehow—too raw, too open. “And I do not know if I can fix it.”

A pause. A long, heavy pause.

Then, another voice—low and steady, belonging to one of his closest advisors. “You wounded her deeply, my lord. That will not be undone with gestures alone.”

A sharp inhale. “I know.”

Something in his tone made Y/N’s stomach tighten.

The advisor exhaled slowly. “Then what is it that you want?”

A longer silence.

And then, so softly she barely heard it—

“… I want her to stay.”

Y/N gripped the fabric of her sleeve.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, breath coming a little too fast.

She did not stay to hear more.

She turned and left, barely aware of her own steps.

Because for the first time, a sliver of doubt crept into her anger.

Maybe, just maybe… he truly meant it.

The knock was soft but firm, barely audible over the crackling of the fire in the corner.

Y/N frowned, setting down the bandages she had been carefully sorting. It was late—too late for anyone to be delivering messages.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing a young servant girl clutching a bundle of parchment to her chest. She hesitated in the doorway, cheeks pink from the cold. “These are for you, healer.”

Y/N wiped her hands on her apron before taking the pages. “Who sent them?”

The girl only dipped her head. “I don’t know, my lady. I was just told to bring them to you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly but nodded in dismissal. The girl quickly turned and left, closing the door behind her.

Silence settled over the room once more as Y/N sat at the small wooden table, smoothing out the stack of documents.

Her gaze flicked over the first page—and then she went very still.

It was a funding request. Her funding request.

One she had sent months ago, listing all the resources the healers' ward desperately needed—better equipment, fresh linens, a steady supply of medicine for the winter months.

Her fingers tightened around the parchment.

She flipped to the next page. Another request—approved. Then another. And another.

She inhaled sharply, flipping through the entire bundle with growing urgency.

Every single one of them.

Approved.

Stamped with the official Winter Court seal.

Her heart pounded against her ribs.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t how these things worked. Approvals took months, often years. The process was slow, tedious. But this—this had been done overnight.

A pit formed in her stomach.

And then, at the bottom of the last document, she saw it.

A single note.

Elegant, precise handwriting.

You will have everything you need.

No signature.

None was needed.

She knew who had done this.

Knew exactly whose hand had made this happen.

Kallias.

Y/N set the parchment down carefully, staring at it for a long, long moment.

She should have felt relieved. She did feel relieved. This was everything she had fought for, everything she had begged the court to consider.

And yet—

Her fingers curled into a fist.

Because this wasn’t just a gesture. It wasn’t just aid.

It was him.

Trying.

Fixing things.

For her.

She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her temple.

This was not what she had expected.

Not what she had wanted.

Because now—

Now she had to ask herself a dangerous question.

Was she still angry at him?

Or was she just afraid to let go of the anger?

She should have ignored it.

Should have ignored him.

But when she entered the ward that evening, she saw him.

Kallias stood at the far end of the room, speaking to a young healer. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture as regal and composed as ever—but he was listening.

He was learning.

For a long moment, she just… watched.

Then, before she could stop herself, she turned and walked in his direction.

Their eyes met.

The conversation around them faded.

His lips parted slightly, as if about to speak.

She did not let him.

Instead, she brushed past him, deliberately distant, and kept walking.

But something in his gaze, in the way he looked at her, stuck with her long after she was gone.

She found a small package by her bedside that morning.

Inside—

A pair of gloves.

Finely made, lined with soft fur, enchanted to keep her hands warm even in the coldest temperatures.

She swallowed hard.

She should not accept it.

And yet, later that evening, when she stepped outside into the snow, she wore them.

She returned to her chambers late that evening, exhausted.

And nearly tripped over another package.

This time, it was books.

Her breath caught as she picked up the first one, fingers running over the leather binding. Medical texts. Some of them rare, some of them from distant courts. Books she had wanted, but could never afford.

She exhaled sharply, gripping the book tighter.

She should not have opened them.

Should have ignored them entirely.

But that night, she sat by the fire, book in hand, and read until the candles burned low.

The palace gardens were covered in frost when she passed through them, heading toward the ward.

And then—

A presence behind her.

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

He didn’t speak at first. Just walked beside her, their steps crunching against the frozen ground.

Finally, after a long silence—

“You wore the gloves.”

Her fingers twitched.

She exhaled slowly, watching her breath curl in the cold air.

Then, quietly—“Yes.”

He didn’t say anything more.

But for the first time in weeks, they walked side by side, no longer strangers.

Y/N had been walking through the palace gardens, checking on some of the herbs they had been growing for future treatments. A gust of wind chilled her, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her, turning to head back inside.

The sky had darkened ominously as thick clouds rolled in. Within moments, the wind had escalated into something more furious, rattling the palace windows and sending the trees into a wild dance. The storm was coming.

As Y/N approached the palace entrance, ready to make her way back to the healers’ ward, a sudden calm washed over her. The wind stopped. The heavy air, so oppressive moments ago, suddenly felt lighter. The storm outside, now loud and angry, remained locked in the distance as if the walls of the palace itself were holding it back.

Her footsteps slowed as she glanced around in confusion. She felt… strange. Like something was different.

A deep, familiar voice broke the silence, and she turned.

Kallias stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes fully. His gaze held a quiet intensity.

“You... you stopped it?” Y/N asked, blinking.

“The storm? Yes,” Kallias replied, stepping closer. “It seemed fitting. You should not have to endure the chaos of the world when you are already fighting your own battles.”

Y/N glanced around. The stillness was almost eerie, the absence of wind and thunder filling the space between them.

“You—this is… too much, Kallias.” Her voice faltered, unsure of what to make of the sudden shift in his demeanor.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured, but the weight of it hung in the air. “I just wanted to give you peace. To show you that you don’t always have to face the storm alone.”

Her chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, but she said nothing more, lost in the quiet beauty of the moment.

The storm raged outside, but here, in this small, still bubble, there was only calm.

Y/N had spent her evening sorting through medicinal herbs when a knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it to find a small basket of flowers waiting on the doorstep, along with a note.

I thought you might like something fresh.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Kallias.

Curious, Y/N made her way to the designated location that evening, a part of the palace gardens she had never taken the time to visit before. She had always assumed it was just an old, neglected corner, left to decay.

As she approached the garden’s entrance, she felt something shift. The air felt warmer, and she noticed a soft, faint glow just beyond the archway. The entrance was framed with vines and wildflowers in full bloom, each one shining as if touched by magic.

She stepped inside, eyes wide in awe.

The space had transformed. Where there had been an overgrown, abandoned patch of earth, now there was a garden in full bloom. Trees heavy with fruit glistened under the moonlight, their leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Every flower seemed to dance in the cool night air. The place was alive, vibrant.

Y/N turned slowly, meeting Kallias’ gaze in the center of the garden. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his presence commanding yet gentle in this new, serene environment.

“You did all of this?” she asked, breathless.

“Not all of it,” Kallias replied with a quiet smile. “But I thought it might be a place you could call your own. A place where you can find peace, when the rest of the world is too much.”

Her eyes lingered on him. “Why? After all the damage…”

His smile faltered for a brief moment, but he held her gaze.

“Because I owe you that much. I owe you more than that.”

The space between them seemed to narrow, the moment stretching as he waited for her response.

“I—thank you,” she whispered, almost unable to speak at the beauty of it all, but more so at the sincerity behind his words.

Y/N had been on edge all day. The tension had been building in the air, the weight of the impending departure pressing on her chest. Each moment, every encounter with Kallias, had felt more and more charged with something she couldn’t place. She had tried to ignore it, but it was becoming harder.

When the note appeared—unsigned, as usual—her heart had skipped a beat.

Meet me at the edge of the northern terrace. There is something you must see.

She couldn’t ignore it. Not this time.

With a mix of reluctance and curiosity swirling in her chest, she donned her cloak, its fabric brushing softly against the stone floors as she made her way to the northern terrace. Her footsteps were steady, yet something inside her fluttered, as if she was walking toward a moment that could change everything.

When she reached the edge of the palace grounds, the familiar sight of Kallias waiting for her did not disappoint. He stood near the stone railing, facing the horizon, but something in the air felt different. A quiet intensity lingered, something almost tangible, weaving between them without a word spoken.

Y/N hesitated, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. “Kallias,” she said, her voice soft but steady, “You’ve… been waiting for me?”

He didn’t turn to her immediately. Instead, he stood there for a long moment, as though savoring the distance between them. And then, finally, he spoke.

“Always.” His voice was quiet, deeper than usual, a note of something almost raw underneath. “Always.”

She felt the air around her shift. Not just the cool evening breeze, but something else—something electric, something that had been building for days. But she didn’t know what it was, nor did she have time to think about it as she stood there, facing the man who had changed everything she thought she knew about forgiveness, about trust, about herself.

The moment stretched, and then, without warning, the ground beneath their feet trembled ever so slightly. Y/N looked up instinctively, her breath catching in her throat.

And then, the sky exploded.

The northern lights. They burst to life in the heavens above them, spreading across the canvas of the night with an intensity that took her breath away. The lights shimmered in vivid shades of green, violet, and gold, swirling and twirling like a dance, as though the stars themselves had come alive. The air around them hummed with magic.

But it wasn’t just the lights. The stars above, too, seemed to rearrange themselves, forming patterns she had never seen before—constellations that were new, foreign, like they were being painted just for her, just for this moment. The lights stretched farther, brighter, glowing in every direction, encircling them, filling the sky with a breathtaking display of color and light.

She couldn’t take her eyes off of it. It was impossible. It felt as if the universe itself had shifted, bending and molding the world around her, all for this one instant.

And in that moment, Kallias finally turned to her. His face was bathed in the soft glow of the lights, but it was his eyes that caught her attention. His eyes, dark and stormy just days ago, now held something vulnerable—something sincere.

“I thought… if I could show you something beautiful,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper over the hum of the magic, “something just for you, you might understand that I’m trying.” His gaze softened. “I’m trying, Y/N.”

Y/N felt something inside her stir—a warmth, a flicker of hope, that she hadn’t felt in so long. Her chest tightened as she looked at him, the storm of conflicting emotions within her slowly beginning to settle.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the air itself held its breath. “I—” She didn’t know what to say. How could she? He had given her the impossible—an entire sky lit up just for her.

“I do,” he said, stepping closer. “I do have to try. I have to make you see that I regret everything. All of it. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to prove that to you.”

His words hit her like a wave, and for a long moment, she couldn’t speak. The magic in the sky above them seemed to intensify, swirling faster, becoming more vivid as if responding to his words. The aurora painted the sky with such beauty that it was almost overwhelming, a brilliant tapestry that filled the night.

Y/N’s hand trembled as she reached out toward the sky, the shimmering colors reflected in her eyes. “How… how did you do this?”

His hand, almost without thinking, reached for hers. His touch was gentle, his fingers brushing against hers like he was afraid to break the moment.

“I have my ways,” Kallias said with a small, self-deprecating smile. “But it’s nothing compared to the things I should have done for you.”

Y/N turned to him, and for the first time, she really looked at him. The man who had tried to push her away. The man who had hurt her. But also the man who was here, standing before her, now pouring all his regret and all his hope into this one gesture.

“You’ve done enough,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, as she took another step closer to him. “This… this is enough.”

He was so close now, she could feel his warmth, his presence enveloping her, the faintest trace of his breath on her cheek.

The night sky seemed to fade into the background, the northern lights themselves dimming just enough for them to focus on each other. And in the silence, with the magic of the world swirling around them, Kallias leaned in, just barely, his voice a hushed murmur.

“Y/N… I’m not asking you to forgive me. Not yet. But I want to earn it. I want to prove to you that I am worthy of your trust.”

For the first time, Y/N didn’t feel the need to pull away, didn’t feel the walls she had spent so long building. She was still scared, still uncertain of the future, but something inside her softened—something that had been hard and bitter for so long.

“I’m still not sure if I can forgive you,” she whispered, the vulnerability in her voice almost shocking. “But… I want to try.”

Kallias smiled then, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “That’s all I can ask for.”

And as the northern lights swirled around them, filling the sky with a breathtaking, magical glow, they stood there together—two souls caught in the same moment, a moment of tentative hope, of second chances.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—there was something worth believing in again.

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Taglist: @slytherin-pen @buttpoltergeist @tooexhaustedsstuff @aliceinwondwonderland

[moonstruckme]

hiiiii mae. I was re-reading thawing out and I'm curious if you've ever considered writing about Sirius & reader getting Remus back out on the ice again? I feel like it has real cute and fluffy potential. love all that you do! <3

Thank you for requesting! I've been looking forward to this milestone for them for so long :')

Read the Thawing Out series here

cw: modern au, chronic pain references, some anxiety caused by traumatic events

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

It was your idea to do this outside of the rink. You notice things that Sirius doesn’t, and you’d noticed that as much as Remus feels at home with the boards and the bleachers and hum of the Zamboni, they intimidate him too. So, you’re taking advantage of a cold Saturday to utilize the outdoors. 

Sirius frowns, spinning an idle circle on his blade. “This ice is shit.” 

“You’re just spoiled,” you counter, still lacing up your skates with Remus. You’ve slowed your pace to match him, whereas Sirius had laced up quick as always and gone out into the small rink without a second thought. Another way you’re simply better than him. 

To his credit, Remus doesn’t seem to be stalling. He tried talking you both out of this on a couple of occasions, saying that it wasn’t worth your time, you were giving it more importance than it was due, etc., but now that he’s here he simply seems to be taking a methodical pace. Preparing himself. Sirius can grant him this, considering he hasn’t had skates on his feet since his injury nearly three years ago. 

“Would you call a swimmer picky for wanting a properly chlorinated pool?” 

“Yes.” 

Remus glances over at you, that particular smile he reserves for your obstinance gracing his lips. Sirius’ heart melts a little. 

“Then fine. I’m picky. Just be careful, both of you. I’m telling you, this ice is truly—” 

“I know how to skate on unsmoothed ice.” You cut him off with a look. There’s fondness buried beneath it, and Sirius narrows his eyes back playfully as you knot your laces and stand up. “So does Remus.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Remus jokes. He stands with you, though, letting you onto the ice first. 

Sirius can see the hesitance in your boyfriend now. That bit of nervousness Remus is trying to ignore. The awareness of it balls up tight and uncomfortable in his chest. 

“Awe,” Sirius croons with overdone patronage, skating to a stop a few feet away from the entrance, “are we not sure? We’ll do it like with the littles then, darling.” He bends and pats his knees, making a show of it. “Come on, come to me.” 

Remus snorts and sets one foot on the ice. “Piss off.” 

That one foot is all it takes. Remus pushes off with practiced ease, gliding into the rink. Sirius beams. 

You look equally as awestruck, your eyes so brimming with love and joy they almost hurt to look at. 

“Well, would you look at that,” Sirius says, “he does know how to skate on shit ice. Give us a spin, handsome.” 

“I’m not your show pony,” Remus says, but spins nonetheless. It’s simple, and yet so incredibly graceful. So obviously second nature. 

“Remus.” You seem to have given up any hope of trying to play it cool, your voice shining with barely repressed glee. “That was so perfect.” 

Remus is doing a similarly poor job of repressing his own smile, though he only tsks. “If either of you did a spin like that, I’d make you redo it three times and then add a jump so you didn’t embarrass yourselves.” 

Sirius crosses his arms, nodding. “Go on, then.” 

It’s clear that Remus is happy to do it. He’s cautious for a while, testing his own limits as he adds complexities and small jumps and tries out different variations. Ordinarily Sirius might worry for his hip, but Remus has been especially diligent in his stretching in preparation for just this; and whenever he seemed inclined to skip it, you or Sirius were there to pester him (lovingly, of course).

Sirius’ heart swells to the point of bursting at how beautiful Remus looks. His posture shifts to accommodate the new range of movement, his arms coming out almost unconsciously, with a dancer’s grace. Sirius is well used to the symphony of skates on ice, but Remus’ have their own melody, their own beat and cadence. Even his face changes, the tension fading from his expression until it’s at once relaxed and utterly present. Remus was made for this. 

You and Sirius don’t do anything but watch, rapt. After a while, Remus seems to get sick of his audience, coming to a reluctant stop. His cheeks are pink from the cold and exertion—Sirius wants to cover them with both hands and kiss him dizzy—but Remus’ expression shifts when he looks at you. 

He lets out a breathy, nervous chuckle. “Sweetheart…?” 

Sirius turns, and your lips are pressed together, your eyes bright. “Sorry,” you say, giving a wobbly smile, “you’re just—Remus, you’re so lovely.” 

“Oh, you sop.” Sirius curls an arm around you, kissing your head. “Stop that.” 

“I’m sorry.” You laugh at yourself. Swipe away a tear that manages to escape. 

Sirius tuts. “Look what you’ve done,” he says to Remus, who appears caught between shock and fondness, his mouth hanging slightly open. “She’s completely right, you know. You’re too lovely; it’s torment for us both.” 

“You…” Remus shakes his head. He’s delightfully flushed now, nearly to the tips of his ears. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea to do this, though.” 

“No, but you sure do seem to be enjoying yourself now, don’t you? Come here.” 

To his surprise, Remus actually comes. Sirius is elated; rarely does he get to be this demanding with such gratifying results. 

He lets you go to take both of Remus' pink, hot cheeks in his hands, and plants a firm kiss on his lips. 

“Thank you,” he says, grinning. “Now, stop our poor girl’s crying by skating with her, please.” 

It’s not done before several kisses, but soon you and Remus are in the center of the rink, twining around each other like snowflakes in the wind. You and Sirius take turns teaching Remus the sorts of lifts and jumps he wouldn’t have learned in his solo career. Sirius can’t decide which he likes best; the up-close view of Remus’ face as the world whirls around them and Remus’ hand folds warmly around his, or getting to admire the two of you from the edge of the rink. He thinks more practice will be necessary to determine this. Much, much more practice. 

Sirius’ nose is near frozen by the time you decide to call it a day. Remus teases Sirius for his pinkened cheeks as though he’s not exactly the same, and you insist on buying hot chocolates for all three of you on the way home as though they’re going to let you. You walk out of the park with breaths puffing cold in front of you, three skating bags hanging from your shoulders.

[that-hazbin]

Your angel AU now has me by the THROAT.

I’m assuming that Alastor goes to Hell basically immediately after Emily tells him that Lucifer Fell and hopes that Lucifer didn’t just forget about him (even if everyone else had).

That reunion will be messy, and I think that in a way Lucifer didn’t forget about Alastor—I am now convinced that the apple on Lucifer’s hat is the one he meant to give Alastor and no one can convince me otherwise—but thoughts of him kind of fell to the wayside as other things took priority. I imagine Lucifer will be a mix of happiness to see Alastor, and horrified guilt because he was left in that garden for 10,000 years alone and it’s his fault. You said this whole idea was based on Spinel, so I’d think Alastor is a mix of terrible sadness and frothing fury, oscillating between the two in turns.

You have set up a situation that will have severe emotional repercussions that are delicious to contemplate; thank you for sharing your ideas and writing with us, and I respectfully request more.

I shortened a lot of this AU because I wanted people to make their own thoughts on it, but I've got a lot of personal thoughts for it that makes it fun. One of them is that in this AU, Alastor doesn't have wings. He was made for Lucifer as basically his doll, and so he wasn't allowed flight. If he needed to go anywhere, he needed Lucifer to fly him around. So leaving Heaven to get to Hell would, in fact, be really difficult. He can't just fly down the way Adam and his exorcists can.

Granted, since Lucifer fell, maybe Alastor thinks "alright I'll do that too" and just bodily throws himself over the edge. That would be a NASTY reunion for Lucifer. Sees some meteor falling from Heaven, flies up to stop it, only to realize "Hey wait is that a person— IS THAT ALASTOR?!"

Meanwhile Emily, who witnessed this poor WINGLESS guy JUMP FOR HELL, is frantically trying to call up Charlie and give her like. A warning. Perhaps an explanation.

Lucifer and Alastor would have the most messed up reunion in this case. Alastor is still operating on the idea that his whole existence is to please Lucifer in some way, specifically to make him happy, to entertain him. In Lucifer's mind, this means that Alastor literally condemned himself to the most painful action in existence because of HIM. He never managed to give Alastor the fruit of knowledge like he planned, and it resulted in this.

Unbeknownst to Lucifer, Alastor isn't completely bereft of free will. Otherwise, he wouldn't be... feeling the emotions that he's feeling. He's hurt, saddened, and filled with so much anger. And Alastor is not going to direct that anger at Lucifer, of course not, it's not his fault that Alastor waited for ten-thousand years for no reason. (Except, it kind of is, but NO IT ISN'T.)

Things will hit a boiling point, though, when Lucifer suggests getting Alastor back into Heaven. Because obviously Alastor doesn't deserve to be in Hell, it sucks here, and Alastor deserves better— except that's not what Alastor hears. What Alastor hears is that despite waiting several millennia for this moment, Lucifer doesn't actually want him around and is planning on getting rid of him. Wiping his hands of him. Why not, right? Every other angel in Heaven has forgotten about his very existence, and here's Lucifer, the one he was made for, trying to do the same!

Alastor would just. Explode. He's confused and so, so furious. What exactly did he do wrong this time? Why isn't his friend happy to see him, why doesn't he want Alastor to stay? Is he seriously going to abandon Alastor AGAIN?! TEN THOUSAND YEARS! He can't do it again, he can't.

It would take a while before Alastor calms down.

[frenskcup]

having thoughts about...

the past few days have had your back screaming out in agony. but that's nothing your man can't fix. with his own aching body, yelling out for some reprieve, trust that jason has his own arsenal of solutions that he's more than willing to try out on you. anything to help his beloved.

of course you can hog the heated pad for tonight. the drizzle that gotham is accustomed to has upgraded to an absolute downpour that has his own bones aching, so he knows how it is.

did his comparatively larger hand feel nice on your lower back? yeah, he can keep it there – in fact, he'll include the other and massage your back in tandem if that will help the pain.

on one particularly crappy day, you can't control the grunts and winces of pain when you twist a certain way your back can't take. it's the worst it's been since it started a few weeks ago. jason can tell.

not like that's saying much– he's attentive to your every emotion: every tired sigh you don't think too much about in the moment, the stink-eye you give the lady at the bodega for cutting in front of you, the sparkle in your eye when he plants a big one on your cheek as he passes by and you pull him right back to return the action three-fold.

you're on your phone when he comes through the front door and stops in his tracks. it's not uncommon for you to be scrolling through a random app's feed but the position you chose to put yourself is: upside down with your legs outstretched, resting on the wall.

"how's the weather down there?" his question holds a different meaning behind it, unlike his normal quips about the height difference between you two.

"it was good 'til it wasn't," you groan, dropping your phone and slithering off the couch head first. your legs are still planted on the seat of the couch, and the new position makes jason's back hurt looking at you.

you make grabby hands at him, which he feels he cannot legally deny in any circumstance. he squats down to reach your hands, squeezing to make sure you had a good grip on him and were ready for the force of him lifting/pulling.

with a grunt, jason snaps up from his semi-squat position and drags you with him. the amount of force he uses with you has been carefully calibrated over the time you've known each other.

a yelp has his heart in his throat. there's no way he hurt you, right?

"you okay?"

he's quick to put you down and check your shoulders and arms for any acute injuries. the last thing he needs is to hurt you. he'd feel too guilty to touch you again in that way if he did, which would make performing his previous maneuver at your behest difficult.

you're silent as he firmly grabs at places that could have been injured. as jason faces your front, he notices your silence is paired with a very out-of-it expression. he never hit your head on anything, did he?

"baby? you okay–"

"my back."

his eyes widen with concern. you're still standing but...

"did i make it worse?" your eyes focus in on him, now taking in the worry evident on his face.

"i... think you might have popped something." your hand reaches for his to reassure him. "something good, i promise. wasn't expecting that to happen, so it scared me silent, i guess."

he let's out a breath and squeezes your hand, relieved that he didn't cause any more pain.

"i need you to do something for me. and don't try to talk me out of it. this is for science."

"science is only when you write stuff down."

you scoff at him.

"stop quoting myth busters at me, you absolute nerd."

"it seems like i'm being summoned somewhere else." he pretends to check his phone, making sure to rip his hand away from you. "yeah, definitely something significantly more important than whatever "science" you're doing."

"fine. i'm sorry. you're not a nerd." your pause makes jason think you're about to tell him your idea. "you're a huge nerd. like, physically and quantitatively."

his dead stare at you has your facade cracking, a sputtered laugh falling from your lips. you grab at his hands with great difficulty, as he swats at you and tries to stuff them in his jeans.

"okay, okay. you're my huge nerd. better?"

you give up on trying to pull his hands from where he's planted them, instead reaching around his neck to pull him closer to you. you know jason can't stop his hands from grabbing your lower back to pull you even closer, making you grin. you rub your nose to his when he's close enough.

"not at all."

"just– help me out, please?"

you hold his cheeks in your hands, forcing him to look at you as you look at him with puppy dog eyes, a small pout on your lips. he rolls his eyes and you know you got him.

"thank you, jaybird!" you plant a kiss on his cheek with a loud, exaggerated smooching noise.

(back during your first month or two with him, you tried to find out how much moisture on your lips would have him wiping away at his cheek or mouth. turns out, there was no way in hell jason was going to do that. wipe off your kiss? that you specifically gave to him? you're outta your damn mind.)

you get jason to help you scoot the coffee table out of the way for a more spacious floor to work with. you guide him into the spot you envisioned, closing one eye and telling him "a little more to the left".

"okay. i'm gonna cartwheel in front of you." you point at him. "you're gonna catch my legs."

as the son and protege of a detective, the cogs in his head are turning with the instructions you've given him. he never was the fastest at deducing motives or criminal reasoning when he first started, but now he's pretty good with the experience under his belt.

you move quicker than the detective his mind, swinging a leg up and then the other in front of him.

"now pull me up by my legs!" you shout, not currently being able to register how loud you are when the blood is rushing to your head and you're nowhere close to jason's ears that are more than six feet away from your head. "not fast! just enough to stretch me out!"

he's not for sure on whether this will help your back at all, more just going along for the ride at this point. but like the caring boyfriend he is, he grasps both of you legs with his arms and slowly moves you enough so that you're dangling from his hold.

a loud 'pop' sounds out from your spine, causing you to yelp in surprise.

"i'm okay! that was a good pop!" you learned from your last pop to tell him if it hurt. "i think that's all i'm gonna get out of it today. please put me down!"

jason maneuvers you gently to the ground and your feet away from him. your face is flushed from being upside down and you stumble into his chest, both his arms coming to grab you before you fell.

"i'd offer you the same treatment, but..." you wrap your arms around him and can just only get your hands together in an s-grip. "you're too big a nerd."

with a groan, he effortlessly hoists you up underneath your armpits and throws you before catching you. not wanting to risk a fall, you wrap your arms and legs around him quickly. if you had claws, he's sure you'd be stuck on his shirt. not that he'd mind.

"remind me why i let you bully me."

"because... i'll let you lay on me and rub your shoulders and back like you want?"

"you're lucky you know me so well."

and with that, he traps you under the lumpy couch that you swore you'd replace like a few months ago. true to your word, you take your time massaging his tense shoulders and rubbing and scratching his back to let him feel some relief. besides–

"you're my big nerd."

A/N: didn't think this would be so long, but i always like to stretch a bit for waaaay longer than it should. i'm a new jason todd stan as of like, a month ago. so jason might be o.o.c. but i wanted to get this to the masses asap

[peoniesandflowers]

Geta ABC Headcanons

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) When the deed was done, Geta would quickly get his desired relief and make it known that he wanted to be left alone. He is someone that is not particularly interested in cuddling or pillow talks, so he only started doing it as you two saw each other more frequently.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) He likes his torso and chest since he has been able to sculpture it. But for his partner, his favourite would be their neck, the sensation of it beneath his lips and nails drives him to madness.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) He likes to come outside, since to him is a way of marking another person without other risks. As you two grow closer, tho, he will start coming inside too, saying how much he wants you to get pregnant.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) One morning, both of you were having breakfast on his room, and you licked some honey from your fingers, making him have an idea. Next thing you know, his tongue is all over your body, licking you clean after he poured threads of honey all over your skin.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) He has plenty of experience on what he likes since he has had a few lovers, so you'll need to be patient to let him learn about what you like.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) Loooves to see you on your knees looking up at him, even if it's just resting your head on his lap. He also likes you riding him so he can suck on your nipples and play with your ass.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) He might tease you and make you chuckle at first, but he loves to get serious all of a sudden, making you unable to do anything else but moan.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) He trims and takes care of it, but won't fully shave down there.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) At first, he isn't that much thoughtful of how "attentive" he is being, only making sure you also cum (because he wants to hold certain reputation) but as time goes by he gets more heated with you, enjoying every part of your body.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Why should he pleasure himself when he has slaves and concubines? Same thing even when you are together.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) He is always the dominant one. He does not have to be it all the time, but even though he can be soft, gentle and charming, he is not going to be submissive. Being that said, taunt him and degrade him juuust enough, and you won't be able to walk for a week.

He also enjoys a bit of pain, so scratch his back, hold his neck tight and bite his hand when he muffles you, he will let you know how much he loves it.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) He has a bit of a public/thrill of being found out fantasy, and has been found in very precarious places. Behind a pillar here, a small, hidden room there. If you even suggest riding him on his throne, you won't be able to even walk up there because of how fast he will carry you on his shoulder to get there.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) This man is easy to pursue if you know how to talk to him. Bat your eyelashes a little and say that you miss him and that's enough for him.

At the same time, tease him and taunt him about how you are not sure if he will be able to do something (like making you cum) and his ego will do the rest.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) Not being in control is a huge no for him, so, for example, tying him down will only happen if he trusts that you will do only things he likes and wants.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) He is not really used to give since he hasn't really bothered about other people's pleasure, but if you know how to push his buttons and say something like "yeah, it's okay, you can't be good at everything" to tease him how XYZ lover did it so much better, he will get to town. The only thing, I feel like he will get impatient, so he will only do it when he knows it can make you come quick.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) He loves a fast pace, specially if he can either see or hear how you bounce on him. As you too see more, he can get more lovey-dovey but it aaaalways gets up getting heated and fast.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) He loves them, both for how risky they can be and how fast he can make you come.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) He is the one suggesting stuff to you and just seeing if you are okay with it. About what he suggests, i would leave it up to y'all.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) 2 to 3 if it has been a short while. 4 and even 5 if he has been a long time since he could have you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) i dead ass feel like it will make him jealous 💀💀💀 like he would say something like "you are only allowed to come on my dick" or something like that

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) He usually won't do it in public or social situations since he has scold his brother for such manners before.

If you two are alone, he may lay down on the same sofa where you are seated and trace his fingers on your skin softly, both to just feel you and make you remember that he can just do that and more if he wanted to.

If you decide to tease him in private, he would like to see how far you are able to get it through. But tease him too much, and he will make you beg to come, leaving you on the edge.

Pray for your soul of you decide to tease him outside the bedroom.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) He gets loud. He moans he grunts he huffs a d he swears.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) He has a very sensitive neck. Kiss it softly and you'll swear you heard him purr just right before he throws you to the bed.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) 10,5 cm, thick, and a small mole on the right side of his crotch

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) He can do good for 4 days without neither sex nor masturbation, then he either pleases himself or takes you, whatever he can do at that moment.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) At first he would come, turn around and sleep. Now he cuddles you a little and checks that you are okey before falling sleep.

[pinkcreamypeach]

Valentine's Day 💌 💘 (Mareach)

God spent four hours writing this thinking, rewriting, adding way too much detail, then getting distracted by the idea of drawing. Honestly, I wanted to cram in a ton of characters, but that would've taken forever. I almost wrote a whole Luaisy section, added Toad, Yoshi, and so much more, but my motivation dipped hard. I even planned a full-on Bowser fight scene, but it ended up in the background instead. Next time, I’ll make it way better.

Anyway, cut down on the design details. (Might draw peach dress in the later maybe) Mareach is getting closer to happening, so... lol.

@keylovesstuff @bberetd @peaches2217 @cutejk123

@supergay-64 <-- Sorry if you didn't want to be tagged

@silenzahra <-- forgot to tag you lol.

The soft morning light trickled through the curtains, casting a warm golden hue across Mario and Luigi’s shared bedroom. Mario stirred, stretching his arms wide, his body naturally easing into the motions of someone well-used to a day full of jumping, running, and saving the world. His eyes slowly blinked open, a small, content grin forming on his face as he greeted the morning. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the fresh air, feeling that spark of energy that only the start of a new day could bring.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool wooden floor greeting his bare feet. A quick stretch, his joints popping, and Mario let out a pleased sigh. He wasn’t much for slow mornings, but there was something comforting about this routine. It always set him up for the day ahead, whatever challenges might come.

Glancing at the clock, he shuffled toward the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. “Huh, feelin’ good today,” he muttered to himself. He usually felt like a wreck after a long day of fighting monsters, jumping on Goombas, and dodging fireballs. But today? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was just the sunny weather. Maybe it was... Valentine's Day?

Standing in front of the mirror, Mario squinted at his reflection. In his red mushroom boxers, he scratched his stomach and patted his belly, noticing the familiar scars. Burn marks from his fiery encounters with Bowser, and deep claw marks that... well, he wasn’t sure where they came from. He’d been through so many scrapes, it all blurred together. But at least his signature mustache was still there. He took a whiff of his own breath. “Oof... Definitely need to brush my teeth,” he muttered, frowning.

Mario grabbed his toothbrush, eyes flicking to the empty space where Luigi’s toothbrush should’ve been. He blinked, brain a little slow to wake up. “Oh yeah… he’s off with his girlfriend…” Mario chuckled to himself. He still couldn’t get over the fact that Luigi had found someone. The shy guy who never quite left his comfort zone now had someone who brought him out of his shell. "I thought she’d be trouble," Mario mused with a grin. "But... I guess she’s good for him."

He sighed, thinking about Peach for a moment. Maybe today was the day... the day he’d finally confess his feelings. But... no. How would that even work? He groaned at himself. The last time he tried anything romantic, it ended with him chasing after Toadsworth in a panic. Peach was always sweet and forgiving, but Mario couldn’t help that nervous knot in his stomach. He’d baked her a special dessert for Valentine’s Day, all excited, but was it too cheesy? Probably, but he didn’t mind. He had to at least try.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the soap in his eyes until he was already screaming in pain and slipping in the tub. "Mamma mia!" His feet flew out from under him, and he crashed into the soapy water with a splat. His daydreams about Peach scattered like his balance.

Sitting up in the tub with a groan, Mario rubbed his eyes, wishing for a second he could just pull the curtains around him and disappear into his bed. The dramatic thoughts swirled, but before he could fall into them, he grabbed his toothbrush and tried to shake off the chaos.

Without looking, he grabbed the cream from the counter, squirted it onto the brush, and shoved it into his mouth. The moment he tasted it, his eyes went wide in horror. Wait, that's hair cream! He gagged, spitting it out in disgust.

"PERCHÉ QUESTO CONTINUA A SUCCEDERE!!?" Mario shouted in a dramatic mix of frustration and disbelief.

It wasn’t the start he had planned, but then again, when was it ever?

—----------------------

Princess Peach took a slow, deep breath as she admired her reflection in the mirror, a soft smile curling on her lips. With careful hands, she applied the finishing touch to her look. A heart-shaped accent with her lipstick. Her dress, chosen with care, was the epitome of grace and elegance, a pink Rococo-inspired gown that seemed almost too magnificent to wear.

As Peach twirled in front of the mirror, the soft rustling of her gown.She chuckled softly to herself. Perhaps my family would say this is a bit too extravagant, the most "girly" of all princesses but I wouldn't change a thing. Today is about love, after all. Her heart swelled with excitement as she glanced at the calendar. Yes, today is the day.

With a final glance at herself, she slid her long gloves on and gently gathered the ends of her gown before stepping out of her room. The grand halls of the Mushroom Castle were adorned with decorations in celebration of the day, festive ribbons in shades of pink and red, and cute bows everywhere. The castle’s guards had changed into their new uniforms, fitting the mood with their pastel hues. Each one bowed as she passed, their faces glowing with admiration for their princess, her beauty and grace leaving them in awe.

Toadsworth, ever the reliable elderly, was overseeing the preparations for the grand celebration in town. The festival was to honor love in all its forms, romantic, familial, and platonic. As always, the elder Toad was in his element, helping organize the festivities with great care. He adjusted his golden glasses, a thoughtful gift from the princess herself, and smiled. She had gifted him an exquisite eyeglass holder for Valentine’s Day, simple yet meaningful, and it had brought tears to his eyes.

"Ah, my favorite princess," he said with a warm smile, his voice full of admiration. "You look as beautiful as your mother, my dear."

Peach’s face lit up at the compliment. "Oh, grandpa, you spoil me with your words," she giggled. "But I do appreciate it, thank you."

The two walked side by side, moving toward the front balcony where the event preparations were taking place. As Peach looked out over the gardens, she couldn’t help but smile even wider. The lush, vibrant flowers were tended to with care, and the toads were already buzzing around, handing out early gifts to one another. It was an endearing sight, one that filled her heart with joy. Her people, so full of life and love, celebrating together in this beautiful moment it was all she could have hoped for.

She glanced over at Toadsworth, feeling a surge of gratitude for everything he did to make this day special. "It's truly wonderful to see how much love is in the air today, don’t you think?" she remarked.

Toadsworth smiled fondly at her. "Indeed, Princess. It’s a day for all to share in the joy of love and there’s no one more deserving of such celebration than you."

Peach smiled softly, her heart full of affection for her kingdom and those she held dear. As the festival preparations continued.

—----------------------

Mario stood in front of his mirror, adjusting his collar with the kind of determination usually reserved for stomping Goombas. He wanted to look good not that he had a fashion degree or anything. Luigi wasn’t around to be a backseat stylist, and honestly, the pea-sized Prince Parsley had his own business to attend to. Probably dating someone new. Not Mario’s problem.

He smoothed out his faded red button-up, pulled on his dark red jeans (fancy!), laced up his trusty brown boots, and because he was feeling classy doused his hair in way too much gel. The result? A slicked-back masterpiece that could probably deflect fireballs. He finished it off with an unreasonable amount of cologne. Was it necessary? No. Did he now smell like an entire department store fragrance aisle? Absolutely.

With a deep breath, he placed his iconic red cap atop his gel fortress, stepped outside, and took in the fresh air. The Mushroom Kingdom stretched before him, Peach’s castle standing pretty in the distance. The sun was shining, the clouds were smiling, and most importantly today wasn’t an “adventure” day. No kidnappings, no rogue Chain Chomps, no existential crises brought on by giant turtles. Just peace.

Then he turned around.

Bowser’s airship loomed overhead, casting a dramatic shadow across his front yard. Mario glanced at his watch. Really? Of course, Bowser had to crash that day. Holidays, birthdays, probably even Peach’s hypothetical baby shower if it was important, Bowser was showing up uninvited.With a resigned sigh, Mario popped back inside, grabbed a Cape Feather, and launched himself skyward. He had about five minutes to keep Bowser from ruining the party.

“Alright, Bowser,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s make this quick.”

—----------------------

4 hours later

Princess Peach stood in her royal dressing chambers within Peach’s Castle, preparing for her grand speech. The lavish room, bathed in soft shades of pink and gold, gleamed under the morning light streaming through tall windows adorned with flowing silk curtains. A polished vanity, scattered with delicate beauty essentials, sat against the wall, while a flurry of Toad attendants bustled around her, adjusting the final details of her dress and carefully positioning her crown.

Beyond the chamber doors, the castle courtyard buzzed with excitement. Hundreds of Toad citizens had gathered beneath the grand balcony, their tiny mushroom caps bouncing eagerly as they awaited their princess’s arrival. With a final deep breath, Peach straightened her gloves, offered a warm smile to her loyal attendants, and stepped gracefully onto the stage.

“Beloved citizens of the Mushroom Kingdom!” Peach’s voice rang out like a melody, carrying across the sea of joyful faces. “It is with great joy that I officially declare the beginning of our Grand Festival of Love! Today, we celebrate with laughter, music, and most importantly cake! (I personally made sure Toadsworth didn’t skimp on the extra frosting this time!)

“So, put on your finest festival attire, indulge in all the treats your heart desires, and let the celebrations begin! The Mushroom Kingdom’s Grand Festival of Love is officially underway!”

The kingdom erupted in cheers, a wave of excitement surging through the crowd. Peach watched with a delighted smile as her people spread out, filling the castle halls and the festival grounds beyond. The town square gleamed with festive decorations, games, and merriment, love filling the air in every laughter-filled moment.

As the day passed in a joyful blur, Peach found herself holding onto a special thought: her own Valentine’s gift. A gift for Mario.

Where was he? Was he off on another adventure with Luigi? She hadn’t seen him all day.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, and soon, the final event of the night began the grand ballroom dance. The castle’s halls glittered with candlelight as the guests swayed to elegant music, glasses raised in celebration. Peach smiled at her people, twirling among them, but something in her heart pulled her away.

Excusing herself, she stepped outside, where the kingdom’s streets lay silent and empty under the moon’s glow. The celebration had drawn everyone inside, leaving the once-bustling town still and peaceful. Holding the ends of her dress, she slowly wandered through the quiet pathways, her thoughts drifting.

Where was he?

She had left her gift at home in the rush of the festival, but that didn’t matter. All she wanted was to see him..

Then the hurried footsteps caught her attention first. She turned, her breath hitching slightly when she saw Mario standing before her, a slightly crushed Valentine’s box clutched in his hands. His red shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his pants bore a few small rips, and faint scorch marks streaked his boots. His hair was a complete mess, bouncing slightly as he tried—unsuccessfully—to smooth it down with one hand. He looked like he’d just run through absolute chaos.

And yet, to her, he was still Mario.

As soon as their eyes met, he stiffened, hands trembling slightly as he swallowed hard. A nervous, lopsided smile tugged at his lips, an attempt at his usual confidence, but it wavered under her gaze.

“Pri— *ahem* Principessa… ciao, Principessa Peach…” He gave a quick, stiff bow, but as he glanced down at the ruined box in his hands, he let out a quiet, sheepish chuckle.

“I, uh… you… you look… wow.” The words tumbled out awkwardly, tripping over themselves as his face turned an adorable shade of red. “I mean… beautiful—no, gorgeous, like… *La donna più popolare di sempre.*”

He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should probably stop talking now…”

Peach giggled, warmth flickering in her eyes as she took him in. The slight blush his words had drawn from her softened into something more affectionate as she stepped closer, tilting her head.

“Thank you, chéri,” she murmured, her voice teasing but gentle. Then, with a playful glint, she reached up, her fingers threading lightly through his unruly hair. “I have to say… I quite like the rugged look.” She paused, scrunching her nose slightly. “Though, you do smell a little… smoky.”

Mario exhaled a dramatic sigh, finally putting two and two together.

“Bowser?” she asked, her tone knowing.

“…Yeah,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But don’t worry! I took care of that *bastardo* and his goons.”

Before she could reply, he glanced at the misshapen Valentine’s box in his hands and sighed again. Without a second thought, he tossed it into a nearby trash bin, his expression falling. It wasn’t good enough. Peach deserved something perfect.

She caught on immediately.

“…Wait.” Her eyes twinkled as she glanced at the box. “That was a cake?”

Mario blinked. “How’d you—”

She giggled and tapped his nose with her finger, smiling sweetly.

“Oh, Mario, I have a good sense of smell.” She hummed softly, lacing her hands behind her back. “Even if it was burnt, I would’ve eaten it anyway. Your desserts always make my day better.”

His heart stumbled over itself at that. She always had this way of making him feel like he was enough.

Wordlessly, she took his hand, her fingers slipping effortlessly between his, and led him beyond the castle gates. The soft glow of the festival faded behind them as they wandered into a field of Fire Flowers. Their petals shimmered under the moonlight, casting a warm golden glow across the landscape. At the heart of the field stood a grand tree, its branches stretching toward the stars. Peach stopped beneath it, turning to him with a knowing smile.

“…Remember this place?” she asked softly.

Mario blinked, then his eyes widened as memory washed over him.

“O-oh! Sì!” His face lit up, his voice quieter now, touched by nostalgia. “I remember… the stars, the flowers… and you.”

His voice dropped even softer.

“You made me feel better when Luigi was missing. You always make everything better, Principessa..”

Peach’s smile turned tender as she stepped closer.

The fireflowers bathed the field in a soft, golden glow, their petals flickering like tiny lanterns against the darkened landscape. Above, the sky stretched endlessly, jeweled with stars, casting a dreamy silver light over the scene. A gentle wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of flowers and the distant hum of the festival still lingering in the kingdom.

In the middle of it all, Princess Peach and Mario stood beneath a towering tree, its branches stretching toward the heavens. The moment felt like a fairytale, something out of a dream, yet entirely real.

Mario, ever the gentleman despite his usual clumsiness, bowed slightly, extending his hand toward her. “May I have this dance, Principessa?”

Peach, smiling with a playful twinkle in her eyes, placed her gloved hand in his. “I’d be delighted, mon chéri.”

And with that, he swept her into an elegant, old-fashioned waltz, their feet gliding over the grass as if they were dancing atop the stars themselves.Mario held her securely, his grip firm yet gentle, guiding her across the glowing field. His usual roughness was softened, his movements careful but still undeniably him a little hesitant, a little bashful, but full of warmth. Peach followed his lead with practiced grace, letting herself be twirled effortlessly before returning to the safety of his arms.

The moment quickly turned playful. Peach giggled as Mario spun her again, this time pulling her in close, their chests nearly touching. “Getting bold, aren’t we?” she teased.

Mario smirked. “Just tryin’ to keep up with you, *bella.*”

She hummed, arching a brow. “Oh? Then keep up with this.”

With surprising agility, she took the lead for a moment, twirling him instead. Mario stumbled slightly but recovered quickly, his laughter echoing into the night.

“Oh, you’re real cheeky tonight,” he said, grinning.

She giggled and playfully nudged his nose with hers. “I think you like it.”

Before he could respond, she suddenly let go, stepping backward as if to challenge him. Mario blinked, then smirked, accepting the silent invitation. With a dramatic sweep of his arm, he lunged forward, grabbing her waist and spinning her back into his hold, earning a delighted squeal from the princess.

“Still gotcha,” he murmured.

Her breath hitched slightly as she gazed up at him, her hands resting against his chest. The fireflowers flickered around them, their glow reflecting in his eyes. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the dance had become more than just a playful movement.

“…You really are something else, Mario,” Peach finally whispered, her voice softer now, her fingers tracing the edge of his collar.

Mario swallowed, his usual bravado melting just a little. “Yeah? Well… you make it real easy to wanna hold onto somethin’ this good.”

Her cheeks warmed as she tilted her head. “Then don’t let go.”

His hands tightened ever so slightly at her waist, a silent promise as the dance continued slower, gentler, wrapped in moonlight, fireflowers, and the quiet understanding that, in that moment, nothing else mattered.

As Mario dipped Peach for the final flourish of their dance, the momentum carried them both down onto the soft grass. A breathless laugh escaped Peach’s lips as she landed beneath him, her golden hair fanning out around her like a halo. The glow of the fire flowers surrounded them, casting a warm, flickering light over their faces.

Mario hovered above her, his hands still securely wrapped around her waist, his breath slightly unsteady. The playful laughter between them softened into something quieter, something deeper. Peach gazed up at him with half-lidded eyes, her cheeks dusted pink, her smile warm and inviting.

She lifted a delicate hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face before leaning in, pressing the gentlest kiss against his cheek. The warmth of her lips lingered against his skin, and Mario’s face turned an unmistakable shade of red. He barely had time to react before she rested her forehead against his, her breath mingling with his in the cool night air.

“…Happy Valentine’s Day, Mario,” she whispered, her voice as soft as the petals around them.

Mario swallowed thickly, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared into her eyes. She looked so radiant, so effortlessly beautiful, bathed in golden firelight and starlit silver. He couldn’t help but lean in closer, his grip on her waist tightening just slightly as if grounding himself in the moment.

“…Happy Valentine’s Day, too, mi Amore” he murmured, his voice barely above a breath.

They stayed like that, lost in each other, the world melting away as the fire flowers swayed gently around them two hearts intertwined beneath the endless starry sky.

[dress-and-impress]

(cal if you see this pls dont read it has spoilers)

Now that The Dragon Prince Season 7 has been released and the processing has died down imma just share smth right her right now... the whole "Ezran vs Rayllum" thing did not affect me AT ALL while watching it. Was totally unfazed by it becasue I knew they were gonna all be friends again by the end of it... and have no opinion about who was right and who was wrong (That's not to say I didn't feel weird about it. I very much did). So, here is my presentive of each character in this situation:

(picture obviously from a poster of TDP promo)

Ezran:

As every Ez stan knows, he's a young king and has many difficult and challenging decisions to make. He was NEVER prepared to take the throne and when he did it was with such honesty, patience and love for EVERYONE, human, elf and even villain (as per talking to Aravos and Karim about their views and perspectives). BUT when the love he had got taken advantage of, he lost it. Like I would too if you spend all this time building a bridge (hypothetically and in a way literally) with people perceived as "the enemy". His perception of the world became a blur and the innocence he had was shattered in a million pieces. When Callum left he was undoubtably confused but MORE determined to put his fathers killer to justice instead of asking why (like he usually does).

Callum:

Now he's a very controversial side because you either love him or hate him. Very quickly though i find it really strange how he keeps saying that Rayla does everything for others and wants to do something "for her"; the quazar diamond scenario in season 6 and at the oddly adorable bridge scene at the end of season 7. To put it quite plainly, Callum has no idea how to make himself happy, so he makes other people happy. But you're probably thinking "Callum pissed off Ezran and ditched his brother for his gf". Yes. He did. Callum was a mediator in the situation (or tried to be) and once he knew both sides couldn't be happy he had to choose. Ezran, his half-brother and King who has kingdoms and allies that support him no matter what. Or the girl he loves and spent years thinking about and wants to make up as much time as possible with her AND who regretted running away without asking for any help from Callum.

Lets refer back to the moments before Rayla decided to leave (on Callums birthday). She was determined to find Viren and finish what they started and Callum didn't want her to so they made a compromise. BUT THEN Rayla left as we know. Alone. With nothing.

Rayla:

We have no idea what Rayla spent those 2 years doing trying to find Viren but lets list a few things we know (from when she breaks Runnan out of prison); She had to say goodbye to her birth parents who she thought she was going to bring back from Virens coin, is banished from her home and cannot go back and is basically determined to have some form of stability in her life. Quick note, Rayla and Callum are not concerned about Aravos because they think he's still in the pearly.

Rayla has made a lot of impulsive decisions throughout the show and it should be expected that she would betray Ezran's trust and make things difficult for Callum to prioritise the need to get AT LEAST ONE OF HER PARENTS HOME SAFELY. Her mind was an utter blur and filled with emotion she didn't know how to express. The only thing Rayla wanted to do was solve the problem. TAKE ACTION on the one thing that's making her feel that way. She's done it before and will continue to do it.

So to sum up watching that scene and processing it, you need to understand all sides. The emotion, the determination and challenges that came across the three of them. It gave their characters development and gave us an opportunity to explore WHY the characters feel the way they feel or make the choices they choose to make. It was never a "right or wrong" thing but more so gaining growth and maturity that decisions need to be made regardless of how painful it may be.

[jetii]

The New Deal

Part Two

Contribution to @clonexocweek | Theme: Intimacy

Pairing: Thorn x Senator Vale Ishani (OC)

Words: 14,400/25,283

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! friends with benefits to lovers, secret relationship, bodyguard!Thorn, protective!Thorn, accidental love confessions, so much flirting and innuendo, dirty talk, smut, semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), it is the expected level of freak for these two, part 2 even more so

Summary: It's been a month since Thorn and Vale have returned to Coruscant from her home planet of Atrisia, and so far they've managed to keep their budding relationship under wraps. But Thorn can't help but want more than a few stolen moments in the dark, and he's ready to prove to Vale that it's worth it.

A/N: I don't know what it is about writing these two that turns me into a monster, but I felt like a woman possessed. There was supposed to be plot here...somewhere...

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist | Thorn and Vale Masterlist

Thorn isn't sure how much longer he can keep getting away with this.

The truth is, he knows that he's in way over his head. That this isn't a good idea. That this can only end in heartbreak, and pain, and a whole host of other problems that he really doesn't want to deal with. And yet, the temptation is too great, and he can't bring himself to walk away.

So instead, he spends his days hiding his relationship, his nights sneaking out of the barracks to spend time with Vale, and his free time trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do.

It's not the most productive use of his time, and Thorn knows that his brothers are starting to notice. They've asked him more than once why he's been spending so much time away from the barracks, and he's given them the same answer: extra training. He can't help but feel guilty, especially when he knows that they're not buying it, but he's not sure how else to explain what he's doing.

The truth is, Thorn's not sure he understands what he's doing.

It's been a month since the two of them returned from Atrisia, and things have only gotten more complicated. They'd managed to keep things quiet on the cruiser, but once they were back on Coruscant, the rules had changed.

Vale has been busy, dealing with the fallout of the assassination attempt and the upcoming election season, and Thorn has been splitting his time between his regular duties and acting as Vale's personal guard. The latter isn't something he would normally do, but the Chancellor has insisted, and Vale hasn't protested.

The fact that he's now in the position to protect her is a huge weight off his shoulders. Thorn had spent most of his time on the cruiser worrying about her safety and wondering if the attempt on her life would be repeated. Knowing that she has him there, watching her back, has done a lot to ease his mind.

But even with the extra time together, things have still been complicated, and they've only managed to steal a handful of moments alone together.

Today is no different.

Vale has had no less than four meetings with the Chancellor this past week, and her schedule has been filled with a seemingly endless list of events and appearances. Thorn's days have been just as busy. With the Senate in session, he's been tasked with assisting with the security detail for several events and conferences, and his nights have been filled with patrols and security checks.

Today, he's been assigned a shift in the Senate Rotunda, and while his job is mostly standing around making sure no one was plotting a surprise assassination attempt, he doesn't mind. It's an easy assignment, and he likes the view.

Vale's platform is right in his line of sight, and it's the perfect vantage point for watching her. She looks regal standing there, her hands braced on the edge of the platform, her voice echoing through the chamber. Her robes are a dark, rich blue, and her hair is twisted up into an intricate bun, the light catching the golden threads woven throughout it.

Not that he's paying attention to any of that, of course. He's not supposed to be noticing those things.

No, Thorn is supposed to be watching the room. Which is exactly what he's doing. And if his gaze wanders back to Vale every few minutes, it's not for any reason other than keeping her safe. That's his job, and he's taking it seriously.

That's what he keeps telling himself, anyway.

Thorn can't help but feel like he's been on a rollercoaster over the past few weeks. First, the tension, and the longing, and the frustration, and now, this. This strange, uncertain, and undefined thing that's developed between the two of them. He doesn't have a name for it, and he's not sure if he's ready to call it what he wants it to be.

He doesn't even know what he wants. Or at least, he doesn't know how to get it.

Because he knows what he wants. It's the same thing he's wanted since the day he first met her. He wants her. All of her. Not just her body, or her attention, or her time.

He wants all of her. Every last part of her.

And he's never wanted anything more.

The thing is, Thorn's never had trouble going after what he wants. If he wants something, he usually just goes for it. But with Vale, things are different. She's a senator, and the daughter of a wealthy, influential family, and she's been raised with all the privileges and opportunities that come with her birthright. She's got a whole galaxy of suitors to choose from, and Thorn's well aware that he doesn't exactly have a lot to offer.

He's a clone. An expendable soldier who was created for the sole purpose of dying for the Republic. He doesn't have any rights, or any possessions, and the only thing he has to his name is his service record. He's not a bad looking man, and his brothers have always told him he has a decent sense of humor, but when compared to the galaxy full of senators and nobles and celebrities who are throwing themselves at her, he's not exactly a prize.

And yet, here she is, standing right in front of him, her eyes locked with his, a soft smile on her lips.

It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.

Vale tilts her head, a silent question on her face, and Thorn inclines his head slightly, a subtle nod. She nods back, and then her gaze moves back to the Chancellor, and Thorn lets out a soft sigh.

It's going to be a long day.

The sound of the bell echoes through the chamber, signaling the end of the session, and Thorn straightens up, his hands falling to his belt. The senators and their aides file out, but Vale remains seated, her attention on the datapad in her hand.

Thorn glances around the chamber before he slowly makes his way toward her, his boots clicking against the polished floor. When he reaches her, he stops, waiting patiently. She doesn't look up, but Thorn knows she's aware of him. He can tell by the way her lips twitch and the way her breathing changes, just slightly.

He waits, letting the tension build, before he speaks.

"Senator."

"Commander," she replies. She taps a few more times on her datapad and finally glances over her shoulder at him, a smile playing on her lips. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Thorn looks around the chamber again, tracking the movement of the other senators. Most have already left, but a few are lingering, talking in small groups or packing up their things. 

It's not unusual for him to be near Vale during a meeting. In fact, it's his job. But the idea of being seen in such close proximity, especially when there's no danger present, makes his skin prickle.

He lowers his voice, leaning in to speak in her ear. "No reason. Just wanted to check in on you. See how you're doing."

Her smile widens, and Thorn's stomach flips.

"You're sweet," she whispers. Her gaze darts from person to person, and Thorn follows her lead, his eyes scanning the room, cataloging everyone's positions. They're relatively isolated, and while he knows the cameras are watching, there's no way anyone could overhear their conversation.

"I'm trying," he murmurs, and she lets out a soft laugh.

"You didn't have to come over here just to check up on me."

"Yes I did," he tells her. "I wanted to."

"Did you now?"

"Yes."

Vale hums, turning her head to look at him, her gaze drifting over his body. His skin warms, and his heart races. He loves it when she looks at him like that. Loves it when she lets him know what she's thinking, what she's feeling. It's the closest thing to an admission he'll get from her, and it's enough. For now.

She leans back in her chair, and he swallows, his gaze dropping to her lips. She's wearing red lipstick, a shade that's a near exact match for the red of his armor. He's not sure if she chose it on purpose or if it's a coincidence, but either way, it makes him feel possessive. Like she's wearing a part of hi, claiming him in a way.

"Commander," she says, her voice a soft purr. "Do you have something to say to me?"

"I do, Senator," he breathes. He takes a step forward, rounding her chair until he's standing before her, and he clenches his hands into fists behind his back. "I have a lot of things to say."

"Oh? Like what?"

He bends at the waist, a slight bow, and she raises a brow. "Things I shouldn't."

"Well, go on. I'm waiting," she urges, and he has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. She's always like this, and he's never sure if he's more annoyed or turned on by it. Probably both.

He looks over his shoulder. The room is empty, save for a handful of aides and a couple of the maintenance staff. There's no one nearby, and the chance of anyone hearing them is minimal. Still, he keeps his voice low, just in case.

"I miss you," he says. The words are out of his mouth before he can think better of them, and the coy smile on her face momentarily falters. "And I can't stand being apart from you for another minute."

She blinks, and Thorn bites the inside of his cheek. They've had this conversation before, and each time, it's ended with one or both of them frustrated and angry and wanting more than they can have. Neither of them has brought up the future. Neither of them has said the word 'relationship'. And neither of them has dared to talk about what they are. What they could be.

It's a mess, and it's only getting messier.

"I miss you too, Commander," she whispers, and he watches as the mask slides back into place, the playful, teasing facade she wears around everyone else coming back full force. Her hand slides up his thigh, her palm pressing against the inside of his leg, and Thorn sucks in a breath, his hands flexing behind his back.

"But there's nothing we can do about it. Not right now, at least," she tells him, her nails scraping lightly against his armor.

He lets out a frustrated huff, his jaw clenching. "I'm serious, Vale.” 

Her eyes widen, and her hand freezes. Thorn's not sure why he used her name, or where the sudden surge of bravery came from. But he knows that it's important, and he knows that he means it.

They've been using each other's titles since returning to Coruscant, a necessary precaution. But now, it feels wrong, almost like an insult. It's not who they are, and it's not who they are to each other. He's Thorn, and she's Vale, and the distance between them has gone too far, and for too long.

"I hate not being able to see you. I hate not being able to talk to you. It's driving me crazy. You're driving me crazy," he growls. He's not sure if he's more frustrated with her or himself, and the words pour out of him, fueled by a desperation he can't contain.

Her face softens, the teasing, coy expression replaced with a tender, understanding look. Her hand falls away, folding in her lap, and Thorn immediately misses the contact.

"I know. I'm sorry, Thorn," she murmurs. She looks around, her eyes sweeping over the chamber, and then her gaze meets his once more. Her shoulders slump, and Thorn realizes that she's just as conflicted and unsure as he is. "I'm not trying to push you away."

He shakes his head. He doesn't want an apology. He just wants to be with her. He knows it's a terrible idea, and he knows that they should end things, but he can't bring himself to do it. He doesn't want to walk away. And deep down, he knows that she doesn't want to, either.

"I know," he says. "But it doesn't change the fact that I miss you."

She gives him a rueful smile, and his heart twists in his chest.

"I miss you, too," she says softly. "And I wish we could see each other more. I hate having to sneak around. It's ridiculous."

He can't help but chuckle. It's not funny, not really, but it's true. It is ridiculous. And it's getting worse. Every time he sees her, it's harder and harder to walk away. And every time he has to leave, the pain of being separated is worse than the last.

"It is," he agrees. "It's the worst."

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. "The absolute worst."

Thorn sighs, the sound heavy. He looks down at his boots, trying to gather his thoughts.

"We'll figure something out," he says. "We have to."

"I hope so," she murmurs. "Because I'm not sure how much longer I can go without seeing you."

"Me, either," he admits with a sigh. "I'm going crazy, not being able to touch you."

He feels her gaze on him, and he risks a glance. He immediately regrets it when he sees the smirk on her face.

"Touch me, huh?" she asks, a teasing note in her voice. "Is that all you want to do?"

Thorn rolls his eyes. She's always like this, and he should be used to it by now. But every time she flirts with him, every time she teases him, it's like the first time. And he's helpless to resist.

"You're the worst," he mutters. "And no, it's not. I want to do a lot more than just touch you."

"Oh, really? Like what?"

He can't help but groan. He's tempted to tell her. To whisper all the dirty, filthy things he's been imagining, all the things he wants to do to her. But the thought of saying them out loud, of risking being overheard, is too much for him.

"Like nothing, because I'm on duty, and you're about to leave," he grumbles.

"Aw, that's no fun."

"That's what you get," he replies. He straightens and adjusts his stance, his gaze sweeping the chamber again. He doesn't have much time, and he's wasting it. He should be focusing on his job, not flirting with the senator. "I should get going. I have a briefing in an hour, and I need to get ready."

Vale nods, her teeth running over her lower lip. Thorn's eyes are immediately drawn to the motion, and he forces himself to look away, a soft groan escaping him.

"You're not making this any easier, Vale," he mumbles as he turns and starts to walk away, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He doesn't make it more than two steps before her voice stops him in his tracks.

"What are you doing tonight?” she asks, her voice so quiet he almost misses it. His head whips back to her, and he sees her watching him, a small, hopeful smile on her lips.

He's confused. Normally, she doesn't ask him things like this. Normally, she tells him what time she wants him to show up, and where she wants him to meet her. And normally, he doesn't protest, because he knows he'll show up, anyway.

"I...Nothing," he says, trying to sound nonchalant, even though his pulse is pounding.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing that I can't reschedule," he clarifies quickly. He knows he's not fooling anyone. Especially not her.

"Well,” she starts, a slow, playful smile spreading across her face. "In that case, I’ll be hosting a small dinner party for some members of the Finance Committee tonight, and I could use the company for the night. And after. Interested?"

Thorn's eyebrows shoot up. This is the last thing he was expecting. But it's also the perfect opportunity. A few hours at a stuffy party as her guard, and the rest of the night together. It's the best they're going to get. But still, he can't help but tease her.

"Oh, really?" he drawls, crossing his arms over his chest. "And what kind of company are you looking for?"

"A strong, handsome man who can keep me safe," she replies. She pretends to examine her nails, and Thorn bites back a laugh. "I have a lot of enemies, you know."

"I'm aware, Senator," he replies dryly. "I've had a front row seat for most of them."

She waves her hand dismissively. "Details."

The laugh escapes from his lips, a short, sharp sound, and her eyes dart up, a grin spreading across her face.

"So you're just looking for someone to make sure no one tries to poison your wine again?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement, though the memory still sends a shiver down his spine.

 Her aide had been the one to notice that one, and Thorn had to suffer a lecture from Fox on how the security at her events had better be airtight, or else. It had been a mess, and Thorn had made sure to double-check the food and drink at every single one of Vale's events after. And she complained about it. Endlessly.

"Well, that's part of the job," she says with a shrug. "But I'm also hoping you'll stay and keep me company after. If you're available, that is."

"I'll have to check my schedule," he teases, and Vale rolls her eyes. She rises to her feet, smoothing her robes, and her hands linger on her hips, the movement drawing Thorn's attention. He watches as her fingers trail over the fabric, skimming along the curve of her waist, and he can't tear his gaze away.

"Fine, I'll find someone else," she says, pretending to be offended. She reaches for her datapad, but Thorn snatches it away, holding it out of her reach. She pouts. "Rude."

"Senator, please. There's no need for such drastic measures," he tells her as he lowers the datapad, tapping the screen and opening the calendar. He pretends to scroll through her appointments, trying to keep his amusement from showing. “I'm sure I can work you in."

She gives him a sly look. "How accommodating."

"Only the best for you, Senator," he replies. He hands her the datapad, and Vale smirks.

"See that it is, Commander. I'll expect you at 18:00 tonight," she orders. Thorn snaps his heels together, and he gives her a quick salute.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good," she says, her eyes sparkling. She brushes past him, her hand trailing over his forearm. "I'll see you later, Commander."

"Count on it," he growls, and her lips quirk up into a mischievous grin.

"I'm looking forward to it," she says. She turns and walks away, and Thorn is helpless to do anything but watch her go, the sound of her laughter ringing in his ears. 

As soon as she's out of sight, he lets out a sigh, his shoulders slumping. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep up this charade. He doesn't know how much longer they'll have, or if there's any chance of this working out. But the fact that she's willing to try means everything. And for now, that's enough.

He'll take what he can get.

Vale’s apartment is the kind of luxury that can only be afforded by a high-ranking member of the Republic Senate.

It's located in one of the most exclusive districts on Coruscant, and it's easily one of the most luxurious buildings on the planet. The furniture is expensive, the walls covered in artwork that he can't begin to understand, and the view from the windows is nothing short of spectacular. It's a far cry from his barracks, and even further from Kamino.

The apartment is huge, easily bigger than his entire squad's quarters, and yet it feels empty. Like a showroom rather than a home. It's clean, and modern, and elegant, and completely devoid of any personality.

Vale’s aide Trina, a Rutian Twi’Lek who has been working with her since before her election, and who he’s pretty sure despises him, has been running around the apartment for the past half-hour, barking orders at servers and rearranging the decorations. He hasn't been paying attention, instead opting to stand in the corner out of the way and try not to feel completely overwhelmed.

He's nervous.

It's a new feeling, and not one he's used to. He’s been here once before, but that was only for a few minutes, and the situation was far more dire. The place had been swarming with police and members of the Guard, and Thorn had spent most of his time keeping everyone from trampling on evidence and making sure that Vale was okay. Now he's standing in the living room, and there's no imminent danger, and Vale's not bleeding out on the couch.

The night’s still young, though.

He's still wearing his armor, and he’s grateful for that. It hides his nerves, and he needs every bit of confidence he can get. Vale is still getting ready, and he's not sure what to do but stand around and wait. He's already gone over the security details for the party, and he's already double checked the guest list, and now he's just trying to occupy his time.

He's never felt so out of his element, and he doesn't like it.

“Can I help?” he asks as Trina moves past him.

She glances up, her brow furrowing. He's sure that she thinks he's an idiot, and maybe she's right. But the least he can do is try. He still feels a little guilty for Vale neglecting to tell her anything about his presence until he arrived, and the last thing he wants is to make it worse.

Trina had walked into the living room and immediately dropped her datapa, a surprised, and slightly horrified, expression on her face when she saw him. Vale had quickly explained that she'd invited Thorn to be her bodyguard for the evening, and that he was staying. And from the look on Trina's face, that's not a common occurrence. Or maybe it is, and that's the problem. He's not sure.

Then Vale had disappeared into her bedroom, and Thorn had been left with her aide. And the caterers. And the servers. And the bartender. It's been an interesting evening, and it's not even started.

Trina looks him up and down. He shifts, and she lets out a huff.

"No thank you, Commander," she says stiffly.

“Are you sure? I can help with the decorations. Or moving things around.” He nods toward the dining room. “The table is crooked."

"The table is not crooked," she tells him firmly. She turns her head, and her eyes widen. "Oh, kriff."

Thorn grins. "I'll fix it."

She lets out a sigh, rolling her eyes, and Thorn walks past her, heading into the dining room. It's a massive room, the floor-to-ceiling windows providing a stunning view of the city. The table is long, easily large enough to fit a dozen people, and it's decorated with a centerpiece of flowers and candles. He aligns it properly, careful not to disturb the arrangement. When he's satisfied, he turns to Trina, who's watching him with a look of begrudging respect.

"Better?"

"Much," she says, shaking her head. She glances at the table and smiles. "Thank you, Commander."

He shrugs. "Anytime."

She studies him, and he has the sudden urge to squirm under her gaze. Her arms cross over her chest, her eyes squinting as if she can see through his helmet.

"So," she says, dragging out the word. "Why are you here?"

He blinks. That's a good question. One that he's been asking himself for the last month.

"To protect Senator Ishani," he answers, but it sounds wrong. He knows that's not why, not anymore, but he's not sure what else to say. And judging by the look on her face, she can tell.

"Protect her, huh?" she asks, raising a brow. "I thought that's what the rest of the Guard is for. Why did she need you specifically?"

"She doesn't," he says. "She wanted me here.".

"She did?" she asks, sounding surprised.

He nods. "Yes."

"Huh," she murmurs, her brow furrowing. Her arms fall, and she braces her hands on her hips, tilting her head. "Well, that's new."

"Is it?" he asks. He tries to ignore the flutter of excitement in his chest. If she's inviting him to these things, that means something, right? Even if he’s supposed to stand guard for the evening, it still means something. Right?

"Yeah," she says. "She doesn't usually have people over. Let alone ask a member of the Guard to be here. I'm pretty sure this is the first time."

"It is?"

"Yep," she says, popping the p. “She usually just sits and pretends to enjoy herself until she can go hide in her room."

Thorn feels a flash of concern. That doesn't sound like Vale. She seems to thrive off these kinds of things, the parties and the galas and the endless parade of social events. To hear her aide tell it, it's her own personal hell.

"I thought she liked this stuff."

"No, she hates it," she tells him. Her tone is casual, as if this is something everyone knows. "But she knows how to put on a show."

Thorn has no idea what to say. He's suddenly struck with the image of Vale, alone in her apartment, surrounded by strangers. Of her, putting on a show for them, for him. The thought makes his stomach churn. 

He doesn't know Vale, not really. He knows what she likes, and he knows what she doesn't like, and he knows how to make her laugh. But other than that, he's still not entirely sure what's real and what's not. Is the woman who's throwing a dinner party for her colleagues and political allies the same one who's sneaking off to cantina on the lower levels, just to talk with him? Or is she the woman who's laughing at Senator Orn Free Taa's awful jokes, all the while planning his political demise? Or is she both, and neither, and everything in between?

He has no idea, and it bothers him more than he cares to admit.

"I don't get it," she says, tilting her head.

"Get what?"

"You," she tells him.

He feels a flicker of panic.

"What do you mean?" he asks carefully, his voice even, his posture relaxed.

"You're not the usual kind of person she brings to these things," she explains, waving her hand around the room. "Usually, it's some guy she meets at a club, or a Senator, or a businessman. But you're not any of those things."

"No, I'm not," he agrees. He has no idea where she's going with this, and the fact that she's talking about Vale's love life, or lack thereof, isn't helping. He tries not to think about it, tries not to let the jealousy creep up. But he can't help it. “I’m her guard. For the night, at least."

Trina pauses, and Thorn gets the distinct impression that she's trying not to laugh.

"Commander, I've worked for Senator Ishani for five years, and the only time I've seen her happy is when you're around," she tells him. She shakes her head. "Trust me, if she could bring you to every single dinner party and gala, she would."

His heart skips a beat, and his mind races, trying to process what she's telling him.

"Really?" he asks, his voice low and hesitant.

"Really," she confirms. She glances over her shoulder, and then she takes a step closer, lowering her voice.  "I'm pretty sure that's why you're here, Commander. Not for your ability to fix tables."

"Oh," he says, letting out a weak laugh.

She smirks. "Besides, she's been happier lately. She hasn't smiled that much since she was elected."

Thorn shifts, his hand clenching and unclenching behind his back. He doesn't know what to say, or what he should say. Probably nothing, if he was smart. But he's not, not when it comes to Vale, and the way Trina's looking at him tells him that he's already in too deep.

"She deserves to be happy," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, she does." She looks at him, and he swears he can see something akin to respect in her eyes. "So if you hurt her, I'll have you killed."

“I would never,” he replies emphatically, the words slipping out before he can think better of them. Trina raises an eyebrow, and Thorn quickly amends, "That is, I would never let anyone hurt her, if I could help it. I’m not—we’re not—this isn't—"

“Save it for someone dumb enough to believe you, Commander. We both know that's not true,” she interrupts with a wave of her hand, and Thorn snaps his mouth shut. He's not sure how this went from a polite conversation about furniture to him getting the shovel talk, but he has a sinking feeling that Trina knows exactly what's going on.

He’s about to protest further, but he's cut off by the sound of glass shattering in the kitchen. He and Trina look at each other, and she rolls her eyes, letting out an annoyed huff.

"Karking idiots," she mutters. She shakes her head and strides out of the room, her heels clacking on the hardwood. “Hey!”

Thorn takes a deep breath, shaking out his hands, and tries to steady his nerves. His palms are sweaty, and his heart is racing. He can't remember the last time he was this nervous.

This is stupid. This is his job. He should be calm, cool, and collected. Instead, he's standing in the dining room trying not to lose his mind over a girl. A girl who's not even his.

He takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly. In, out, in, out. He closes his eyes, counting down from ten. When he opens them again, he's calmer, and his mind is clearer. He can do this. A few hours of playing bodyguard, and he gets to spend the rest of the night with Vale. It's worth it.

"Senator!" a voice calls from the kitchen.

"Coming!"

The sound of footsteps draws Thorn's attention, and he looks up to see Vale descending the staircase.

And just like that, his nerves return.

She's dressed in a black silk gown, the fabric clinging to her curves, and his eyes roam over her body, taking in every inch. The dress is simple, but stunning, and the neckline is low enough to reveal a tantalizing amount of tanned skin. Her hair is pulled back, a few loose curls framing her face, and her lips are painted the same shade of red as earlier. He's certain now that she chose the color on purpose.

He can't help but stare. He's seen her in formal wear plenty of times, but each time, it takes his breath away. This is no exception. If anything, this is the best.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she mutters as she hurries down the stairs, blowing a hair out of her face. She's not looking where she's going, her eyes fixed on the datapad in her hand, and Thorn's hands itch to reach out and steady her.

"Watch your step," he says, and she waves him off.

"I got it, Commander," she says distractedly. "Thank you."

"Vale," he says sharply, making her head snap up. Her eyes widen, and Thorn's heart skips a beat. He's usually better about using her title, especially when they're in public. But seeing her like this, her hair tousled and her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling, he can't help himself.

"Sorry, Thorn," she replies, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. She descends the final step into the living room, and her eyes dart to him. "Hi."

"Hi," he says, low and soft, and he can't hide the smile in his voice. 

He looks her up and down, drinking her in, and he's hit with a wave of emotion that he's not expecting. It's more than lust, more than desire, and it's more than admiration. It's something deeper, something that's been building between them for weeks now. Something that he doesn't have a name for, something that's terrifying, and overwhelming, and intoxicating.

She stops a few feet away from him, a shy smile on her face. He can see she's not wearing her heels yet, and it's such a small thing, but it's the first time she's seemed anything other than completely put together. It's cute. And it makes his chest ache.

"So, what do you think?" she asks, gesturing to her dress. She turns, showing off the way the dress hugs her curves. It's an innocent enough gesture, but the way her hips sway and the way the fabric shifts has Thorn swallowing hard, his throat suddenly dry.

"You look great," he says honestly. It's not a strong enough word, but it's all he can think of.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, thank you, Commander," she says. If he looks close enough, and he is, he can see a blush staining her cheeks.

"That's a good color on you," he adds.

"Color?" she asks. She runs a hand over the skirt of her dress, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle, and Thorn's eyes follow the motion. "It's black."

He steps closer, the distance between them shrinking. He's careful not to touch her, not to let his armor brush against her bare skin, and he keeps his hands clasped behind his back.

"I meant the lipstick," he murmurs. "I like it. It suits you."

Vale looks up at him through her lashes, her gaze heated. "You noticed."

"I did," he says. His eyes dart to her lips, and then back up. "Hard not to. It's the same color as my armor."

"Oh, is it?" she asks, feigning surprise. "How coincidental."

"Yeah, funny that," he replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He braces his hand on the railing next to her, leaning down, his face inches from hers. "I wonder how that happened."

"Who knows?" she says, and her lips quirk up. She's not even trying to hide the smirk. "Maybe you can get a closer look later." 

"Maybe," he rumbles, and she lets out a shuddering breath, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. He can't help but grin.

"Commander, are you flirting with me?" she teases.

"Maybe," he drawls, his hand curling around the railing. He wants nothing more than to kiss her, but he knows he can't. Not yet. And especially not here. "But if I was, you wouldn't complain, would you?"

"No," she breathes.

He lets his hand trail down the banister, his knuckles brushing against the fabric of her dress, and she shivers. Her skin is warm, and he can smell her perfume, the scent filling his nose. He's tempted to bury his face in the curve of her neck and breathe her in, but he resists. Barely.

"Good," he growls, and Vale swallows hard, her eyes dark. He clears his throat, taking a step back and clasping his hands behind his back. "Are you ready?"

She blinks, a hint of disappointment in her gaze, and her mouth opens, but she doesn't speak. She seems to remember herself, her eyes darting around the room, and he can tell she's remembering their surroundings.

"I, um, I'm almost ready," she says, shaking her head. Her cheeks flush, and Thorn's tempted to tease her. He doesn't, but he wants to. "I just need to finish my hair, and grab my shoes, and, uh, yeah. Almost ready."

She looks flustered, and Thorn can't help but chuckle. It's cute.

"Alright, well, don't let me distract you," he tells her. She gives him a mock glare, her hand finding his chest, and she pushes him backwards. He grunts, stumbling, and she lets out a breathy laugh.

"Give me two minutes," she says, and her hand lingers, her fingertips trailing over his plastoid armor.

"I'll give you one," he replies. "You've already taken two hours."

"Oh, please, I'm worth the wait."

"Don't I know it," he mutters, and her eyes sparkle, a smirk on her face. He lets out a sigh. "Go, before you're late to your own party."

"Be right back," she says, flashing him a smile over her shoulder as she turns slowly. He reaches out and swats her ass, and she lets out a yelp, a surprised laugh escaping her. "Commander!"

"Go," he orders, pointing toward the staircase.

"Fine," she replies as she throws her hands in the air. Thorn watches her go, his gaze fixed on the sway of her hips and the curve of her ass. When she's out of sight, he leans back against the banister, a sigh escaping his lips.

This is going to be a long night.

The dinner party is, much like every event that Vale has attended in the past six months, a complete and utter disaster.

But unlike most of the others, Thorn is not entirely miserable.

He's had worse jobs, and this one is pretty easy. There are no threats, no imminent danger, and he's mostly just standing around, which means his brain is free to wander. And it's definitely wandered.

Vale has spent the majority of the night sitting at the far end of the table, making polite conversation and pretending to be interested in the political ramblings of her guests. She's good at it, the act, but Thorn can tell she's not really paying attention. He's not, either. Not with her sitting so close.

He's standing off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the room. Her guests had made a fuss when they arrived, insisting that it wasn't necessary, and he'd insisted just as firmly that it was. Vale hadn't said a word, simply nodding along. But Thorn had seen the way her lips twitched, and he had known that she was trying not to laugh as he went toe to toe with Senator Taa, who seemed convinced that the whole thing was an insult to his honor.

Now, he's just watching the people around him, doing his best to stay out of their way, his attention diverted between Vale and the servers coming in and out of the kitchen. He's keeping an eye on her, making sure she doesn't choke on a bite of food, or get poisoned, or any of the other things that could potentially kill her. But more importantly, he's also watching the way the light reflects off her tan skin, and the way her eyes sparkle, and the way her lips wrap around the stem of her wine glass.

And most importantly, he's counting down the minutes until the dinner is over and they can have some semblance of privacy.

Vale had warned him that these kinds of events would be long and tedious, but Thorn hadn't really believed her. She had given him a look when he'd told her as much, and she had promised him that it would be awful. She had been right.

It's been an hour, and his brain has officially started to melt. He's not even sure what they're talking about anymore. It's something about taxation rates, or maybe tariffs, or possibly the price of durasteel. Or maybe it's all three. Whatever it is, it's boring.

He can tell Vale is bored, too. Her posture is rigid, and her expression is tense. Every so often, she'll shift in her chair, her hand reaching for her wine glass, her lips wrapping around the rim, and he'll lose his train of thought. The movement is practiced, her movements slow and seductive, and he has no doubt that she's doing it on purpose.

She's a menace.

The senator sitting across from her, a man he can't remember the name of, is droning on about something, and Vale nods politely. Her gaze meets Thorn's, and her lips twitch, her eyes dancing with mischief. She licks her lips, and he sucks in a breath.

Karking hell.

Thorn shifts, his hands clasped behind his back, his fingers tapping an unsteady rhythm on his vambrace. Vale looks away, but not before her eyes roam over his body, and he's pretty sure that she's trying to kill him. He's not sure how much longer he can do this.

“Hey,” a voice whispers from the kitchen, and he turns his head slightly. Trina is standing in the doorway, gesturing for him. He glances back at Vale, but she's still absorbed in her conversation, and he moves toward the Twi'lek.

“Yeah?” he asks warily. She's been giving him weird looks all night, and he's not sure if she's plotting his murder or not. It's hard to tell with her.

She pulls him into the kitchen, and his stomach sinks. This is not a good sign.

She pushes him further into the room, and the staff members pause, looking up from their work. He's never been inside the kitchen before, and it's a lot nicer than he was expecting. It's huge, with counters and shelves lined with equipment that he's never seen before. A team of staff members are moving around the space, preparing and cooking the food, and the whole room smells amazing.

Trina leads him to a corner of the room, where the others can't hear, and his heart starts racing.

"What is it?" he asks, his voice low and urgent. He can't think of a single reason for him to be here. Unless Vale is hurt. Or worse.

"You're staring," she whispers, and his brow furrows.

"What?"

"You're staring," she repeats. "At Senator Ishani."

"I'm supposed to watch her," he replies, his voice thick. "It's my job."

"No, you're supposed to watch her _back_ ," she corrects, rolling her eyes. She steps around him and opens the fridge, rummaging through the contents. "Not her front."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters. He can feel the blush rising on his cheeks, and his armor suddenly feels too tight. "I'm just doing my job."

She pulls a covered plate out of the fridge and places it on the counter. Her head tilts to the side, a skeptical look on her face, and she gives him a once-over, her eyes narrowing.

 "You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying," he says, but his voice cracks.

"Yes, you are," she says. "And it's obvious."

"I'm not!" he exclaims, a little louder than he'd intended. He glances over his shoulder, checking to make sure no one else heard. "I'm not. I'm just doing my job, like the rest of the Guard."

“Are they as bad at lying as you are?” she asks dryly.

He frowns. She has a point. None of his brothers are particularly good liars, and Thorn has a bad habit of being too honest. It's one of the many reasons Fox doesn't trust him with any kind of covert missions, why he's the last choice for undercover work. But the idea that it's somehow obvious, that he can't hide his feelings, is disconcerting.

He tries to play it off, but his voice is strained when he says, "I'm not lying."

She gives him a pointed look, and he shifts uncomfortably, the silence stretching out between them. He looks at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but her, and the seconds drag on, the tension mounting. Finally, she sighs, and she lifts the lid off the plate, grabbing a fork and handing it to him.

"Here. Take this," she orders, pushing the plate towards him, and he takes it without thinking, the fork clutched tightly in his fist.

"Why?" he asks, his brow furrowed. 

"Because Senator Ishani asked me to," she tells him, a note of amusement in her voice. She looks him up and down. "She said you hadn't eaten, and she didn't want you to starve."

"Really?" He can't hide the surprise in his voice. Vale had mentioned that the meal would be simple, a few appetizers and a few choice selections, but nothing substantial, and he'd been expecting to wait until later to eat. The idea that she's concerned enough to have him brought a plate is...unexpected, and oddly touching.

"Yeah," she replies. "She said that you needed to keep your strength up. I didn't ask why."

Thorn feels the blush creep up his neck, his cheeks heating, and he clears his throat, trying to hide his embarrassment.

"Oh, uh, right," he mumbles, his mind immediately going to all the different reasons why Vale might want him to keep his strength up. Reasons that have nothing to do with his duties as a member of the Coruscant Guard, and everything to do with what they'll be doing later.

"Right," she echoes, and her voice is thick with amusement.

He's tempted to walk out of the room, to ignore the fact that she knows, and the fact that she's obviously amused by the whole thing. But his stomach growls, the noise echoing loudly in the quiet kitchen, and he's reminded of the fact that he hasn't eaten since before his shift ended, nearly six hours ago. He'd skipped the mess hall, instead heading straight to Vale's apartment, and he'd been too nervous to think about food.

"Well, I should, uh, I should probably eat, then," he mutters, looking down at the plate.

"You probably should," she says. She leans back against the counter, a small smirk on her lips.

He glances over at the other staff, who’re all making an effort to appear busy, before he pulls off his helmet and sets it on the counter. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and he runs a hand through the curls, brushing them out of his face.

Trina studies him, a thoughtful look on her face.

"Huh. You're cute," she says, and he snorts.

"Thanks," he says dryly as he looks down at the plate in his hands. The food is a selection of cold appetizers, the same ones that were served at the start of the evening, and his mouth waters at the sight.

He's not used to having so many options, not when most of his meals consist of ration packs and protein slurries. This is a luxury, and one he doesn't often get to indulge in. Vale has been trying to change that, bringing him food, and treats, and even a cake, once, and it's nice, but he doesn't always have the time, or the appetite, for them.

He spears a piece of what he thinks is fish and pops it into his mouth, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "Kriff, that's good."

"I know," Trina says smugly. "My cousin owns the place."

"It's amazing," he says around a mouthful. "Thank you."

She gives him a wry grin. "Don't thank me. Thank her."

He nods, looking over her shoulder at Vale, who's still engaged in her conversation, a polite smile on her face. Her gaze finds his, and the smile turns genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and he can't help but smile back. He gives her a wave, and she looks away, ducking her head, a blush staining her cheeks.

"How long have you two been seeing each other?" Trina asks, drawing his attention, and he nearly chokes on his food.

"W-what?" he sputters. He reaches for a glass of water on the counter and downs it, trying to regain his composure.

"How long have you and the Senator been sleeping together?" she asks, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and he almost chokes again.

"We're not—we haven't—" he splutters, his face flushing. He wants to say that they're not sleeping together, but the words won't come out, and the look she's giving him tells him that she's not buying it, anyway. "We're not seeing each other. I mean, not officially. Not really. We're just, uh, we're friends. Sort of. I think. Maybe."

He takes another bite, hoping to keep himself from rambling. He chews slowly, his gaze fixed on his plate, and when he finally looks up, Trina is staring at him, a bemused expression on her face.

"Huh," she murmurs. She leans against the counter, her fingers drumming on the granite. "Interesting."

"What is?"

"Nothing," she says, shaking her head, and her lekku sway behind her back. "Just...you really like her, don't you?"

He looks back at Vale, who's laughing at something someone said, her nose wrinkling. His heart aches, and he knows that his feelings are written all over his face. There's no use denying it, not to Trina, not to himself.

"Yeah," he admits, his voice soft. "I really, really do."

"That's good. She needs someone," she replies, her tone surprisingly sincere.

Thorn turns, studying her face. There's a hint of sadness in her eyes, and he can't help but wonder what she's thinking. She looks worried, her brow creased and her mouth set in a frown, and Thorn gets the sense that there's more to her concern than just his and Vale's relationship.

"Everything okay?" he asks quietly. “Is she okay?"

"No. I mean, yes. She's fine," she says quickly. She sighs, and her expression softens. "She's just...lonely. That's all."

"Lonely?"

"It's hard, being in her position," she says. She gestures around the kitchen. "All of this is hard. It's not fun. She has to put on a show, pretend to be someone she's not, just so people will like her. Just so they'll listen to her."

Thorn nods. He's seen it first-hand. He's seen the way she changes, the way she shifts, when she's speaking in the Senate, or at a conference, or at a dinner. She becomes something else, someone else, and it's not the person he knows. Or not the person he's starting to know. The one who laughs at his jokes, and steals his food, and smiles at him like he's the only thing that matters. The one he's falling in love with.

"She's been through a lot. More than most people," Trina continues. She glances back at Vale, who's now leaning forward, listening intently to a senator's rambling story. "And sometimes, it gets to her. She puts on a brave face, but it's hard."

"What do you mean?" he asks, his voice hesitant. He's not sure if he's allowed to ask, or if he's allowed to pry, and he's not sure how much he wants to know. But the urge to find out is too strong, and the words spill out before he can stop them.

She gives him a look. "Commander, how long have you known her?"

"About a year, give or take a few months," he answers, his voice unsure. It feels longer, and he's not sure when it happened. When he went from not knowing her to needing her. To wanting her.

"And in that time, has she ever mentioned her family?" she asks, and his stomach twists.

"No," he admits.

"Her childhood? Her past? Anything?"

He shakes his head, feeling a twinge of guilt. The truth is, he knows next to nothing about Vale's life. Sure, he knows her favorite foods, and her favorite holofilms, and her favorite music. He knows that she likes her caf black, and he knows that her favorite color is blue, and he knows that her birthday is in two weeks. But he doesn't know where she grew up, or what her parents were like, or anything else.

He doesn't know her. Not really. And it's not for lack of asking. 

He's tried, many times, to get her to open up, but she's always managed to dodge the questions, or change the subject, or give him some non-answer. It's frustrating, and if he's honest, it hurts. He's bared his soul to her, told her things that he's never told anyone else, and yet, she still keeps him at arm's length.

"Not really," he tells her, his voice heavy with regret. "No."

She nods, as if she was expecting his answer, and a small, sad smile tugs at her lips.

"She doesn't have much left," she says softly. "Just me, and her job, and whatever this is."

She gestures between the two of them, and his throat tightens. Whatever this is.

"And you make her happy," she says, her voice firm, and her gaze flickers over his face. "So, don't screw it up."

He blinks, caught off-guard by the bluntness of her statement. "What?"

"Commander, I've known her for years, and I've never seen her smile as much as she has these last few weeks," she explains, a hint of warning in her tone. "So, whatever this is, whatever you're doing, just...don't screw it up."

"I wouldn't," he promises. He looks down at his plate, and his gaze flickers to Vale, who's laughing at something a senator said. "I would never."

"Good," she replies, nodding, and a faint smile crosses her lips. "Because, for what it's worth, I think you're good for her. And I think she's good for you. So just, be patient with her, alright? She'll come around. Just give her time."

"I will," he says. "For as long as she'll have me."

Trina lets out a laugh. "You've got it bad, don't you?"

“It’s hard not to,” he replies, unable to keep the defensiveness from his voice. He can't help it. Vale has a way of drawing him in, of making him want things he can't have. Of making him want her, and only her, and no one else. “When someone like her gives you their attention, it's hard not to fall in love with them."

Trina stares at him, and Thorn realizes, with a flash of horror, what he's just said.

"Uh, I mean," he stammers, his face flushing, and he takes a step back, bumping into the counter behind him. "I didn't—"

"Did you just say—"

"I said nothing," he interrupts quickly, his heart racing. He can feel the panic building, and his hands tremble as he reaches for his helmet, his mind scrambling for an excuse. For anything. "I didn't say anything."

"Right. Nothing," she replies, her expression a mixture of surprise and amusement, and Thorn wants nothing more than to melt into the floor and disappear. "My lips are sealed."

"Yeah, well, it was just a figure of speech, you know, uh, a phrase, so, yeah," he mutters, and he's sure that his face is beet red by now. The implications of what he's just said are hitting him, and he's starting to panic. He can't believe he let that slip. He's going to get himself killed, and his brothers will probably laugh at his funeral.

Thorn tugs his helmet back on, letting out a sigh. This was a terrible idea. The whole thing. From start to finish.

"Thanks for the food," he mumbles, and Trina smirks.

"Sure. Anytime," she replies, her eyes sparkling, and Thorn turns away, walking out of the kitchen as quickly as he can without drawing attention.

The guests have moved into the living room, and the conversation has switched from business to gossip. The group is seated on the couches and chairs, the servers moving through the room, taking drink orders. Vale is sitting on the couch surrounded by a handful of senators and business owners, all vying for her attention. They're talking over each other, their voices overlapping and filling the room, and she's staring into her near-empty glass of wine, a bored expression on her face. Thorn can't blame her. There's nothing worse than listening to politicians try to one-up each other.

Trina steps into the middle of the group, holding the bottle of wine high above her head. "More wine, anyone?"

"Yes!" a few voices call out.

"Excellent," she says, grinning.

She refills everyone's glasses, and Thorn moves to stand next to the couch, his hands clasped behind his back. He can feel her eyes on him, but he doesn't dare meet her gaze, and he focuses his attention on the wall behind her, keeping his face carefully blank. He's not sure what to say, or how to act, and he's still not over his slip-up in the kitchen.

He doesn't even know if he's in love with her. All he knows is that he can't stop thinking about her, and he's missed her when they're apart, and the idea of her dating anyone else makes him sick. He can't stop himself from wondering if she's okay, and what she's doing, and who she's with. And he can't imagine a life without her.

But he's not sure that's the same thing.

Trina passes Vale a glass of wine, and her fingers brush against her hand. The gesture is subtle, a practiced movement, and Thorn knows it's a signal. But the effect is instantaneous, and he watches as she straightens, her posture perfect, her head held high. Her face transforms, the polite smile becoming genuine, and her eyes light up, the sparkle returning to her gaze.

Thorn has never seen anything like it. It's like a switch has been flipped, and suddenly, she's not the bored politician anymore. She's someone else, someone brighter, and Thorn has the strangest urge to protect her, to shield her from the crowd and their prying eyes, and their greedy hands. To wrap her in his arms and keep her safe, from them, from herself, and from anything else that might threaten to harm her.

“Senator, a moment please," he says, leaning over the back of the couch, and Vale tilts her head back, her eyes meeting his.

"What is it, Commander?"

"Can we speak in private for a moment?" he asks, his voice low, and she frowns, a hint of concern flashing across her face. "It's urgent."

"Oh," she murmurs, her mouth forming a perfect O. She sits up straighter, her brows furrowing, and Thorn knows she's trying to decide if she should play along or not. He nods, just a slight tilt of his head, and her lips twitch.

"Oh, alright," she says. She stands, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress, and flashes a smile at the group. "Excuse me, gentlemen."

"By all means, Senator," one of the politicians, an older man with a long, narrow face, says. "Please, attend to your duties. We'll be here when you return."

"Thank you, Senator," she replies, a sweet smile on her face. It doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I'll try not to be too long."

Thorn takes a step back, his hand resting on the hilt of his blaster, and Vale follows, a confused look on her face. He leads her to the balcony doors and opens them, holding them open for her before turning and shutting them firmly behind him. He doesn't want any distractions, and he doesn't want anyone interrupting them.

Vale moves away from him, leaning against the railing and looking out at the city, and Thorn lets out a breath. The night is warm, the air sticky and humid, and the noise from the city below drifts up towards them. It's surprisingly quiet, despite the sounds of traffic and chatter and music floating up to them, and for a moment, he just watches her.

He's still not entirely sure why he did it, why he interrupted her. He's not even sure what he wants to say. It's just a feeling, a nagging in the back of his mind, and a need to make sure she's okay.

"Everything alright?" she asks as she turns to look at him, her arms crossed over her chest. 

Her expression is carefully neutral, a perfect mask, and he can't help but wonder how many times she's had to pretend, had to lie, had to put on a show, all for the sake of being seen. He wonders if anyone's ever noticed, if anyone's ever asked. Or if they've all just assumed she's fine, that everything is okay, because why wouldn't it be? She's Senator Ishani.

He pauses, his hand still on the door, and checks to make sure that no one is watching. As soon as he's satisfied that no one is paying any attention, he walks over to her and pulls off his helmet. 

Her eyes widen, and a slow smile spreads across her face. She doesn't try to hide her reaction, and it warms his heart.

"Hi," he says, his voice soft, and she lets out a sigh.

"Hi," she breathes.

He places his helmet on the table next to him and reaches for her hand. He tangles their fingers together, and her lips part, her cheeks turning pink. She looks up at him through her lashes, her gaze dark and heated, and he steps closer, crowding her against the railing.

"How's your night going?" he asks, his voice low, and her breath hitches.

"It's alright," she murmurs, her free hand settling on his chest plate.

"Yeah? Nothing interesting happening?"

"Nothing, really," she tells him, and her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. "A lot of talking, a lot of wine. But it's a bit boring. How was the kitchen?"

"It was fine," he says, shrugging. 

"Did you like the food? Trina's cousin is the head chef," she says, her voice light. She looks nervous, a slight tremor in her voice, and he squeezes her hand gently. "If there was anything you didn't like, you can let me know. I can talk to him, see if he can add something for next time."

"It was great," he assures her, his voice sincere, and a small smile crosses her face. "Really great. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that."

"It's the least I could do," she says, waving him off. "After all, I did drag you here against your will."

"You didn't drag me," he protests, his brow furrowing, and she arches an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. He lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of her palm.  "I volunteered."

"Yeah, but not for this," she says, glancing back into the room through the sliver of a window in the door, where they can just make out the shapes of the guests inside. He can see the tension in her shoulders, the crease in her brow, and he runs his thumb along her knuckles. "I know how boring these things can be."

"You don't have to apologize, Vale," he tells her, and her eyes dart back to his. He reaches up with his free hand and caresses her cheek with his thumb, careful not to press hard enough to disturb her makeup. She leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut, and her hand wraps around his wrist. He leans down, his nose brushing against hers. "And I meant it. You're worth the wait."

She swallows hard, a shuddering breath escaping her lips, and Thorn can feel his heart hammering in his chest, the rush of blood pounding in his ears.

"What did you need to tell me?" she whispers, her breath ghosting across his face, and he fights the urge to kiss her, to throw her over his shoulder and take her upstairs, to hell with the dinner party and the guests and whatever the fuck else is happening right now.

"I..." he starts, but the words die on his lips.

_I needed to make sure you're okay. I needed to see you. I needed to make sure they weren't giving you a hard time. I wanted an excuse to talk to you. I needed to hold your hand. I need you._

"Are you okay?” he asks instead.

She blinks, surprise flickering across her face, and her lips part. 

"Yeah. Why?" she asks, a hint of suspicion in her voice. "Are you?"

He lets out a sigh. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"That doesn't sound convincing," she says. Her hand trails down his forearm and comes to rest on his waist, and he can feel the warmth of her palm through the plastoid. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. I just—" he starts, but he stops, not sure what to say. How can he tell her what Trina said without breaking her trust? How can he tell her how much he cares about her, without revealing too much? How can he make her see that he's right here, that he's not going anywhere, that he's not going to leave her?

He doesn't know.

"You just looked like you needed a break," he says, the lie slipping out before he can catch it. "That's all."

"I do need a break," she murmurs. She looks over his shoulder, at the door, and her lips twist. She lets out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know why I agreed to host this thing."

"Because it'll look good," he replies. He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and her eyes drift shut. He loves seeing her like this, unguarded and relaxed, and he wishes they were anywhere but here. "And because it'll help you get reelected."

She grimaces. "It's going to look like I'm trying to cozy up to the rich and powerful."

"Which you're not?" he teases.

"No, I am," she says, her nose wrinkling. She huffs and shakes her head. "It's a thin line, and I'm not always sure where it is. But sometimes, like tonight, it feels like I'm drowning in it."

He looks at her, the sadness in her eyes, the tiredness in her expression, and his stomach churns. He doesn't know much about the politics of the Senate, or the Republic, or even the Coruscant Guard, but he's learned that most people, even the good ones, are willing to compromise their values for their careers. But Vale isn't. And while it makes his job harder, and his life more complicated, it also makes him like her even more, if that's possible.

"I’m sorry," he murmurs, his hand moving down her neck and settling on her shoulder. He squeezes gently, his fingers digging into the tense muscles, and she lets out a soft groan.

“What are you sorry for?”

"That you have to do this. You deserve better," he says, his voice thick, and she lets out a breathy laugh.

"Well, aren't you sweet?" she says, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

"I'm serious," he says, and she meets his gaze, her eyes searching his face. He runs his thumb along her collarbone, a gentle caress, and she shivers. "Vale, if you need to leave, just say the word."

"You mean, skip my own dinner party?" she asks, a teasing note in her voice.

"If that's what you want," he replies, his voice firm, and her lips twitch. "If it'll make you happy."

"You would do that for me?"

"I would do anything for you," he says. The words come easily, falling from his lips like they've been waiting to be spoken. And maybe they have. He's not sure when he decided this, or when he knew, but he does. He knows.

Her eyes widen, surprise evident in her gaze, and her mouth drops open, a soft gasp escaping her. Thorn knows he's probably said too much, revealed too much, but he doesn't care. He's tired of hiding his feelings, of pretending he doesn't want her, doesn't need her, doesn't love her.

He's never been good at lying. Not to himself, and certainly not to others, and especially not to her.

She doesn't say anything, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant noise of the city, and the pounding of his heart. He can feel her staring at him, her gaze fixed on his face, and he holds his breath. Finally, she sighs and looks down.

"Well, that's not fair. Now I really want to leave," she says with a pout, and Thorn laughs, a weight lifting off his chest.

“Then let’s go. I’ll sneak you out,” he says, grinning. He leans down, his mouth inches from hers. "We'll have a whole night to ourselves."

"You can’t sneak me out of my own apartment," she protests, her eyes darting to his lips. "And I have a dinner party to host."

"Sure, I can. Come on. You've spent enough time with these people," he says. He glances back inside. The party is still in full swing, and no one seems to have noticed that they're gone. "You've made your rounds, and you've played host. And I know you'd rather be anywhere else right now. So let's go."

"And where would we go, Commander?" she asks. She reaches up and wraps her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His arm wraps around her waist, and she smirks. "Back to your barracks? So you can show me your bed?"

"I would, yeah," he growls. 

He pulls her flush against him, his grip tightening on her waist. She lets out a little gasp, and he presses his face to her neck, inhaling deeply. Her scent surrounds him, filling his nose, and his eyes flutter shut, his mouth watering at the thought of kissing her, touching her, tasting her.

"And what would you do to me there?" she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper, and he sucks in a sharp breath, his cock twitching in his blacks.

"What wouldn't I do?" he rasps. He presses a kiss to her pulse point, his lips trailing along her skin, and she tilts her head back, her body going lax in his arms. His teeth scrape against her collarbone, and she shudders, her nails digging into his scalp. "I'd show you how good I can be. How well I can take care of you."

She lets out a little whimper, her eyes fluttering shut.

"You would, huh?" she murmurs, her breath hitching as he trails his lips down across the tops of her breasts, his tongue dipping into the valley between them. "You think you can make me feel good?"

"I know I can," he replies, his voice confident. His hand slides down her body, coming to rest on her ass, and he squeezes, eliciting a surprised squeal from her. She lets out a giggle, and his lips twitch. “If you'll let me."

"You're not going to distract me with sex, Commander," she whispers. She runs her hands down his chest, her fingertips tracing over his armor, and she pats his breastplate. "I'm a professional."

"Me too. And I don't mix business with pleasure," he replies, smirking. He leans down and presses his lips to hers, a gentle, chaste kiss that makes her let out a small noise of frustration. "Unless my charge gives me permission, that is."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yep," he says, popping the 'p'. He pulls back, looking down at her. "So are you going to let me have you, Senator?"

Her eyes lock onto his, and he feels his breath catch. Her expression is open and vulnerable, the dark pools of her irises glittering with want, and her lips part. For the first time since they met, she looks unsure, her usual confidence missing, and Thorn knows it's a big step. It's a risk, a dangerous one, and the choice is hers.

He can't take it for her, and he can't make it for her, and he would never force her to do something she's not ready for. All he can do is ask, and wait, and hope.

"Yes, Thorn. You can have me," she whispers.

His heart skips a beat.

She said his name.

_His_ name. Not his rank, or his designation, but his name. Like it's something precious, like it's something sacred, like it's something that's just hers. It's not the first time, but it feels different. More meaningful. More intimate, like a promise, a commitment.

It's everything.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice hoarse, and she nods, a slight smile tugging at her lips.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she says. Her hand finds his and squeezes gently, her touch warm and reassuring. “But I can’t leave. Not yet. So if we could just..."

He nods, understanding immediately. "Want me to take care of you?"

"Would you?" she asks, her cheeks turning pink. "I wouldn't ask, but—"

"Hey," he interrupts, lifting her chin with his finger. Her gaze flits between his, and he can see the uncertainty in her eyes, the worry that he'll say no. But the last thing he wants to do is deny her. Not when she's been so good to him. "Of course, I will. Always. All you have to do is ask."

She smiles. It's a shy, tentative smile, and it's one he hasn't seen before. She's always confident, always sure of herself, but there's something different about this smile. It's not the smile of a senator, or a politician, or a socialite. It's the smile of a woman who's just as scared and nervous as he is.

"Okay," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Okay. That would, um, that would be great. Thank you."

He nods, letting out a soft laugh, and his hands drop to her hips. He lifts her easily, turning and backing her up against the wall next to the door, and her breath hitches. His hands move down, his palms brushing against her thighs, and she lets out a quiet gasp.

"Thorn," she whispers.

"I got you, baby," he says, his voice low and soothing. He reaches for the hem of her dress and pushes it up, his fingertips grazing over her skin. He can feel her shiver, and he leans down, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Just relax."

He drops to his knees, ignoring the twinge of pain in his back and the ache in his joints, and he nudges her legs apart. She spreads them, letting him settle between them, and he looks up at her.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his hand sliding up her inner thigh. He has half a mind to remove his gloves, but the other half, the hornier half, is too impatient to bother. "Can you keep quiet for me?"

"Yes," she breathes, her head tilting back and her eyes fluttering shut. "Yes, sir."

The words send a jolt through him, and he presses his forehead against her thigh, a shuddering breath escaping him. She knows how much he likes that, how much it affects him, and she's not afraid to use it against him. And she knows that if he's not careful, he's going to end up making a mess of his blacks and be forced to spend the rest of the night uncomfortable and frustrated.

"Kriff, baby, you can't say things like that," he mutters, and she lets out a husky chuckle.

"Why not?"

He gives her a light swat on her thigh, and her laughter turns into a squeak.

"Because I can't concentrate," he grumbles, his voice thick, and he rubs the spot where he struck her, his thumb drawing small circles over the red mark that's already forming. He wants to kiss it, wants to lick and suck and bite, but now's not the time. He has other priorities.

Thorn grabs the waistband of her underwear, yanking them down and letting them pool around her ankles. He lifts one foot, then the other, helping her step out of them, and he tucks the black lace into the pouch on his belt. She looks at him, a hint of surprise in her expression, and he grins.

"Commander, are you—"

"Shh," he hushes her as he leans in, his breath hot on her thigh, his hands tugging her dress up and baring her pussy. She squirms, her hips bucking slightly, and he rests his hands on her thighs, holding her still. "Don't move."

"Don't shush me," she says, her voice strained. “I—“

Vale lets out a soft cry as he presses his lips to her, his tongue slipping between her folds. The fabric of her dress falls back over his shoulders as his hands slide up her legs, and he wraps his arms around her thighs, holding her still. She tastes sweet and tangy, and a low growl escapes his throat as he buries his face in her cunt, his tongue darting out to lick and tease and taste her.

"Kriff, Thorn," she moans. He hums, and she shivers, her body going rigid. "Yes."

He pulls her closer, his fingers digging into the pliant flesh of her thighs, and he laps at her clit, slow, languid strokes that have her gasping for air. He can hear the muffled sounds of the dinner party through the doors, and he's reminded of where they are, of who she is, and how many people would disapprove of her being caught like this, with a member of the Coruscant Guard buried between her legs. It makes him feel powerful, in a way, and he can't help but smirk against her, a swell of pride rising in his chest.

"Fuck, you're good at that," she breathes, her fingers threading through his curls, and his eyes roll back in his head.

He loves doing this, and he especially loves doing it for her. He loves the way she squirms, the way she whines, and the way her hips jerk against his mouth. He loves how wet she gets, and how she moans his name, and how she pulls his hair.

But most of all, he loves that he's the only one who gets to see her like this. The only one who gets to hear her, the only one who gets to feel her, the only one who gets to taste her. The thought alone makes him harder, and he's half tempted to pull her down onto his lap and bury himself inside her.

But he's determined to do this for her, to bring her the pleasure she deserves, and nothing more. And as soon as the party is over, he's going to take her upstairs, and they're going to finish what they started.

He pulls away, his nose rubbing against her clit, and she groans, her thighs trembling.

"Oh, fuck," she whispers.

"Yeah? You like that?" he murmurs, nuzzling her. He glances up at her, and his breath catches. Her head is tilted back, her eyes shut, and her chest is heaving, her breasts threatening to spill out of her dress. Her mouth is hanging open, a moan falling from her lips, and his cock throbs, his balls aching. "You look so pretty like this, baby."

"Shut up," she pants, and he chuckles. Her hand rests on the back of his neck, urging him closer, and her hips rock forward, grinding against his face. "Keep going."

He obeys, his tongue returning to her clit. He alternates between soft, slow licks and hard, rough ones, and she lets out a choked gasp, her grip tightening in his hair.

"F-faster," she pleads, her voice shaking. "Please. Thorn."

"Whatever you want," he breathes, and he dives back in, his tongue circling her clit, the tip teasing and flicking and rubbing. Her legs begin to tremble, and she grinds against his face, her hand clutching the back of his neck. He’s forced to tighten his grip on her thighs, holding her in place, and a low moan escapes her.

"So good," she groans, and he pulls her closer, his mouth latched onto her clit. "You're so good."

He can't help but preen a little. He loves her praise, loves the way it makes him feel, the way it fills his chest with warmth. She doesn't give it easily, and he cherishes it, savoring the words like a fine wine.

She tugs at his hair, and a strangled moan rises in his throat. He's painfully hard now, his cock straining against his blacks, and he's grateful for the layer of plastoid covering his arousal. But the friction is torturous, and he rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the inside of his leg.

"Oh, shit," she breathes, and he realizes she can see him, can see his hand wrapped around her thigh, his hips jerking. She lets out a shaky laugh. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Fuck yeah, I am," he mumbles against her. His eyes flicker up to hers, and she bites her lip. "Are you?"

She nods, her eyes locked onto his, and he grins.

"Good," he whispers.

He sucks her clit between his lips, his tongue flicking the sensitive bud, and she whimpers, her back arching. He can feel her body stiffen, and her breathing grows ragged, her chest heaving. She's close, he can tell, and he redoubles his efforts, his tongue swirling and teasing and lapping at her, his nose bumping against her clit with every pass.

"I'm...I'm..." she chokes out, her words fading into a groan, and he can feel her shaking, her muscles tightening.

She comes with a shudder, her legs threatening to buckle, and Thorn holds her steady, his hands gripping her hips. She slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle her cries, and he keeps licking, his tongue dipping between her folds. He can feel her pulsing under his tongue, her pussy clenching around nothing, and he lets out a low moan, his cock throbbing.

He doesn't stop until she's stopped trembling, and he pulls away, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. He presses a gentle kiss to her clit, and she squeaks, a shiver running through her.

"There. That should hold you for a while," he says. He sits back on his heels, looking up at her.

Her chest is still heaving, her breasts threatening to spill out of her dress, and her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted. Her head rolls back, and her eyes flutter open, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. She looks gorgeous, thoroughly fucked and satisfied, and Thorn has never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

She lets out a breathless, shaky laugh, and Thorn can't help but join her.

"Good?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Mhm," she mumbles, and her hand moves from his neck to his head. She runs her fingers through his hair, smoothing it down as his lips press a trail of soft kisses along her thigh. "Really, really good."

"Glad to hear it," he murmurs.

"You're good," she says, a soft giggle escaping her. She's still breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, and her eyes are glassy. "Too good."

"Nah," he says, his tone playful. He gives her hip a light squeeze and rises, his knees cracking as he straightens. He adjusts her dress, pulling it down and smoothing out the wrinkles. "I'm just trying to impress you."

"Consider me impressed," she replies, smirking.

She leans in and presses a kiss to his jaw, and his eyes close, a soft sigh escaping him. Her hands find his belt, and he watches her, his heart pounding.

"Let me—"

"No," he says, his voice firm. He grips her wrist, stopping her, and she blinks, her eyes wide. "You don't have to do that."

"But you're..." she starts, and he shakes his head.

"I'm fine," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He releases her hand, and she looks down, her cheeks turning pink. "Hey. Look at me."

She lifts her gaze, meeting his, and he smiles.

"We're good, right?" he asks, his voice soft. He lifts his hand, his thumb brushing against her cheek.

She nods. "Yeah. We're good."

"Okay. Then I'm okay. More than okay. Really," he assures her, and she swallows, a frown tugging at her lips. "Hey, none of that. None of that sadness. Or guilt. Or whatever that look is. Okay?"

"Okay," she says. Her lips curve into a smile, but there's a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. "I just feel bad."

"Well, don't," he tells her. He reaches down and takes her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of her palm. "I don't. Trust me, baby. This is the highlight of my day."

She laughs, a bright, bubbly sound that makes his chest swell with pride. "Highlight, huh?"

"Yeah. Definitely," he says, grinning. "You look amazing, by the way. Really beautiful. Did I tell you that already?"

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up. You're a flatterer."

"Nope. Just being honest," he says, his eyes drifting over her body. "Seriously. I'm the luckiest guy in the world right now."

“Stop,” she whines.

"Nah. It's true," he replies. He looks back at the door, where the muffled sounds of conversation can still be heard, and lets out a sigh. "As much as I want to stay here and keep you all to myself, I think you need to get back. Before they miss you."

"Right. Yeah," she says. She steps away, straightening her dress.

Thorn reaches up and fixes her hair, his hands moving deftly. It takes him a moment, but he manages to get it mostly back in place. She smooths out the front of her dress and adjusts her cleavage, and he lets out a small, appreciative hum. He picks up his helmet, turning it so she can see her reflection in the visor, and she wipes the smeared lipstick at the corner of her mouth before giving him a grateful smile.

"Okay. Ready?" he asks, and she gives a reluctant nod.

She steps towards the balcony doors, pausing and turning back to him. Her brow is furrowed, and her bottom lip is caught between her teeth.

"Um, Thorn?"

"Yeah, baby?"

“Can I have my underwear back?"

He smirks as he tugs his helmet back on. The taste and smell of her linger on his tongue, and he licks his lips, savoring the sweetness. He'll be breathing in her scent for the rest of the night, and the thought alone makes him giddy, his cock twitching in his blacks.

"Not tonight, sweetheart," he says, his voice low and deep. He pulls his blaster out, checking the charge, and gestures towards the balcony doors. "I want you thinking about what I'm going to do to you later."

Her eyes widen, and a blush creeps up her neck, turning her skin a pretty shade of pink. "And what's that, Commander?"

He holsters his blaster and looks at her. "Everything."

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[girlnadian]

hello five.... its me..... as for the kiss prompts thing, if you could write kenifies drunk/sloppy kissing i would be Very happy. i need to see those two inebriated

kiss prompts — 3. drunk/sloppy kiss

hello keni.... welcome to my inbox..... it is an honor to write kenifies for you as always. here you go. i still feel like getting wifies drunk is like an hours long complicated process but ken can figure it out

594 words // divider

Ken is a solid, rumbling weight in his lap, claws at his throat and lips pressing against every part of his face except his mouth. It's not purposeful; they just keep missing. Wifies doesn't bother trying to help them, partially because his limbs feel too heavy to and partially because the longer he can delay any actual kissing, the longer Ken will have to sit on his thighs trying. The idea of Ken getting up kind of makes him feel like he'll cry.

Wifies digs his fingers into Ken's waist without meaning to, like he can hold them there, and Ken jolts. Oops. Fuck.

"Sorry," Wifies mumbles. He doesn't loosen his hold, though. He's not used to the feeling—getting drunk is something they only figured out he could do recently, and only because Ken had workshopped some kind of concoction especially for him. Wifies doesn't get why they care so much about getting him drunk, but he also does, kind of. Wifies certainly likes Ken when they're drunk, so he reasons that Ken will like Wifies drunk in the same way.

Ken has abandoned his face to press kisses down the column of his neck. "You can do whatever you want," they tell him. The to me goes unsaid. Wifies knows it's there, though—Ken says it all the time. He slides a hand up their back to grip the nape of their neck, the almost-scruff startling another noise out of them and making something warm bubble in Wifies' stomach like lava.

He tilts their head back until they can kiss properly. Actually, saying it's "proper" is generous; Ken kisses him open-mouthed and warm and panting, their tongue sandpaper-rough when they lick into his mouth. Trying to ground himself is useless, so Wifies lets himself get swept up in it, pressing up hard until Ken tilts. They wind up crammed against the couch cushions under him—it would be a pretty sight if Wifies could detach himself from them long enough to look.

They're alone—thank God—so Wifies doesn't worry too much about the noises they're making. Ken writhes, twisting with excess energy even as Wifies tries to hold them in place, and it's making kissing them very difficult, which doesn't seem fair because they started this. Wifies bears down on them harder, letting out a frustrated growl unbidden.

Ken makes a new noise, which Wifies registers as pained on a delay. He rears back like he's been slapped, eyes wide. (He doesn't miss the string of saliva that connects them when he does, which he will be thinking about for approximately the rest of forever.)

"Ow, ow, ow," Ken whines. Wifies hovers and mildly panics until Ken says, "my tail."

Ken sits up, turning their back to him while their palm tries to smooth over the base of their tail. Oh. Wifies probably crushed them—he's usually more careful about that. Wifies moves their hand out of the way with his own, petting down Ken's spine apologetically.

"Sorry," he says, again, bumping his forehead into their shoulder when he tries to kiss a shoulder blade. This is so hard. He misses being coordinated.

"Happens," says Ken. Their ears are upright again where they had been pinned a moment ago, so he didn't hurt them too bad. "It's fun though, right? Drunk making out."

Wifies hums an agreement. Difficult, but fun—Wifies likes challenges, anyway, and he likes Ken even more. His lips find a sensitive spot under their jaw. Ken's skin trembles against him when they purr.

"We can do more?" He asks.

"Of course. Obviously. Come here."

[songfell-ut]

Happy birthday, Vene

This was drawn by @venelona on Discord and I cleverly tricked her into letting me put this here so I can do a very small gift and rewrite the fork scene if Frisk was a dude. I realize this is not reassuring to those of you who are tired of my self-AU, but I super swear I am editing the final draft of Chapter 34 in the other tab right now.

Also, it's not the entirety of their first meeting in Frisk's room, just skipping around to the relevant bits, explaining how there's still a dramatic reveal if this Frisk isn't wearing a veil because you can pry that dramatic reveal out of my cold dead hands.

Over a day later, the High Priest shut the outer door to his chambers, whistling to himself. He set a covered tray on the table, sat down at the mirror, and checked that his eyes were clear, or at least not too red. Then he picked up his coronet and settled it over his head. He stared at his reflection for a full minute, as if waiting for the young man in the mirror to get up first; with a sigh, he finally pushed himself to his feet.

Just outside his bedroom, he let the whistle peter out into a thread of magic that ran ahead to check the loose barriers he'd set around the bed. Two echoes came back, one very close by. "Good morning. Please step back," he said into the slight crack in the door.

A pause, then a soft creak of floorboards, unnervingly quiet for something – someone – his size. "Further, please," he ordered.

The skeleton made a noise he couldn't interpret. Floorboards creaked again, and the bedframe groaned under his weight. The priest turned the doorknob, picked up the tray, and elbowed the door open.

Sans was sitting near the edge of the bed, legs crossed, elbows on his knees. He had left the nearly transparent inner bedcurtains closed, but opened the windows, and even just his outline through the thin curtain looked menacing; the light shone through his filthy shirt, shadowing the spaces between his ribs, and the fire in his sockets fully illuminated his features. The young man made himself place the tray on a side table and pull up a chair with perfect unconcern, as if he couldn't feel him staring his down. "I see you're all healed. You must have slept well," he said coolly. "I know I did."

The skeleton glanced behind him at the rumpled sheets. "Uh..."

"You were alone the whole time," the priest hastened to assure him. "There's a very comfortable couch in my office that I've been using."

skip

That didn't feel quite right, but without more evidence, the priest decided to leave it for now. Instead, he pulled the side table closer and removed the tray's cover.

Sans twitched at the sight of steaming hotcakes, piles of cheese-sprinkled eggs, tomatoes, and crisp-crusted sausage links. The priest cut a tomato slice into quarters with his fork, speared one and popped it into his mouth; rather than making Sans share the napkin, he dabbed his lips in passing with the very edge of one sleeve.

This courtesy was lost on the skeleton. "Need somethin’ ta wipe with?" he inquired, and plucked at the curtain. “How ‘bout this?”

The young man ignored him and made a show of chewing, swallowing, and lifting another tomato to his mouth. Sans didn't have a stomach, but if he had, the priest probably would have heard it growling; the monster was shifting around and scowling, clearly agitated. So the human quickened his pace, taking a huge bite of egg, a chunk of hotcake, and a sausage in turn, eating as fast as he could.

Sans' eyes had lit to orange again, and the human was glad to put the fork down. "There. You see? It isn't poisoned," he said briskly. he stood and pushed the side table over to the bed. "Help yourself."

The orange faded. Sans’ skull tilted this way and that, like a wary but curious animal. "What?"

"I had breakfast over an hour ago. This is for you," the priest explained.

Sans glanced at the tray, then back to him. The human waited for a full ten seconds, almost holding his breath, before he was rewarded with a rude noise. "Can I have another fork? Don't want your germs," he said.

skip

The skeleton's face was impossible to see clearly. Now that it was quiet, it reminded the young man too much of when he'd grabbed him in the cell. His instincts screamed at him to pull his hand back and throw a barrier between them, but determination surged as he remembered how he'd already faced down the boss monster’s attempts to kill him. He was going to forge a lasting bond between their worlds and hand over a kitchen utensil like a normal person or die trying.

Slowly, Sans reached down through the gap in the curtains, and the human fought to keep from panicking as the massive hand approached. The skeleton paused...and plucked the fork from his grip with delicate courtesy, holding it up between them. "Hm. Too small. Still dirty." He tossed it to the floor.

The High Priest stared at the fork. He stared at him. He retrieved the fork, stood up, dropped it into the pitcher, and plunged his hand in after it. Out came the utensil; the young man strode over and shoved the bedcurtain aside enough to gather up a fistful of it as a makeshift towel. This bed was centuries old and the curtains worth as much as a commoner’s entire wardrobe, but they belonged to the High Priest, which meant they were his. And as High Priest, if he wanted to use his antique linen to dry a mostly-clean fork in order to please a giant monster who was intimidating him and somehow also being a complete snot, then who was going to stop him? No one, that was exactly who.

With a righteous huff, he turned back around, still polishing the bedamned fork. "Here," he said, fully facing Sans for the first time. "I hope this is satisfactory."

Sans looked at him. He didn't say anything.

The world always seemed a little too bright with the bedcurtains open, and the light from the window was in his eyes. The priest rubbed them on his sleeve, and scratched under his jaw where the curtain had brushed it. "Well?" he demanded.

Sans didn't take it. He was leaning forward, hand dangling as if he'd started to reach for it and somehow forgotten what he was doing. His sockets were blank, an odd color washing over his bony face. "Uh," he said. "It's."

The priest didn't know that that could be a complete sentence. It probably wasn't, he thought in growing irritation. "Sans," he said carefully, "are you going to use this, or would you like to eat with your hands?"

The skeleton shook himself and turned away. "Never mind. 'm not hungry," he grumbled.

The human bit back the urge to call him a colorful name or two. "Sans, this is not a joke. There is nothing wrong with your food, except that it's cold. Eat it. Please."

"I will, I will." Sans hunched his shoulders. "Just gimme a couple minutes."

He did not have the time or patience for this. "Sans. Look at this." The monster glanced up, and in one motion, the human stabbed a sausage and another chunk of hotcake. "Say 'ahhh,'" he ordered, and when Sans blankly repeated, "Ahh?" he thrust the fork into Sans’ mouth.

skip

Sans was not wondering the same thing. He was thinking how he'd woken up not knowing where he was and had had to figure out that he wasn't dreaming about the battle in his cell: a human witch really had trapped him and knocked him out with some kind of weird brain-magic. Once he got over the fact that he couldn't take any shortcuts and wouldn't fit through the windows, though, he had to admit things could be worse; the bed really was the most comfortable thing in the world.

Talking with the witch was not comfortable. It was bad enough when he was asking Sans questions about his capture and not breaking out of prison, but then he had to give him food and say things that made sense, and things that made even more sense, and then...

Sans did not like anything about humans, especially their looks. He never understood how they could be attracted to each other long enough to reproduce; they seemed far shallower than monsters, for whom the inside really did count more than the outside, except maybe when it came to reproduction. But that was a rare occasion for them, and they thought humans' obsession with it was shallow and weird at best. Sans in particular had no interest in the human form unless he was trying to destroy it: male or female, they were all just skeletons with varying degrees of hair, meat and fluids in the way.

And then this infuriating human had turned around in the sunlight, curtain and stupid fork in hand, and Sans suddenly couldn't breathe. The overall picture was what made him feel a huge mess of feelings he didn't like or understand, but he could see every detail perfectly: lips pursed in annoyance, the sun reflecting off that black circlet thing, chestnut hair shining and reddish-brown eyes half closed against the light…even the seemingly dull, coarse hair on his face showed wavy patterns picked out in golden threads.

And then the human had tipped his head and shown a glimpse of his throat, and now Sans couldn't think things right. All he could try to do was turn away, then eat it all in order to make him go away, and only his punning instinct had saved Sans from saying or doing anything else stupid.

Why did Frisk have to like puns, too?

This was bad. It had gotten very complicated, very fast. He had to get out of here. The human had demonstrated some emotion behind his priest-y facade; maybe Sans could appeal to it, persuade him to pick some other monster and not risk boning things up? Priests weren’t supposed to bone, right? Ha, ha, etc.

…Granted, this one could probably manage it, given how powerful he was, not to mention easy on the eye sockets, but there was no telling if he was—

"...going to do it," he was saying, wiping away tears of laughter. "I'm not all-powerful, but I have enough influence at court and with the Church to guarantee your safety." Frisk looked up at him, bright-eyed, and his SOUL did another loop-de-loop. "So, Sans. Will you stay?"

He didn't want to, it was a bad idea, and he said, "No," in his mind.

Frisk smiled, tilting his head.

"Yeah," Sans said out loud.

[dykedvonte]

Ty for answering my asks! Recently, I saw some fanart of the gender bendered crew and it got me curios, how much would the plot change if Jimmy was a woman. I mean, she would still be emotionally abusive (esp to Fem!Curly), but at lest, I guess, the crash would've never happened (?)

Also, her relationship w/ Anya: if she was assulted still, it prolly would've been dissmissed, since it's between 2 women. Or, if Anya is male in this scenario, he couldn't really be able to talk abt it, since society decided that "women can't r*pe men", so it's not serious and he should suck it up. Man, it's just sucks to be Anya in any scenario my poor girl 😭

What do you think? If you have an opinion on that at all, that is

-💀

I think the scenario's where the gender was flipped or any level of gender based intersectionality is expanded makes it so much more complex.

If this is the scenario with fem!Jimmy, it comes with the territory of questionable internalized homophobia. Does Jimmy brush it off in this scenario because she doesn't think lesbian encounters are real ones? Is she struggling with her identity and taking it out on Anya who may be openly queer compared a fem!Curly who is either straight or just not interested in Jimmy? Perhaps it's a sort of weird entitled that can occur in female dominated spaces "We're both girls, I know what you have, it won't matter." It's still is something I don't see Jimmy denying in this scenario, he never really denies it in canon just talks around it with Curly. Here I can see it's less about the pregnancy and more so about the internalized homophobia. Not seeing Anya as anything but an unwanted aspect of her femineity and the allure of it, there's a lot more objectification of both Curly and Anya in this alteration as I would believe feels better thinking of them in that light if they are just fodder in her mind. Guilty pleasures that no longer bring her such. It's a careful situation because I don't want this to fall into predatory lesbian stereotyping, Jimmy is just a person who does not respect other people or their choice, if it conflict with what he wants or perceived is owed.

The idea of Curly having to report it and outing her not only as a rapist but queer and the denial, especially in the case Anya and Curly are both out as she feels a sort of resentment she can't be secure with herself that way. If it is masc!Curly, there could be the jealousy of him being able to actively pursue relationships he wants while she feels she can't, Anya and Curly playfully flirt, its casual but it's something she longs for in the same way she doesn't. She obsesses over Curly because she wishes she could be Curly in a social sense in both aspect male or female Curly.

If it's fem!Jimmy and masc!Anya? It's a much more delicate situation. In this scenario Jimmy gets pregnant. Maybe Anya does a blood test after the incident and finds out Jimmy is pregnant. It's a very sensitive matter because if it's fem!Curly her first assumption is Anya may have done something. That is just the immediate assumptions in cases like this. I think the fact that Anya is telling her would make Curly think it's not that simple, especially since Jimmy isn't brining it up or really caring but everyone reacts differently. Jimmy is pregnant however, and that's a big deal, she'll figure that out eventually on her own but how will she react? Curly knows it won't be good, Anya knows too.

I think the crash is instigated in this scenerio by fem!Curly actually doing more, refusing to sweep it under the rug because she can conceptualize that fear, likely she and Jimmy are the only girls on board. She trusts everyone, well did trust everyone, but it's just something you live with. She can't just live with that double standard but I feel like she really doesn't know how to address it. How does she bring it up to superiors without implicating Anya? What does she do with Jimmy, it still feels like she's catering to Jimmy but now the concern is primarily focused on the life this baby will be born into. If it is born at all. I don't think Jimmy would try to kill Anya in this concept but try to spin the narrative it was mutual up until she got pregnant. Curly doesn't really buy it but it's a lot of processing, a lot more he said she said but what Jimmy is saying just doesn't make sense. It gives Jimmy too much time to really settle with the fact she's pregnant and likely can't support a kid nor wants to give birth out in space. Jimmy feeling like she's being othered from the only other woman could also be a factor, maybe even starting into her thinking Curly is behaving like a "pick-me" for siding with a guy over her. The crash is more spiteful in terms of having to protect herself alone, due to Curly not outright supporting her delusions.

It really adds a certain horror to Jimmy's pregnancy hallucinations because after the crash they are about her, her symptoms the sign of showing. She doesn't want the child either and considering what being pregnant can do to your mental/physical state, especially some of the more negative symptoms, I doubt she is handling it well. A lot of Anya's struggles are with the stigmas around male victims. His body reacted so did he want it? He's gonna be a father and courts likely will make him pay or care for the baby even if they take Anya's side, their world is just like that. Would the other's blame him for not doing more, he is a man after all? Should he be considered lucky a woman was that into him? It's eating away at him because not only does he not feel safe, he actively blames himself.

In the case Curly is still a cis guy, its that weird feeling guys often get when talking about male victims of assault. I don't think he'd victim blame but he likely asks or thinks about how it could've happened, why wouldn't Anya just overpower Jimmy? Maybe he couldn't? Maybe Anya didn't have it in him to strike a woman. He wouldn't. Now he thinks of what he would have done if Jimmy did something like that to him. SImilary to my trans!Curly post, he's wondering if it could've been him. It's likely one of the first times in his life he has to think of that type of vulnerability in terms of himself and other men and against likely his girl best friend. I think that arm pat right before Jimmy crashes the ship would really make him feel weird, not like he'd have the time to really dig into those feeling but y'know WERE GONNA CRASH!!!.

In terms of Jimmy and Curly's specific relationship, it just gets messier if they aren't both guys or girls. There's a lot of misogny on Jimmy's side with fem!Curly. He often points out she's a woman captain or makes a point of her being one of the few independent woman in her field and how certain men hate that. It's insidious but Curly doesn't think about or like to cause she likes to believe Jimmy isn't one of those guys. He can be a bit antiquated, maybe a bit of a pig but no ones perfect! Here a lot of his resentment is more gear toward a woman having that power over him as Captain/filling the typical male roles he fails at. He can't stand that she's above him in almost aspect and he likely takes it out on other women. Similarly, fem!Jimmy and cis Curly is just as bad. It's a fact of not knowing if she wants to be him, wants him or wants to destroy him. It's obsession without anything positive. She feels entitled to his space and life and time and he has a hard time setting up boundaries cause, well, Jimmy's a girl, his bestfriend and it comes with all the stigmas around boygirl best friends. To him it's a sort of oppressive doting, he feels wrong telling her not to pick and like he's being controlling. That's how she'd spin it whenever he'd try to make boundaries with her.

They are still just friends but most people can't tell even if they can tell it's not healthy, in both cases. Either way I feel like if they were opposite genders to each other there would a specific infatuation Jimmy would have with Curly that would be less hidden but sort of unaddressed because the idea of Curly rejecting them would make them lash out in a way Curly may just leave for their safety. It's also Jimmy wouldn't want to be with Curly specifically but just want what would consistently provide/available.

If they are both girls, its envy. It's that sort of hate that someone fits the standards you don't, wanting them to be picked second or crack. She likes to get into Curly's head, point out flaws and act like it's just her being helpful. She wants Curly to be a girls girl but only for her. There's a sort of possessiveness like purposely jeopardizing relationships because why would a man come first? That girl hates me and is a pick me, why are you friends with her still, Curly? Like this is silly but think about how Regina George treats Gretchen Wieners and that's effectively how fem!Curly and fem!Jimmy would work but technically Curly has the sway of Regina.

I believe the crash would always happen. Jimmy would try to escape responsibility or really thinking about what they did in any world, any gender. It's about facing the consequences, losing things he refuses to let go of or having to deal with responsibilities he's not ready for. The switching of sex or gender really doesn't change those core aspects.

[kayakima]

Shooting ideas together for a later chapter of OWL and I suddenly started tearing up over the idea of Reiner getting a little squishy post-peace talk attempt #1 and Jean teasing him about it in a loving way leading to some banter and just… ugh…

It’s such a subtle thing for me in canon because it’s never explicitly talked about, but Reiner losing so much weight after he gets back to Marley and how it’s never mentioned outwardly but ties in with his depression is just something painfully relatable to me. I just really enjoy the idea of him getting soft and becoming a huge foodie post-rumbling

[crossbackpoke-check]

Substance, Shadow, and Spirit [remixed, abridged] by Tao Yuanming