#The chapter is called all over the place. because he is all over the place. and things are all over the place Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[hottiesforhockey]

may the best brother win pt 3 ⏐ h.brothers

pairings: jack hughes x afab!reader ⎜ luke hughes x afab!reader ⎜quinn hughes x afab!reader ⎜ genre: romance ⎜angst ⎜friends-to-lovers ⎜smut? ⎜ warnings: starts off nice and sweet ⎜ luke is giving possessive ⎜ oral (f!recieving) ⎜ more of jack saying dumb things ⎜ prepare for tense brotherly relationships moving forwards ⎜ synopsis: you had spent every summer with the hughes brothers since you were ten years old ... why does this summer feel so different? word count: 10.7k authors note: this is luke's chapter - it's a little steamier then the original so I hope you all enjoy.

part 1 ⎜ part 2 ⎜ part 3 ⎜

(unedited)

“He’s been out there for twenty minutes now.” Luke grumbles as he pauses the movie on your laptop, the sudden silence making the air feel heavier, more suffocating. He shifts, placing the laptop off to the side before rolling onto his side, elbow digging into the mattress as he glares at the shadow pacing back and forth in front of your bedroom door.

The two of you had bundled up in your bedroom for movie night - Quinn down stairs with a few of his friends and neither of you wanting to interrupt the oldest Hughes ‘chill’ time. You had extended an invitation to Jack not wanting to cut him out of your weekly hangouts but honestly you didn’t even expect him to show up. 

You held your chin in your hands as you glance over at Luke, his position casual as he lounges on your mattress, the two of you had been lying on your stomach watching Happy Gilmore for what seems like the hundredth time this summer, but neither of you could ignore the slow shuffle outside your door any longer. 

You don’t move. You try not to look. You just stare blankly at the frozen screen, eyes unfocused, fingers curling against the blanket as your pulse thuds steadily beneath your ribs. Loud. Unrelenting.

Because you knew. You felt it.

The weight of Jack’s presence had been pressing against the door for the last twenty minutes, stretching the space between you into something unbearable. A quiet plea. An unspoken question.

And you hated that you could hear it.

Luke exhales sharply, flopping onto his back with a theatrical groan, arms folding behind his head as he stares at the ceiling. "He either needs to come in or leave, because this? This is pathetic."

Your throat tightens, words tangling behind your teeth. "Luke—"

"No, seriously." He shifts again, this time propping himself up on one elbow, his sharp gaze flicking toward yours with a knowing smirk. "This is the guy you’ve been stressing over? The guy who doesn’t even have the balls to knock?" The tension between the two brothers had become more obvious since your last proper conversation with Jack, aside from the average two word responses you’d get out of him when you asked him a question. 

Luke despite being over friendly and welcoming to all, was loyal to a fault, even if it meant being mad at his own brother. 

His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge beneath it—a challenge. A test. A quiet prove me wrong. You inhale slowly, resisting the urge to pull your blanket higher, to shield yourself from the truth that Luke, as always, is so quick to dig up.

Jack wasn’t like Luke.

He wasn’t the type to barrel into a room, crack a joke, demand attention just to see you react. Jack hesitated. Jack overthought. Jack pulled away when he should have leaned in.

But he was still here.

Still pacing.

Still trying to figure out what to say.

And for some reason, that was almost worse.

Luke clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers against his stomach before sighing dramatically. "Alright, Princess." He turns his head just enough to look at you, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. "Your call. You gonna put him out of his misery, or should I go out there and give him a reason to leave?"

Your stomach twists.

Because deep down, you already know your answer, and you think Luke did too, which is why you weren’t surprised when he gave you a rough shove, your body hitting the floor with a thud as he flicks his head towards the door. 

“Get it over with.”  Your palms press flat against the carpet, breath caught in your throat as you shoot a glare up at Luke, who only grins in response, completely unrepentant.

"You're the worst," you mutter, though there’s no real heat behind it. Your pulse is pounding now, a steady drumbeat in your ears as you push yourself upright, shaking out the sting from your elbows. Luke just shrugs, tossing an arm behind his head once more, settling back into the pillows with an infuriating smirk. 

"Yeah, yeah. Just open the damn door." You hesitate for a second too long, nerves a tight knot in your stomach. Because once you open that door, once you let Jack in—what then? But he’s still out there. Still waiting.

With a sharp exhale, you shove yourself to your feet, swiping your hands against your pyjama pants before gripping the doorknob. It’s cold beneath your fingers.

One last breath. Then, you twist it open. Jack freezes mid-step, his sock-clad feet nearly colliding with yours. His head jerks up, wide eyes locking onto yours, and for a moment, neither of you say anything. The hallway light casts soft shadows against his face, the sharp angles of his jaw softened by hesitation, by uncertainty. His hair is a mess, ruffled like he’s been running his hands through it over and over again.

Your heart clenches.

"Hey," you say, barely above a whisper.

Jack exhales sharply, like he’d been holding his breath this entire time. "Hey."

Behind you, Luke snorts. "Oh my God. This is going to be painful."

Jack’s eyes dart over your shoulder, expression shifting instantly. "Luke, shut up."

"Make me." You shoot Luke a warning look, but he just grins, completely content with his role as the instigator. Jack sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face before dropping his arms to his sides. His fingers flex like he wants to do something—reach out, maybe—but he doesn’t. He just stands there, jaw tight, shoulders drawn.

You bite your lip. "You wanna come in?" 

Jack hesitates for only a second before nodding. You step back, making room as he crosses the threshold, shoulders tense as he slips past you. His presence fills the room instantly, the air shifting with something heavy, something unspoken. You shut the door softly behind him, leaning against it for a second longer than necessary before turning back to find Jack standing awkwardly near the foot of your bed, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Wait, I told you to talk to him, not invite him to crash our movie night." Luke whines from the bed, your eyes rolling before you shoot him a glare. 

"Luke, shut up." You hiss, mimicking jacks earlier frustrations. Luke watches you with a lazy kind of amusement, still sprawled across your mattress, arms folded behind his head like he’s watching a sitcom unfold in real-time.

"Well," Luke drawls. "This is cozy."

Jack shoots him a glare. "You don’t have to be here."

Luke’s grin is all teeth. "Yeah, but I want to be." You sigh as you move back to perch on the end of the bed, Luke’s hand automatically smoothing across the mattress and tangling in the hem of your loose t-shirt, a show of silent support. 

A promise. 

“Someone has to make sure you don’t accost her again.” 

“I didn’t acco— how do you even know what that word means?” Jack faces his attention towards his little brother, not noticing the way Luke’s fingers slide under your shirt, the cold tips brushing against the burning heat of your skin, a lazy smile on his face as he just shrugs as his brothers question. 

“Some of us are just naturally smart, Jack.” Luke teases and you can see the irritation bubbling under Jack’s skin - Luke always had a way of frustrating his brothers, and while Quinn usually just found it amusing, Jack was known to get caught up in the antagonising chides. 

Jack exhales through his nose, clearly biting back a retort, his jaw tight. His fingers twitch at his sides again, like he’s still fighting the urge to reach out, to do something, anything other than just stand there and let Luke get under his skin. But he doesn’t take the bait—not this time. Instead, he looks at you, his expression shifting, something uncertain flickering across his face.

You swallow hard. "Jack, what did you—"

He shakes his head before you can finish, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. "I don’t know," he mutters. "I just—I didn’t wanna leave things weird."

Luke snorts. "Buddy, you’ve been making it weird for weeks."

"Luke," you say sharply, shooting him another glare. He only shrugs, fingers still idly playing with the hem of your shirt like he has all the time in the world, like he doesn’t realise—or maybe he does—that every second Jack stands there, looking like that, makes your stomach twist tighter and tighter. Jack sighs again. His hands dangle between his knees, shoulders curled inward as he stares at the floor. 

"I didn’t mean to ignore you." Your breath catches in your throat. Jack’s voice is quieter now, rough around the edges. "I didn’t know what to say. And every time I tried, I just—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I dunno. I guess I thought if I gave it time, it’d get easier. But it didn’t." Something in your chest clenches painfully. Because you understand. Because you’ve felt the weight of that silence too, pressing in from every angle, thick with things left unsaid. And now that it’s finally breaking, the pieces falling between you like scattered glass, you’re not sure how to pick them up.

Luke hums from beside you, tilting his head. "So, just to clarify," he says, tone deceptively light, "your genius solution to dealing with your wrong doings was to avoid her completely?"

Jack groans, tipping his head back. "Luke—"

"No, no, I’m just making sure I’ve got this right." Luke’s smirk is sharp, eyes glinting with amusement. "Like, instead of actually talking to her, and explain why you kissed her and then ditched her not once but twice, you decided the best move was to pace outside her door like a stray dog and hope that she’d do the hard part for you?"

Luke, shut the fuck up," Jack snaps, frustration spilling over.

"Or what?" Luke challenges, lifting a brow. "You gonna throw a punch? C’mon, man, can you even reach that high?" Jack’s hands curl into fists, but he doesn’t move. You see the moment his anger flares, the moment he almost rises to it—but then his shoulders sag, exhale sharp as he forces himself to let it go. You shift, your hand shooting behind your back, taking hold of Luke's pausing his fiddling as you give his fingers a squeeze before moving them away from you.

"Enough." you say softly.

He glances at you, then back at Jack, before finally relenting with a dramatic sigh, flopping back against your pillows again. "Fine, fine. I’ll be good."

Jack mutters something under his breath, something suspiciously close to "doubt that," but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he turns his attention back to you, his expression guarded, hesitant. "Can we talk..." he hesitates, "privately?"

Luke groans. "Oh my God, just say what you need to say and go so we can go back to enjoying our night." You swat at him blindly before nodding at Jack, trying to steady your pulse. Luke makes a big show of sitting up, stretching his arms overhead before throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Well fine, if you two are gonna get all serious, I’m out."

You blink. "Wait, really?"

Luke grins, already halfway to the door. "What? You want me to stay?"

"No!" you and Jack say at the same time, and Luke barks out a laugh, hands up in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright. I’ll be in my room if you need me. Try not to kill each other. Or make out...for the third time" He winks at you, then at Jack, before ducking out the door, closing it behind him with an exaggerated click. Silence settles over the room.

Jack exhales, rubbing at his jaw. "He’s such a dick."

"Yeah," you murmur, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite everything. "But he’s not wrong."

Jack looks at you then, really looks at you, and for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like there’s a wall between you. Just hesitation. Just uncertainty. Just Jack, finally willing to stop running. "I fucked up," he says quietly. "I know that. And I know I probably don’t deserve to fix it, but—"

"Jack." You swallow hard, heart hammering.

“I just want to be friends again.” Jack says quickly, “Go back to how things were before I fucked everything up by kissing you.” Your stomach twists, frustration bubbling hot in your chest. Your fingers clench into the fabric of your pyjama pants as you take a slow breath, trying to steady yourself. "It wasn’t the kiss, Jack," you say, voice tight, controlled. "It was how you reacted."

Jack blinks, caught off guard. "What—"

“ I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again.” You whisper under your breath, “You kissed me, and then you acted like- " The words are sharper than you intend, and you pause for a minute, taking a deep breath before continuing "You pulled away like I was something you regretted. You avoided me for days. You made me feel like I was the only one who cared about what happened and wanted to fix things. And now, you just want to hit rewind like none of it mattered?"

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders stiff. "That’s not—"

"That’s exactly what you’re doing," you interrupt, shaking your head. "You want things to go back to the way they were, but they can’t. Not when you keep pretending like nothing happened. Like there is nothing going on.” Jack’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He looks away, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The silence stretches between you, thick, heavy. You don’t know what you’re expecting him to say.

Maybe an apology. Maybe an admission. Maybe just something real for once. But instead, Jack just stands there, like he’s waiting for you to tell him how to fix this. And you realise, maybe for the first time, that you can’t be the one to do that for him.

"Jack, I appreciate you trying to come and apologise, and maybe that means that a little bit of what I said last week sunk in, but you're still missing the point." The reminder of your argument with Jack last week was still fresh in your mind, the same way the feeling of his lips searing against yours still keep you awake in your bed some nights. 

"We can still be friends - we will always be friends, but we can't go back to how things were before, because you can't change what happened." Jack nods slowly, his body deflating as he takes in your words. 

"I really am sorry." He sighs and you nod, your own shoulder slouching forwards as you try to shoot him a reassuring smile. 

"I know." 

+

+

Luke had noticed Jack’s arrival to movie night in your bedroom, well before you did — the currently annoying shuffle of his older brother outside the door distracting him from paying attention to the way your face lights up when Adam Sandler does something funny. 

Luke notices when you notice Jack - your shoulders tense, your head flicking towards the door with a frown, Luke’s eyes rolling as he watches the shadow pause for a moment, almost as if his brother has finally worked up the courage to come inside before the pacing restarts. 

“He’s been out there for twenty minutes now.” Luke notes, pausing the movie as sliding the laptop across your bed so it’s out of the way, your body still frozen as he rolls on his side, propping himself up on his elbow. You silence in the room was suffocating, the image of you tensed on the bed, your chin in your hands as you refuse to tear your eyes away from the still shot no the screen of his laptop, his head tilting as he takes you in.

Luke wishes that you’d go back to ignoring his brother, and refuse to play into Jack’s mind games, restarting the movie and going back to laughing with him over the hilarity that is ‘Happy Gilmore’ but Luke’s knows you better than anyone and he knows you can’t let things go. 

He knows he’s being a little harsh as he spits soft insults to you about his brother, your tone chastising as you frown at him, but he can’t help it. As much as Luke loves his brothers, he’s never been afraid to tell them when they’re in the wrong, and Jack is so in the wrong right now. Luke shoots you a quick look before he’s putting a light expression on his face, your body automatically relaxing a little as he does. 

He watches as your eyebrows raise, your mouth letting a small squeak of surprise slip as he shoves your off the mattress and onto the floor, shooting you an amused look as you glare up at him. “Get it over with.” He grumbles with a shrug, pretending to not notice the way you dream of his gruesome murder as you push yourself off the floor and over to the door. 

Luke knows he’s antagonising his brother as you both step back into the room, your body quickly shuffling back over to the bed as you perch on the edge, Luke’s body shifting a little bit closer. 

"Well," Luke drawls. "This is cozy."

Jack shoots him a glare. "You don’t have to be here."

Luke’s grin is all teeth. "Yeah, but I want to be." Luke watches as you let out a small shiver as his cold fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt, the cold skin on his finger tips just grazing the hot skin of your back. Luke’s not sure why he’s touching you, grazing his fingers up and down the bare skin against your spine, still spitting harsh words at his brother as he watches the way you subconsciously relax into his hand, your skin pressing more and more into his own as he hurls another insult at his brother, your hand twisting around your back to get hold of his fingers. 

He stops his movements waiting for you to shove him away — which you do — but not before giving his fingers a tight squeeze, releasing them slowly, hesitantly as you softly hiss at him over your shoulder, “enough.” The word has him nodding, pulling his hand ever so slightly away from you. 

He glances at you, then back at Jack, before finally relenting with a dramatic sigh, flopping back against your pillows again. "Fine, fine. I’ll be good."

Jack mutters something under his breath, something suspiciously close to "doubt that," but Luke doesn’t push anymore — he doesn’t want to upset you.  Instead, he watches as Jack turns his focus back to you, a soft simmer of rage bubbling under Luke’s skin “Can we talk..." Jack hesitates, glancing briefly over at his brother, "privately?"

Luke groans. "Oh my God, just say what you need to say and go so we can go back to enjoying our night." His lips tilt upwards as you swat at him blindly before nodding at Jack. Luke makes a big show of sitting up, stretching his arms overhead before throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Well fine, if you two are gonna get all serious, I’m out."

Luke watches as you turn to blink at him. "Wait, really?"

Luke grins, already halfway to the door. "What? You want me to stay?"

"No!" you and Jack say at the same time, and Luke barks out a laugh, hands up in mock surrender — but he can see the small way your expression falters, your confidence shrinking as he walks to the door way, his eyes shooting Jack a silent warning. 

"Alright, alright. I’ll be in my room if you need me. Try not to kill each other. Or make out...for the third time" He winks at you, then at Jack, before ducking out the door, closing it behind him with an exaggerated click. He lets out a long breath, heading down the hallway to his bedroom, keeping the door open as he waits for any signs that he needs to return to your side, to protect you from his idiot brother. 

Luke had barely settled into his chair when he heard your door creak open again. His eyes shot to the hallway, his hand hovering over the remote control, fingers itching to turn the volume up on the TV and drown out whatever was happening. The sound of footsteps, light but steady, signalled that Jack had already made his exit.

He didn't expect the weight of the quiet in the room to hit him like a truck. He stood and took a few quick steps down the hallway, his heart quickening when he reached your door. The soft click of the door as it pushed open was followed by a sigh that told him exactly what he needed to know. "Luke," your voice broke through the stillness, so quiet, but there was a palpable tension there. "I—I'm fine." 

You weren’t, and Luke knew that. He could hear it in the way your words trembled, in the way your breathing had gotten just a little more shallow. His brother had left you upset again, and though Luke had done everything to push his presence between you both, Jack still managed to worm his way into your thoughts.

Luke stood there for a moment, staring at the door that still hung slightly ajar but not fully opened, his sight of you still sitting on the edge of your bed slightly blocked. He knew you didn’t want him to witness the aftermath, but he also knew you weren’t going to shut him out.

Not now.

Not after everything.

Without knocking, he pushed the door open. You didn’t look up at first.

"You didn’t have to come back,” you said, the words coming out a little flat. Luke didn't respond immediately. He just took a step inside, his eyes scanning the room for any hint of what you might need. When he found none, he sighed and crossed the room toward the bed, sitting down beside you without waiting for permission.

"Of course I did,” he muttered, though there was no malice in his voice, just a quiet understanding. "You think I’m going to let you sit here alone.” His eyes softened as he turned to you, and he let his gaze linger, watching the small frown tug at your lips.

"I didn’t want to make it worse," you whispered, your voice strained. "I didn’t want to cause more trouble." Luke’s lips twisted into a small, knowing smile as he reached forward, brushing a lock of hair away from your face, his thumb briefly grazing the skin along your cheek. 

"You’re not the one causing trouble. He is." His voice was steady now, more protective, almost possessive, as he leaned back, his arms folding behind him on the bed to settle in. “Look, you’ve been through enough. Jack doesn’t get to leave you in pieces like that. Not when I’m around.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “What are you going to do?”

Luke’s smirk widened as he shifted to a more comfortable position on the bed. "What do you think? I’m staying." He grinned, stretching out lazily, and without hesitation, threw an arm behind you on the mattress, just a little too close, but close enough to make sure you felt the weight of his presence. “You need to calm down, right? I’m not going anywhere movie night is becoming an all night event.” For a moment, the tension in the room seemed to settle. His proximity, the quiet assurance in his voice, started to have the desired effect. Your shoulders loosened, just a little, and the frown on your lips softened as you leaned back against the pillows.

Luke didn’t move, still keeping a watchful eye on you, ready to fight anyone who dared to upset you again. “Jack’s been an idiot for a while and he’s my brother,” he added, his voice growing more serious. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you deal with his crap alone.” You didn’t reply right away. Instead, you let out a small sigh, your body inching just a little closer to him, instinctively seeking his comfort, you hands sitting besides each other on the bed between you both, Luke using his other hand to pull his computer back onto his lap. 

Luke smiled as he stretched his hand, his fingers brushing against yours in an almost absent touch, not expecting a reaction from you. 

He didn’t need one anyway. 

He wasn’t going anywhere.

+

+

The sound of “Eye of the Tiger” blaring in your dark bedroom and the heavy arm draped over your waist makes you groan softly, stirring against the warmth pressed into your back. Your eyes crack open just enough to confirm that you are, in fact, still in your own bedroom. But something feels... off. Your brows furrow as your gaze drifts downward, landing on the unfamiliar sight of a larger hand entwined with yours, resting against the comforter. Your fingers shift slightly, testing the grasp, and the movement earns you a sleepy squeeze in return.

You blink, momentarily confused, until the deep, steady breathing behind you registers.

Luke.

His arm is still heavy around you, his long fingers loosely tangled with yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “No wonder my hand is so sweaty,” you mumble, attempting to shift without disturbing him.

“Mm, what?” Luke’s voice is thick with sleep, his grip on your hand slackening as he turns onto his back with a deep exhale. His other hand fumbles blindly across the mattress, smacking at his phone until the blaring music cuts off. He groans and stretches before turning his head to look at you, a sleepy grin tugging at his lips.

“Nine AM, sugar cookie. Rise and shine.” His voice is low and rough, the last remnants of sleep clinging to his words.

“Sugar cookie?” You arch an eyebrow, shifting onto your side to face him.

“I know, it’s just not right, is it?” He hums, rubbing at his face before sitting up, his curls an absolute mess from sleep. His T-shirt is rumpled, the fabric sticking to one side of his shoulder in a way that makes him look impossibly endearing. He turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“We gotta get up, though. Can’t let date day go to waste.”

Date day. The words settle between you, and your stomach twists with something uncertain. Excitement? Nervousness? You’re not sure. What you do know is that Luke is grinning at you like he’s been waiting for this all week.

“Time for us to get our game faces on,” he teases, reaching out to flick your forehead gently. “The bet’s not gonna win itself.”

You roll your eyes, finally pushing yourself up into a sitting position. “This is ridiculous. I don’t even know why you’re this invested.”

Luke scoffs, rolling off the bed in one fluid motion. “You’re just mad ‘cause Jacky made a boo boo.” He shoots you a knowing look before sauntering toward the window, grabbing onto the curtains.

“Luke, don’t you dare—” He dares. He rips them open, flooding the room with blinding sunlight. You groan dramatically, flopping backward onto the mattress as he chuckles, arms crossing over his broad chest.

“You don’t think I’m gonna let jack just coast to forgiveness, do you?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it. A spark of something deeper. “He thinks he can just kiss you out of nowhere and act like it’s nothing?”

You swallow hard, caught off guard by the shift in his voice. There’s something unreadable in his expression, his gaze sharp and unwavering. But before you can even think of a response, he’s grinning again, the weight of the moment vanishing as quickly as it came. “Pfft, not on my watch,” he declares, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. “I’m gonna make this the most fun you’ll ever have on a date.” You snort, shaking your head.

“Actually, scratch that,” he continues, leaning in slightly. “You’re never going to go on another date ever again because you’ll be so enamoured by me.” You laugh despite yourself, shoving at his chest. He barely moves, his grin widening as he winks.

“Very funny. Now get out so I can get ready for whatever you’re going to enamour me with.”

“As you wish, m’lady,” he says with an exaggerated bow, turning toward the door. The second he pulls it open, Jack is standing there, his expression unreadable as his eyes flick between you and Luke.

Luke doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, and wear something comfy,” he adds, nodding in greeting to his older brother before ruffling his already messy curls and strolling down the hall. Jack steps inside, leaning against your doorframe, his gaze steady.

“He has a lot of energy,” Jack notes, his voice quieter than usual.

“He’s excited,” you reply, smoothing down your pyjamas as you stand.

Jack hesitates, then exhales. “Listen, I think about last night...” Something in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. You chance a glance at his face, expecting a smirk, but his expression is blank.

“Can we do it later?” you ask, forcing a light tone. “I have a feeling if I’m not ready in fifteen minutes, Luke is gonna drag me out in my pyjamas.” Jack lingers for a second before clearing his throat. 

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, whenever suits you.” He shoots you a small smile before clapping his hand against the doorframe and walking away. You watch him disappear down the hall, the soft click of his door sending a ripple of unease through you. Maybe Luke was right.

“Fifteen minutes, princess!” Luke’s voice rings out, and you huff, rolling your eyes. Right now, you had a date to focus on.

You dress quickly, tugging a soft, thin white sweater over your head before slipping into your muted green overalls. The fabric is comfortably worn, the straps adjusted to the perfect fit after countless wears. Your favorite pair of white Converse—scuffed, broken in, and softened with time—find their place on your feet as you sling a small crossbody bag over your shoulder, making sure it holds only the essentials: phone, wallet, chapstick, and a few stray hair ties.

A sharp knock echoes against your door. “I’m coming,” you hiss, hurriedly pulling your hair into a ponytail. A few loose strands stubbornly slip free, framing your face no matter how much you try to tuck them away.

Luke stands just outside your room, his arms crossed as he pointedly glances down at his watch, exaggerating his impatience. He’s dressed in black athletic shorts and a faded blue concert tee, the fabric worn thin from years of washes. His dark hair is freshly showered, air-dried and—shockingly—brushed, a rare effort on his part. He wears his own white Converse, just as battered as yours, and as soon as his eyes land on your feet, a smirk creeps across his face.

“Look at us, twinning,” he announces, stretching his arms out dramatically. “We’d make the cutest couple, wouldn’t we?” He sing-songs, casting a playful glance at Quinn.

Quinn, unfazed, simply slides a plate of freshly cut fruit toward you as you settle onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. “Here.”

“Thanks.” You spear a slice of crisp red apple with your fork, savouring the juicy crunch as Luke plops into the seat beside you, reaching for a piece of fruit with his bare hands.

Quinn watches as his younger brother rummages through a small black backpack, stuffing it with Gatorade bottles and assorted snack packs. “He’s got a lot of energy,” he comments dryly.

You hum in agreement, déjà vu washing over you as the moment mirrors your earlier encounter with Jack. “He’s excited.”

“So what’s your plan for today?” Quinn asks, leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he observes Luke with mild curiosity. Luke zips up his bag with a mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Why? Trying to keep your enemies close?” He slings the bag over one shoulder, though it looks almost comically small against his broad back.

Quinn barely reacts. “I just like knowing what disaster I’ll have to deal with later.”

Luke ignores the jab, turning toward you with an impish grin. “We may or may not be going to one of your favourite places.”

Your brows knit together as you tilt your head. “There’s a fair nearby?”

Luke nods, swiping an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a large, unceremonious bite.

“Since when? How did I not know about this?” You exclaim, more excited than offended.

Quinn smirks knowingly. “Didn’t your friends from Umich invite you to hang out with them there?”

Your excitement falters, a frown creeping onto your lips. “Wait... so you’re using this date as an excuse to see your friends?” Luke immediately shakes his head, bending down slightly so his breath tickles the shell of your ear.

 “No, I’m using it as an excuse to show you off to my friends.” You roll your eyes, but the warmth in his tone and the shameless grin on his face make it impossible not to smile.

He nudges your shoulder. “Now, come on, we’ve got an hour drive ahead of us.” He’s already ushering you toward the front door, offering Quinn a casual wave over his shoulder. “See you later tonight!” Before Quinn can respond, the door slams shut behind you.

The one-hour drive melts away into laughter and lazy conversation. The windows are rolled down just enough to let in the warm breeze, ruffling the ends of your hair as you absentmindedly flip through Luke’s playlist. The car smells faintly of pine air freshener and the remnants of fast food fries, and every few minutes, Luke sneaks a glance at you from the driver’s seat, his hand resting comfortably between the two of you on the centre console.

Before you know it, you’re pulling into a grassy lot beside the fairgrounds, the vibrant atmosphere already seeping into your senses. The scent of fried dough, caramel popcorn, and freshly cut grass lingers in the warm evening air, interwoven with the distant hum of carnival music. Strings of golden lights illuminate the fairgrounds, flickering like fireflies as the sun begins to dip below the horizon.

Luke parks the car and is out the door in an instant, jogging around the hood before you even unbuckle your seatbelt. He swings the door open with a flourish, grinning down at you.

“What a gentleman,” you tease, stepping out and adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Only the best for my date,” he shoots back, punctuating his words with a wink as his fingers wrap around yours, lacing them together like it’s second nature. The fair is already alive with movement—kids dashing past, their sticky fingers gripping oversized stuffed animals, couples strolling hand-in-hand, the glow of neon lights reflecting off their smiling faces. The sounds of carnival games, the distant rumble of roller coasters, and the occasional shriek from the drop tower all blend into the air, a symphony of excitement and nostalgia.

Luke doesn’t hesitate as he pulls you into the crowd, his grip firm but gentle, ensuring you never stray too far. “Alright,” he says, turning to you with a smirk, “where to first?”

You nudge Luke with your shoulder, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “I don’t know... you’re the one who planned this, remember?” He grins, hands stuffed in his pockets as he scans the fairgrounds. 

“Right, but it’s all about what you want.” He gestures dramatically to the sea of colourful booths and flashing rides. “Games? Rides? Food? Name it.”

Your gaze drifts over the chaos until it lands on the Ferris wheel towering above it all, its lights twinkling even in the bright midday sun. There’s something about it—the way it stands apart from the noise, offering a brief escape into the sky.

“That,” you say, pointing.

“The Ferris wheel? Starting strong, I like it.” Luke’s grin widens as he starts leading you toward it, but he suddenly halts, tugging gently on your hand.

“Hold up,” he says, eyes locking onto a ring-toss booth lined with giant stuffed animals. His expression turns mischievous. “I’ve got to win you something first. It’s tradition.”

You arch a brow. “Tradition?”

“Obviously.” He gestures toward the rows of oversized plush toys. “No fair date is complete without a ridiculously large stuffed animal you have no idea where to put later.”

Before you can protest, he hands a few bills to the booth operator, rolling his shoulders like an athlete about to perform. You bite your lip to keep from laughing as he lines up his first shot, brows furrowed in concentration.

The first two tosses miss. Barely.

“Oh, laugh it up,” he says, cutting you a sideways glare as you try to stifle your giggles behind your hand. “I’m just warming up.” The third ring lands perfectly around the bottle, and Luke lets out a triumphant shout, throwing his arms up. The booth operator sighs in defeat and hands over an enormous stuffed bear, almost as big as you are. Luke turns to you with a proud smirk, holding it out like an offering.

“For you,” he declares dramatically.

You can’t help but laugh as you take it, hugging the soft toy close. “This is completely impractical, but thank you.”

“Impractical?” Luke scoffs. “No way. It’s the ultimate prize.” He leans in slightly, voice dipping lower. “Besides, it’s my excuse to get people going 'wow he must be a great date'.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin betrays you. “Smooth.” As you near the Ferris wheel, your hand brushes against his. It’s accidental at first—a fleeting touch in the shifting crowd—but then Luke makes the choice for you, slipping his fingers through yours again like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your heart stutters slightly, but you don’t pull away.

When you step into the carriage, the world below begins to shrink, stretching out in bright, sunlit hues as the fairgrounds sprawl beneath you. Luke settles beside you, his knee grazing yours as the seat rocks gently. You can feel the warmth of him, even with the summer breeze drifting through the bars on the carriage. 

He exhales slowly, taking in the view. “Okay, you were right,” he murmurs. “This was the perfect first stop.” You glance at him, catching the way the sunlight softens his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the flecks of gold in his eyes. He’s not looking at you, too distracted by the endless stretch of blue sky, and it gives you a moment to simply... admire him.

He must feel your gaze because he turns, catching you staring. A slow, teasing grin tugs at his lips. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

Your heart jumps, and you quickly look away. “No,” you mumble, a little too fast. “I just—yeah, it’s a good view.” 

Luke chuckles, shaking his head. “Busted.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Just enjoy the view, Hughes.”

"Oh trust me, I am." The ride slows as you reach the very top, pausing briefly to let the passengers below unload. The world feels quiet up here, separate from the lively fairgrounds below. Your knees brushing against his as you sit on opposite sides, both looking over the growing crowds in awe, and this time, neither of you moves away. When you finally step off the Ferris wheel, the fair is in full swing, and Luke’s hand finds yours again, grounding you.

“Alright, most important part of the fair: food,” he announces.

“Corn dogs and lemonade?” you guess.

“Obviously.” He feigns offence. “But also, giant pretzels. And deep-fried everything.” Luke insists on ordering for both of you, and soon, your hands are full of hot, sugary funnel cake and an absurdly large lemonade. You find a spot near the carousel, sharing bites of the warm, sticky dessert. At one point, Luke gestures vaguely toward your chin.

“You’ve got some—”

“Where?” You swipe at your face with a napkin.

“Nope, missed it.” He reaches out, brushing the powdered sugar away with his thumb. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers, sending a warm flutter through your chest. His fingers stay just a second too long before he pulls back, clearing his throat. You open your mouth to say something, but before you can, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks it, then tucks it away with a sigh.

“Your friends?” you ask.

Luke nods. “Yeah. They’re somewhere around here.”

You tilt your head. “I thought you wanted to meet up with them?”

His fingers drum against the table. “I did,” he says, but there’s something hesitant in his voice. Then, under his breath, he mutters something too quiet to catch.

“What was that?” you tease, leaning closer.

He exhales, finally looking at you. “I said, I’d rather spend today with you.” Your breath catches. There’s a flicker of vulnerability in his expression, like he’s not quite sure what you’ll say.

“Okay,” you reply softly.

“Okay?” His lips twitch like he’s trying to suppress a grin.

“I like spending time with you too, Luke.”

His grin breaks free, warm and unguarded. “That’s good.” He pauses. 

“Yeah, you’re like my best guy friend.” You tease, watching Luke’s face drop a little, the infamous Hughes pout spreading across his lips.

“Great, this is great.” He groans, running a hand down his face in despair before dramatically slumping against the table. His head drops forward, forehead nearly hitting the surface, as a muffled groan of defeat escapes him. You let out a snort of laughter, unable to help yourself at his exaggerated misery. Shaking your head, you slide out from your seat, grabbing the oversized bear that’s become your new companion and making your way over to his side. He stays put, unmoving, still wallowing in self-pity. You bite your lip, fighting the grin threatening to take over your face as you set the bear down, perching one knee on the bench beside him.

“I’m kidding, Luke.” Your voice is soft, laced with amusement, as you lean forward and press a featherlight kiss against his cheek. The warmth of his skin lingers against your lips for a fraction of a second before you pull back, barely dodging as he jerks upright, eyes wide.

“Oh, now you’re just messing with me,” he accuses, squinting at you, though his mouth twitches at the corners. You can tell he’s fighting a smile.

“Are we gonna continue this date or not?” You challenge, tilting your head. 

Luke stares at you for a beat before exhaling through his nose, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” Still, he stands, sliding out of the booth with ease, and reaches a hand behind him without hesitation. His fingers curl, expectant, waiting. You don’t make him wait long. As soon as your palm slides against his, he squeezes, firm and warm, grounding. The rest of the day seems to blur together, the heat of the sun beating down as the hours slip by. The fair is still alive with colour and noise, but the crowds begin to thin, the air cooling as the afternoon fades into early evening. Your arms are now filled with both your giant bear and a more reasonably sized unicorn—Luke’s hard-earned prize after six frustrating attempts at the basketball game.

“I still say that hoop was rigged,” Luke mutters, eyeing the unicorn with an air of resentment.

You laugh. “You just don’t want to admit you’re bad at basketball.”

Luke gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I’ve seen better.” You shrug, struggling not to laugh at the utter betrayal on his face.

“You take that back right now.”

“I take nothing back.” Luke groans dramatically but doesn’t press it further. Instead, he glances over at you, his expression shifting slightly. 

“You’re looking a little tired.”

You sigh, rolling your shoulders. “A little. I just need to use the bathroom before we head out.”

He nods, immediately reaching for the stuffed animals in your arms, pulling them into his own with ease. “I’ll wait right here.”

You shoot him a grateful smile before making your way toward the restroom sign. It takes longer than expected—the line stretching farther than you’d hoped—but eventually, you finish up, carefully manoeuvring your way out without touching the questionably grimy walls.

When you step back into the fairground, Luke is exactly where you left him, but now he’s not alone. A small group has gathered around him, and it only takes a second for you to recognise them—his friends. The ones he’d pointedly avoided meeting up with all day, the ones he had chosen you over. You hesitate, slowing your steps, not wanting to intrude. Instead, you pull out your phone, finally checking the notifications you’d ignored throughout the day.

least favourite hughes : Let me know when you guys are heading home.

least favourite hughes 😈: I hope you had a lot of fun on your date.

least favourite hughes 😈: I’m sorry if I made things weird between us.

favourite hughes 😇: I think you broke my brother.

You blink at the last message, the edges of your lips twitching as you glance up. Luke is still deep in conversation, laughing at something one of his friends said, but as if sensing your gaze, he suddenly turns.

His eyes find yours immediately, and his face lights up. “Hey, what are you doing over there?” Your head pops up at his voice, catching the attention of the whole group. Your eyes widen slightly at the sudden spotlight.

“Just catching up on my messages,” you reply quickly, awkwardly holding up your phone as if to prove your point. The gesture earns a few polite nods from his friends before they turn back to their hushed conversation, though whatever they’re whispering about clearly pleases Luke, if the smug, boyish grin on his face is anything to go by.

Then, without hesitation, he lifts his hand and motions for you to come closer. When you don’t immediately move, he starts making exaggerated grabby motions, fingers curling impatiently, like a toddler. You roll your eyes but step forward, slipping your hand into his. Luke exhales softly, his grip tightening around yours as he pulls you close to his side. Then, with a slowness that makes your breath hitch, he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles—soft, lingering, like he’s savouring the moment. Your heart stumbles, beating an erratic rhythm against your ribs as you glance up at him in surprise.

He only grins. “It was good seeing you guys,” he says, effortlessly redirecting the conversation. “We need to do a lake trip soon.”

His friends nod, offering their own goodbyes and promises to catch up soon, and then, just like that, Luke is steering you away, his strides slow and unhurried as if he has no desire to rush the moment. By the time you settle into the car, the day’s warmth still clinging to your skin, Luke glances over at you, his expression softer now, a little hesitant.

“So...” he begins, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Was this a good first date?”

You smile, leaning your head against the window. “It was perfect.” Luke’s grin is instant, wide and unguarded. He reaches over, placing a hand against your thigh, his touch featherlight. He doesn’t move it, doesn’t let go. Instead, his thumb begins tracing soft, absentminded circles against your skin, a quiet, unconscious motion that makes warmth bloom in your chest.

His hand stays there the entire ride home.

+

+

Luke parks the car and turns off the engine, but neither of you moves. The air between you hums with an unspoken energy, a quiet intensity settling in the small space of the vehicle. His hand remains on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. The simple touch is grounding, yet it sends a shiver up your spine, making you acutely aware of every nerve in your body. He finally looks over at you, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re not going to make me walk you to the door like a proper gentleman, are you?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something deeper, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You chuckle, un-clicking your seatbelt with a soft click. “Well, you did earn some serious points tonight. But sure, let’s see just how gentlemanly you can be.” He exhales dramatically, shaking his head as if put upon, but he’s out of the car in an instant. You barely have time to gather yourself before he jogs around to your side, opening the door with an exaggerated flourish.

“M’lady,” he quips, offering his hand. Laughing, you take it, his fingers curling around yours as he helps you from the car. The night air is crisp against your flushed skin, and without thinking, you step in closer to his warmth. His arm finds your waist with an ease that feels effortless, pulling you in as you make your way to the door. His presence is intoxicating, the scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness of cotton candy from earlier at the fair.

But when you reach your doorstep, Luke doesn’t stop. He presses forward, hand still entwined with yours, his pace unhurried but deliberate.

“Where are you going?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, watching as he steps inside, only to glance back at you with a devilish smirk.

“This is the door, but not your door.” His meaning is crystal clear, your pulse quickening as he keeps walking, guiding you upstairs until you stop outside your bedroom. The air shifts, the teasing edge fading into something heavier, something charged. His boyish grin softens, a flicker of nervousness dancing in his eyes as he rubs the back of his neck.

“So… I had a really good time today,” he murmurs, his voice rougher now, more vulnerable.

“Me too,” you say, matching his tone, your breath catching as he lifts a hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch is featherlight, yet it leaves a trail of heat in its wake.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he admits, fingers grazing along your jawline, his eyes locked on yours.

“It was.” Luke exhales, something shifting in his gaze as his fingers slide to cup your cheek. There’s a brief hesitation, like he’s waiting for you to pull away, to stop this before it goes too far. But you don’t. Instead, you tilt your chin up, wordlessly giving him permission.

That’s all he needs. His lips find yours, firm yet reverent, like he’s memorising the way you taste. Your fingers tighten around his shirt, gripping onto him as you rise onto your tiptoes, pulling him closer, deeper. He grunts softly against your lips, the sound sending a delicious shiver through your body.

With a deft movement, his hand finds your door handle, twisting it open as he carefully guides you inside. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly, the air feels thicker, heavier. His hands remain gentle as they cradle your face, but there’s an urgency in the way his lips move against yours, a hunger that neither of you can ignore.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “Is this too much?” The question barely makes it past your lips before he shakes his head, thumbs stroking along your cheeks.

“Not unless you think it is.” His voice is rough with restraint, his breathing uneven. Your lips part, hesitation flickering in your eyes as a thought crosses your mind. 

“Is this not kinda crossing the line? I mean, this didn't work out well for me last time.” You let out a nervous laugh. 

"You're comparing me to Jack?" He asks softly, your head quickly shaking, your eyes widening in surprise as he looks down at you with one brow raised. Instead, he leans in, his breath warm against your lips.

“Do you want to kiss me?” he asks, his voice husky, deliberate. You swallow, nodding slowly. A smirk tugs at his lips. “Then fuck the line.” And with that, he claims your mouth again, his grip firm as he walks you backward toward the bed. He sinks down onto the edge, pulling you into his lap with ease. The moment your legs straddle him, he exhales sharply, his hands gripping your waist like he never wants to let go.

Luke only pulls away long enough to yank his shirt over his head, his toned chest rising and falling with deep breaths. His fingers grip your hips, encouraging you to press closer, his lips latching onto your neck, leaving trails of heat in their wake. Your hands slide up his arms, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch before threading into his hair, tugging slightly. He lets out a quiet groan, his grip tightening in response.

“Why did you have to wear fucking overalls?” he grumbles, voice rough with frustration, his hands fumbling at the buttons. You laugh breathlessly, reaching up to undo them yourself, letting the top fall from your shoulders.

He watches you with darkened eyes, his fingers twitching as they trace the bare skin of your sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your sports bra. He hesitates, waiting for your nod before pulling the fabric up and over your head.

“I wasn’t really going for aesthetic this morning,” you murmur, glancing down at yourself.

Luke shakes his head, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “I’ve never been one for aesthetics,” he murmurs, his hands slipping around your back, trailing warmth wherever he touches. He pauses just as his fingers find the clasp of your bra—

Knock, knock.

“Are you in there?” Jack’s voice cuts through the thick haze in the room, your head snapping toward the door. Shadows shift beneath the crack, and your stomach drops.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Luke growls, his grip on your hips tightening briefly before he lets out a sigh. His forehead presses against yours, a chuckle escaping his lips. “Just ignore him, maybe he'll go away,” he murmurs. You huff, burying your face in his shoulder as he places another kiss to your jaw, then another, before reluctantly shifting to help you back onto your feet - knowing his brother wasn't going to just go away if his pacing last night was anything to go by. He hands you your sweater, pressing one final kiss to your nose before pulling his own shirt over his head.

When Luke finally yanks the door open, his curls are a mess, his lips are red and swollen, and his chest rises and falls like he’s barely caught his breath. Jack’s eyes widen slightly before narrowing, suspicion flaring in his gaze as he glances between you both. “I have a feeling I interrupted something,” Jack mutters, his voice edged with amusement, but there’s something sharper underneath.

Luke rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You did.” His voice is clipped, edged with irritation, but he doesn’t back down.

Jack’s smirk is slow, mean. “Going after my sloppy seconds, huh?” The words land like a slap, the air in the room turning suffocatingly thick. Your mouth parts in a sharp inhale, a soft gasp slipping out before you can stop it. Luke’s whole body tenses, his shoulders snapping back, muscles coiling tight with barely restrained fury. His jaw locks, nostrils flaring, and when he takes a single step forward, Jack barely has time to react before Luke’s palm slams against his chest, pushing him back a step.

“The fuck did you just say?” Luke’s voice is low, lethal.

Jack scoffs, recovering quickly. “Come on, man. You don’t think this is a little pathetic?” Your stomach twists, heat crawling up your neck—not from desire this time, but from humiliation, anger.

Luke shakes his head, letting out a humourless laugh. “You think she’s some kind of leftovers?” He takes another step forward, voice dropping to something razor-sharp and dangerous. “That just proves you never deserved her in the first place.” Jack’s lips press into a thin line, jaw ticking. 

“I’m just saying, she’s kissed two of us now, you don’t think she’s going to go for the whole colle—” Luke doesn’t let him finish. The door slams in Jack’s face with enough force to shake the walls. The echo of it rings in the silence that follows, the tension between you a live wire, snapping and crackling with raw emotion.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. Your breath comes fast, heart hammering against your ribs. Luke stands still, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s still itching to throw a punch. Then, finally, he turns to you, his expression shifting, something unreadable flickering in his darkened gaze.

Luke exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his chest still rising and falling in controlled, shallow breaths. His jaw tightens, a flicker of frustration crossing his features before he speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice lower, rougher, edged with something dangerous. “He’s a fucking idiot.”

You swallow hard, a lump forming in your throat as you nod. “Yeah. He is.” Luke studies you for a long moment, his gaze intent, searching. He’s looking for the damage Jack might have caused, for any sign that his words have seeped under your skin, leaving wounds that can’t be seen. And then, as if making the decision for both of you, he exhales slowly and shakes his head.

“Forget him. Forget all of it.”

And then he’s on you.

The kiss is different this time. It isn’t just heat or need—it’s desperation, possession, an unspoken plea to erase every single doubt Jack tried to plant in your mind. His hands find your waist, fingers pressing in like he’s terrified you might slip away. His lips move against yours with a slow, intoxicating hunger, coaxing, taking, reclaiming. When his tongue brushes against yours, a soft, needy whimper escapes you, and he groans into your mouth like he’s been starving for this, for you.

He walks you back, step by step, his grip unyielding, until your knees hit the bed. For a moment, he hesitates, like he’s giving you one last chance to stop him, to tell him this is too much, too fast. But you don’t. You don’t want to.

His grip tightens, and he lowers you down, his body following without hesitation. His weight presses into you, solid muscle and warmth, grounding you, reminding you that you’re here, that you’re his. The world outside ceases to exist; there is only this, only him.

“Tell me he’s wrong,” Luke murmurs, his lips ghosting over your jaw, down the column of your throat. His breath is warm against your skin, his voice rough with something raw, something unshakable. "Tell me you won't believe a single thing he said."  His teeth scrape over your pulse point, and you shudder, your fingers threading into his curls, tugging him back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, stormy, filled with hunger that has nothing to do with anger anymore.

“He’s wrong,” you whisper.

A low sound rumbles from his chest, pleased, satisfied. “Good.”

His lips crash against yours again, deeper this time, a slow, consuming burn that steals every thought from your head. His hands roam your body, tracing, exploring, memorising. He touches you like he’s trying to rewrite every terrible thing Jack ever made you feel, like he’s replacing them with something sacred, something unshakable.

“You need to tell me to slow down, ” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Because I can't do it myself." His lips skim over your collarbone, his hands sliding down your sides, his fingers making slow, reverent work of every layer of clothing on you, till you lay bare beneath him, goosebumps prickling along your skin at the cool summer air. “You deserve to be worshiped.”

The words steal the breath from your lungs. Your body burns under his touch, anticipation curling tight in your stomach as he maps a path lower, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

When his hands part your thighs, his gaze flicks up, holding yours as he murmurs, “Will you let me?” Your answer is a breathless, desperate nod. And then he’s there, his mouth on you, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate strokes that send a sharp jolt of heat through you. A gasp breaks from your lips, fingers twisting into the sheets as pleasure crashes over you in waves. Luke hums against you, the vibration sending another spark of pleasure through your core. He’s relentless, thorough, savouring every shudder, every tremor, like he has all the time in the world.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groans, his voice ragged, needy. His arms wrap around your thighs, pulling you tighter against him, like he never wants to let go. “I could die a happy man down here.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he dives back in, his tongue moving with slow, devastating precision. His name spills from your lips in breathless, desperate whispers, your body arching against him, losing yourself in the pleasure he gives so willingly.

When you finally break apart beneath him, your body trembling, his hands smooth over your thighs in soothing strokes. His lips press soft, lingering kisses against your skin, his touch reverent, grounding.

He moves back up, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and satisfied. He grins against your stomach, then higher, trailing heat all the way back to your lips.

“Told you,” he murmurs, voice rough, pressing a final, lingering kiss against your parted lips. “The bare fucking minimum.” His gaze never leaves yours as he shifts above you, a silent promise lingering in the air, heavy and unspoken. His hands gently push your hair back from your face, fingertips tracing the outline of your jaw, his expression softening as if you're the only thing that matters in the world. The moment stretches, drawing you both into a space where nothing else exists.

You meet his gaze, a flood of emotions rushing through you, some familiar and some new. There’s comfort in the way he looks at you, in the way he holds you like he’s willing to erase every shred of hurt and doubt.

And in that quiet intimacy, you find a peace that Jack’s words had threatened to steal. You breathe in deeply, pressing your lips to his again, slower this time, savouring the quiet, the warmth between you. Luke’s hand slips over your side, the touch gentle now, a stark contrast to the fire that burned between you moments ago. His lips curl in a half-smile, and he presses a final kiss to your forehead, his body still pressed against yours, as if grounding you both in this moment, in this time where the world is nothing but the two of you.

Well for a little while. 

“You two better not be fucking while I’m in the house.” Quinn’s voice cuts through the silence as Luke reaches over his head pulling his shirt off before handing it over to you, a mischievous smile on his face, as you glance towards the door in panic. 

“Not fucking.” Luke confirms, “Just eating a snack.” He adds, a laugh bubbling out of his throat as he hears his older brother grunt before his heavy footsteps trail down the hallway, your hand smacking over his shoulder as he throws his hands up in defence. 

“What it’s not like I’m lying.” 

“You really are insufferable.” 

[keyaho]

summary > Blaire is sick and Terry takes care of her. chapter warnings > fluff, mentions of pregnancy,

'Meet The Richmonds' takes place in between A Different World & Melanin Prep. It's a small series detailing the first 7 years of their marriage and what actually happened in Rebel Ridge.

Terry stepped into the house and toed off his boots by the door. His keys were tossed in the little bowl on the table by the door. The house was warmer than he had left it and that meant one thing. Coupled with Aaron calling him about Blaire passing out during their class field trip, he hauled ass to get off work and home. Noah was in the hands of his grandmother and Angela told him he'd watch him for a few days. They all knew Blaire didn't just get sick. Sighing, Terry rounded the corner into the living room and into the kitchen. Her appetite was probably shit, so he placed an order for takeout and asked Aaron to swing by and pick it up. He could drop it off and just leave it in the kitchen. 

He entered their bedroom and walked to the side of the bed. Blaire was buried beneath the sheets, her hair wild, curled into a ball. Pulling out his phone, he snapped a photo. 

"Dushi,' Terry whispered, sitting on the edge while peeling back the damp layers of sheets. 

He touched her forehead and pulled back, very concerned. She was burning hot. He knew how she felt about hospitals and opted to try and break her fever himself. Terry left her side for a moment, turning on the shower in their bathroom and closed the door so it could build steam. He found her some warm clothes to change into after running her a bath. 

When he came back to the bed, she was sitting up. 

"How's my baby doing,' he asked softly, pushing her hair out of the way so he could see her face. 

"Tired,' she cried in a rush as if she was using the very last of her breath to speak. "My baby,' she suddenly tried getting up. 

Terry realized she remembered what time it was and he grabbed her as she almost fell off the bed. 

"Angela is going to watch him for a few days, baby. Noah is fine. You're not." 

Blaire leaned into Terry, her head falling to his chest. "I don't feel good." She croaked, throat burning as she tried to speak. He reached between them and unbuttoned the silk shirt she was wearing. His hand flattened against her stomach and she placed her hand on top of his. 

"Your morning sickness is getting worse,' he murmured. 

Carrying their second, they hadn't told anyone yet, had Blaire struggling to keep the secret, especially when she was sick, but she had done a good job until now. As soon as Blaire's doctor confirmed her pregnancy, Terry had been all over her and overbearing. He had done the same when she was pregnant with Noah, but this time because she was sicker, Terry was all in her space. 

“It’s time we tell everyone.” He said. 

There was a gleam in his eye. He was more excited for their new addition than Blaire. He already started transforming one of the guest rooms into a nursery. Each time he talked about the baby or did something for the baby, he had the biggest grin on his face. Out of the two of them he was the one that wanted children the most and he wanted a lot of them. So when Blaire gave him he greenlight on baby number two, he put in overtime. No ovulation period went unfucked over the past three months. 

"Tomorrow. I can make soup." She sniffled, sneezed, and let out a tired breath. 

Wrapping his arms around her, Terry lifted her into his arms and carried her towards the bathroom. He sat her on the sink and opened the medicine cabinet. He noticed none of the medicine had been opened. 

"I will make you soup and we will do a video call." He bends his knees so he can look her in the eyes. "Okay?" 

Blaire knew it wasn't safe for everyone to pile in the house while she was sick. She much rather see their faces in person, but conceded. 

"Okay." 

Helping her out of the silk pajamas, he guided her into the tub. He pulled her hair up into a bun so it didn't get wet. He'd seen her wash day routine and knew she was in no condition to do it herself. He'd do it tomorrow because there was no way she was making it to work until the end of the week at least. The studio had already been informed and her assistants would be taking over her classes. 

The water felt soothing on her skin and the added eucalyptus and lavender oils began to clear her mind and ease some pressure she was feeling. She looked up at her husband as he leaned against the sink. His thick arms folded across his chest and she furrowed her brow. 

"What is wrong, Terrence?" 

"Nothing, baby, nothing." He smiled. "You just look so miserable." 

She didn't have the energy to go back and forth with him in light banter. She instead shrugged. 

"Can you come get in the tub with me?" 

"I haven't showered from work." 

"We will shower after." 

Terry rubbed a hand over the back of his head. She was more clingy when she was sick. She leaned into letting him take care of her like he had promised years ago. He knew she loved to teach dance but all he wanted was her home at a reasonable time and her attention on taking care of their children. He'd give his wife whatever she wanted. So Terry nodded and began undressing, watching a smile come to her tired face. Blaire leaned forward as he got in the tub behind her. She instantly made herself comfortable in his arms. He wrapped them around her body and kissed the side of her neck. 

Able to see her small rounding belly, Terry placed on hand on it and rubbed back and forth gently. 

"How's my son doing," he asked, a coy smile on his lips. 

It was faint, but Blaire kissed her teeth. "You made a girl." She corrected. "And she is doing fine." 

They didn't know the gender of the baby and planned to keep it that way until birth. This time Blaire was sure it was a girl, while Terry made sure to tell her he only made boys. Blaire placed her hand on top of his and relaxed as she closed her eyes. 

"Thank you." He said suddenly. 

"What did I do?" She asked. 

"For giving me another child." 

Blaire turned her head and looked up at him. "You wanted a lot of children." 

"But I told you that it's up to you when and how many." He rubs her stomach and rests his hands just under it. "So thank you for this one and Noah." 

They could have stopped at Noah and he would be thankful. He knew Blaire considered his son, Terrence Jr. her son as well, but it was a little different being his wife but having his second child. Her therapist had helped her through that during her pregnancy. It wasn’t a case of infidelity. It was before Blaire made it to Hillman to even reconnect with Terrence. Their sporadic run ins didn’t make them a couple. 

“You are welcome.” 

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[rivalsispunk]

Professor O'Hara

Professor!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, cursing, age gap romance (unidentified, reader is legal and in university), mention of male appendages, mention of male and female orgasm, pussy pronouns, smut smut SMUTTTT, slight brat tamer Declan, light bondage

Word count: 3.1k

Summary: Your university professor is looking a lil' too good, but he doesn't appreciate you teasing him mid-lesson.

Today, Professor Declan O’Hara’s opted for a more casual look, a little removed from the sports coats and ties he usually wears to teach. No, today it’s brown slacks and boots paired with a Levi’s denim button down that’s splayed open at his collarbone, tufts of dark chest hair creeping up the bare skin there. He always looked good, but his current outfit elicits murmurs of appreciation that rifle through the classroom as he speaks passionately about — God, you don’t even know what. You’re no better than your peers, stuck lustfully on the whole chest hair situation.

“That’s all for today, guys,” Declan eventually announces, and the sound of shuffling of feet and closing of textbooks is almost immediate. Then comes your name leaving your professor’s lips, all drenched in that delicious Irish lilt of his while he stuff his belongings into his briefcase.

“Can you stay behind a few minutes?” he asks flatly. “I just have some feedback for you about your midterm essay.”

You nod curtly at his request, trying not to let a grin escape your rolled lips.

“God, that sounds grim,” one of your classmates whispers as you stand from your seats in the front row. “I’ll meet you in the quad in ten minutes?”

You glance from her to Declan, then back to your friend. “How about I catch up with you later? This might take a while.”

Because what she doesn’t know, what nobody knows, is that your professor has no intention of discussing any coursework with you. You and him are both well aware you’re hardly in need of feedback when it comes to your studies. No, what Declan wanted from you was far more intimate than a discussion about notes in the margin of a page.

The first time you laid eyes on Declan in the flesh was orientation week of your final year of university, when campus was buzzing over the news that a TV star had joined the faculty, the famed journalist and TV host’s name on everybody’s lips. You, for one, were thrilled to see his name on your schedule, Declan — Professor O’Hara — now taking this term’s advanced media ethics lecture. Growing up, you loved watching his BBC program, then followed his career when he made the leap to Corinium. Now that Venturer was an up and running well-oiled machine, Declan decided to take a step back from the network for a term to add teaching to his resume. He felt he ought to try his hand at shaping the next generation of journalists, and as a budding one yourself, having someone so experienced and respected in the industry was just what you needed to give you the leg up in your future career. You’d arrived at the first class exceptionally early, eager to get a front row seat. You’d poured through all of the compulsory readings and stuck it out through the optional chapters too, so you were prepared if Declan called on you. Given the excitement over his arrival, you’d expected at least a few other students to have the same idea as you, but when you swung through the ornate timber door, the lecture hall was empty, cold. Aside from Declan O’Hara, who ignited the room with a lopsided smile at the sight of his first student. It warmed you from head to toe and spread to far more sinister places as you took in his form, so much taller and handsome than you’d anticipated after years of watching him on a grainy television screen.

That smile was the first of many you’d share as the weeks of classes unfolded and though he’d never let it slip, you very soon became his favourite pupil. Switched on, intelligent and mature beyond your years, it was no wonder he’d first thought you were another staff member when you entered his classroom. He’d hoped you didn’t notice his smile falter after you introduced yourself and took a seat in the front row of the tiered seating, solidifying your status as a student. If you were another faculty member, he could get away with flirting. He could go about his lectures without fumbling over his words because you giggled quietly at something your friend had whispered to you, a grin pinching a beautiful flush on your cheeks. 

You were a student. He was a professor. There were rules about that. Rules Declan knew he should uphold. That he tried to uphold. But after weeks of you being so fucking smart (a turn-on for Declan if there ever was one), after you’d signed up for his optional professor-led study groups and blown your peers out of the water, after one session ran particularly late, leaving just you and Declan once the other students ditched for other plans, those rules went completely out the stained glass window of the library room you were sat in. You were all hands and crashing mouths, a tidal wave of tongues and knowing smiles, not unlike the one Declan is giving you now as you wait for the last few students to trickle out of the room.

“Get on the desk,” he says as soon as the door creaks shut with a heavy thud.

“What?” You’re taken aback at his demand, eyes darting wildly between him, the desk and the door. “Right here? Anyone could walk in.” At least when you hooked up in his office, the room could be locked.

“Yes, right here,” he confirms flatly. He rounds the desk…. Stalks towards you, forcing you backwards until the backs of your thighs hit the cool timber. “You don’t get the privilege of privacy when you’ve been sat there taunting me with your bare pussy.” He cups you roughly under your mini skirt and you gasp at the sudden contact.

You’d purposely gone without underwear today, knowing full well that from his spot at the front of the hall, Declan would have the perfect view. However, you didn’t think he’d noticed. He’d remained his usual poised and charming self the whole hour, eyes occasionally meeting yours for a fleeting second, no differently to any other student.

Oh, but he’d noticed. As soon as he launched into his introduction into the intersection of culture in media, you’d spread your knees just so, holding in a moan as the cool air hit your core. Declan’s cock jumped to life behind his slacks but he kept on with his train of thought, although the remainder of the class came from behind the cover of his desk.

“You think it’s cute to tease me like that when you know I can’t do anything about it?” he growls down at you, hand unwavering despite the pool of arousal forming between you. You cant into his hand, desperate for friction against your bundle of nerves. You knew your little act of rebellion would infuriate him, get him riled up to the point he’d be unforgiving with you. Still, you feign dumb, peering up at him through your thick eyelashes.

“Hmm? Do you?”

“No,” you say quietly, writhing to no reprieve.

“No, what?”

“No, Declan.”

“Uh-uh,” he tuts, already dark eyes almost black. “No, what?”

“No professor,” you relent, the title he loves so much falling out amid a sigh.

Declan’s moustache quirks, satisfied. “Good girl.” Then he sinks his thick middle finger into you, right to the knuckle, immediately probing your G-spot. He repeats the movement over and over, drawing barely-there whimpers from you. Once he’s warmed you up, he slips an additional finger in and his thumb latches onto your clit, rubbing circles in tandem with every pump of his wrist. 

“Oh, God,” you whisper, legs seconds away from buckling as Declan speeds up. His lips come to brush your own, gently, and you keen into his touch, needing a taste of him. But just as quickly as he leaned in, he’s rearing back. As he does, he withdraws his fingers from you, taking a pathetic whine with it. 

You’d slap the smug grin off his face if it wasn’t so goddamn sexy. 

“Teasing’s not so fun when you’re on the receiving end of it, is it, darlin’?”

Takes fingers into his mouth, eyes locked on yours, drags them out at what should be an illegally slow pace with a pop. The act is so simple yet so inherently sexual, you watch him in such awe, as if he’s just defied gravity right in front of you.

“So sweet, f’me,” he whispers, then jerks his chin at you. “On the desk. I’m not asking this time.”

You do as he says, hoisting yourself up so you’re teetering on the edge, ignoring the scuffling of shoes and chatter buzzing in the hallway. Declan fills the space between your thighs, his hips nudging them even more widespread as he brings his mouth to yours. His moustache grazes like steel wool on your upper lip, his tongue fighting for purchase against your own, the taste of yourself mingling with the hazy aftermath of the cigarette Declan huffed down before class. His hands have a tight grip on either side of your faces until one comes to fist your hair at the back of your neck, scalp tingling as he snaps your head back to lick a stripe up your throat. You’re writhing on the desk now, needing Declan to fucking touch you down there while he sucks a kiss into your pulse. 

“Are you gonna behave now and stop being a prick tease?” he wants to know

“Depends,” you counter. “Are you going to stop being a prick and let me come?”

Cheeky fucking girl, Declan thinks and, as if he couldn’t get any harder, his dick strains against his trousers, battling his zipper. “I’ll take that as a no then.”

Dropping to his knees, he pays no mind to the pain that shoots up his back when his joints hit the hardwood floors. His hands grip your knees, pushing them apart as far as they’ll go as he begins the assault on your cunt. You can’t keep up as he alternates between nibbling and sucking your clit like he’s been starved for weeks and you're the only thing to cure his famine. Your hands are pitched against the desktop behind you, steadying yourself while you lean backwards so Declan has full access as he relentlessly laps you up.

“Declan,” you pant, still jerking your hips to meet his mouth. “So good.”

He smiles against your pussy, his tongue flicking your clit harder, faster, as two of his thick fingers press back into your hole.

“Oh, fuck.” The combination of tongue and fingers pushes you closer to the edge, pins and needles rippling through your toes. “Declan… Gonna come,” you seethe through ragged breaths, eyes closing at the pleasure mounting deep in your stomach. You’re nearly there, on the brink of your orgasm wracking through you and—

Nothing.

Your climax recedes, your cunt immediately missing Declan’s warm mouth when he pulls back and cool air stings your moist centre. Again, you whine, this time at being denied the ecstasy that was right there. Your eyes flutter open and you glare at him, brows drawn together, silently asking what the fuck? Declan leers back up you, moustache glistening with your slick.

“I asked if you were going to behave.”

“Declan—professor—I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll—” “Too late for that, love. You’ll come when I tell you to come, and not a second before,” he tells you, voice gravelly as he stands, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. “Got it?”

You nod incessantly, head bobbing so quickly you’re surprised it doesn’t fall off. Whatever, anything, as long as he just keeps touching you.

“Alright, then. Stand up. Face the blackboard.”

Scrambling, you follow his instructions, staring at his notes from class scrawled in chalky handwriting. You’re already wobbly on your feet, both from the orgasm stolen away from you and your nerves, as you remember the fact that anybody could walk in at any given moment. If you got caught, you’d get expelled. Declan would be fired. Not to mention he’s married. But right now, you can’t find it in you to care, not when the jingle of his belt buckle echoes through the empty classroom and he yanks your hands together at the base of your spine. Soft leather wraps around your wrists, and you gasp, pussy clenching, then hiss when Declan pulls the belt so tight it wears against your bones.

“Be good,” he snips from behind you, quietly, his hands coming to rake your hair over your shoulder before his fingers start trailing feather-light lines down the back of your black, skin-tight sweater. The gesture is intimate, soft. Relaxing if not for your heart galloping in your chest, shattering against your ribs. He roams to the front of your body, bearish hands pawing at your tits as he ruts his steely cock against your arse cheeks. “Been absolutely aching for you all mornin’,” Declan whispers against the shell of your ear while he kneads your chest. “Seeing you so wet f’me… Couldn’t get that class over with fast enough.” As soon as the words come to a halt, a hand goes to the base of your neck and snaps you forward so you’re bent in half, right cheek flush against Declan’s desk. The eye closest to the timber waters, squashed half-closed in the position as you stare at the ginormous door that taunts you while your professor yanks your green skirt over your arse, brandishing it with a slap that wracks your entire body. “Little fucking brat.”

The slaps stings your skin but feels so fucking good at the same time, your arousal sticking the apex of your thighs together. Declan doesn’t sooth the pain with a soft hand or a kiss where a raised, red handprint is undoubtedly forming, just unzips his slacks, the generally mundane sound deafening as you await the inevitable.

Declan watches your body rise and fall with heaving breaths, his cock, sprung free of his boxers, a hardened red rod aimed directly for your weeping cunt. The pre-cum that’s formed at his top glistens under the hall’s fluorescent lighting, and he uses his palm to spread it down his length, pumping languidly, once, twice, before lining himself up at your hole. You drag your teeth over your bottom lip, feeling him just inches away from where you need him most. He’s stalling, if only for his own gratification. You can practically feel him grinning when you groan, your bound hands pulsing helplessly in the air as you try to reach for him.

“What do you need, love?” Declan asks.

“Need you. Need you to fuck me,” you plead, wiggling your legs apart. “Professor, please.” It’s the please that does it for him, your begging single handedly burying Declan’s cock inside you to the hilt. You’re immediately full and fluttering around him, and he wastes no time in dragging himself in and out of your cunt at an unforgiving pace, his hands creating bruises at your hips while he snaps his own against your arse.

“Fucking missed this. Missed your tight pussy. Made just f’me,” Declan grunts, every word punctuated by each pump of his cock. You moan, completely pathetic and pliable for the older man hunched above you. Your eyes loll closed while your body slides against the desk with Declan’s rigorous movement. One of his hands comes to your cheek, sprawling flat palm pushing your head against the treated wood, completely deafening you on one side while your other ear is assaulted with grunts and expletives. “Good girl, fucking take it from your professor. You like that, huh?”

You nod, as much as you can under the weight of his hand, your moans a jumble of yes and please and don’t fucking stop I’m gonna come.

Declan’s close too, already tiring of the pedantic pace he’s set, and every single one of your whines threatens to tip him over the edge.

“You ready to come, darlin’?” he asks, though he knows you’ve been waiting and ready since you chose to go sans underwear this morning. Since you decided to tease him. “Go on, let me hear it.”

His permission is all you need to let go, a pathetic squeal wrapped in a fuuuuck tumbling from your lips as you spasm beneath Declan, sweat pooling between your tits, his fingernails digging crescents into the flesh of your hips. Not five seconds later, barbaric grunts sound above you as Declan shoots ropes of hot come inside you, your orgasm milking him of his own. The hand that had you pinned down comes to stroke your hair as your shuddering slows down, Declan sighing as his last drop seeps out of his swollen head. 

“Jesus Christ,” he says, mourning the feeling of your warm cunt as he slips out. He gently slides your skirt back over your arse and undoes his belt from your wrists, quietly slipping it back through the loops around the waistband of his trousers. You remain facedown on the desk, waiting for instruction while your heart thrums down to a regular rate. Declan finds your forearms, gently lifting you to stand and face him. You both look completely fucked out, your mascara smudged one eye, sweat beading in the chest hair visible under his shirt, moisture seeping in the material where its covered.

Declan rakes his left hand over his face, wedding band glinting in the light when he drops his arm to remove a lazy smile. “You’re gonna be the death of me, y’know that?”

You shrug, trying to remain nonchalant despite the pride swelling in your chest at the backwards compliment. As you lean down to grab your bag from where you’d discarded it on the floor, you feel Declan begin to leak out of you. You shudder, partly from the aftershock of your climax, partly because of the fact you’ve been in here so long you’re going to have to go to your next class full of your professor’s come. Not to mention the whole no underwear situation.

“You got literature next?” Declan asks, as if he can read your mind. The comment’s casual, too, like he didn’t just fuck your brains out in the middle of a lecture hall.

“Yeah,” you respond, slipping your bag onto your shoulder. “Next building over.”

Declan nods, sly smile sliding onto his face. “Good. My office hours begin after that.”

“I know.” You’ve been making good use of those office hours for quite some time.

“Make sure you come by,” he tells you. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Masterlist

[kinkyniragi]

Until the debt is paid – Chapter 3: Crave

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader Genre: Smut 18+ Word count: 1,5k Summary: As payment for your father’s debt, you’ve been handed over to Thomas Shelby—a ruthless criminal with a reputation as dangerous as his smirk. Tommy puts pressure on you with increasing hunger. You suddenly wake up at night and feel that something is wrong… CN: Power play, slight choking, dubious consent Author’s note: After writing a lot of smut for Niragi from Alice in Borderland, I’m now diving into the world of Cillian Murphy. Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Also, I’m not a native speaker, so if you spot any creative grammar choices… let’s just call them artistic liberties, shall we?

***

<<Chapter 2

After Tommy has left the barn, you barely dare to breathe. What is he planning? Will he come back?

Your throat is so dry you almost cough. With trembling fingers, you grab the glass jug and drink greedily—until you force yourself to stop halfway. Who knows when you’ll get more? The cool water fills your stomach, but it can’t mask the gnawing hunger.

Outside, you hear a match striking against a box.

No doubt, Tommy is still there. Casually smoking.

That bastard. He knows you’re starving—

The bread. The one his lackey dropped.

Could you somehow reach it?

You glance around. Of course, Tommy has ensured that nothing useful—or dangerous—is within reach. But there, half-buried in straw, lies a torn halter. He must have overlooked it. Or thought it useless. Maybe you could reach it with your feet.

But Tommy is still outside.

Is he waiting? For you to call him? To beg him for a few hard breadcrumbs?

If you could use the halter as a lasso, you might be able to drag the small chunk of bread toward you. A miserable scrap. But better than begging Tommy on your knees—risking awakening something far worse in him.

But just as you move, you stop.

The metal rings on the halter—he’d hear them the second they clinked against the floor. He’d be in the stable before you even had a chance to eat.

No. You have to wait.

***

Dusk is setting in. Cold seeps from the ground into your bones. Your nightgown is long but thin. Another sleepless night awaits. Hunger and exhaustion begin to numb your senses, dulling even the ever-present fear. If Tommy left, he did so quietly.

Slowly, you drift off into vivid dreams of the subsequent encounters you had with Tommy, after you started working in that bar and he bluntly asked you if you were a whore.

***

He was a regular at the establishment and you had orders that all his drinks were on the house. You remember the first time you felt his gaze on you. It was the way he’d watched you from across the room, calm, predatory. Like a lion studying its prey from a distance, biding its time. You had been wiping down a glass, keeping your head low, trying to stay unnoticed. But Tommy, Tommy didn’t miss a thing.

He had sauntered up to the bar, all confidence and quiet power, his eyes sharp with calculation. "Pour me a drink," he’d said, leaning in a little too close, just enough for you to feel the heat of his presence.

You’d done as he asked, first because it was an order—but also because some twisted part of you ignored the fact that this man was a walking red flag. And maybe, just maybe, you’d been a little too polite, a little too willing—enough to make him think you were inviting him in.

As you handed him the drink, his fingers brushed yours. For a moment, you could almost taste the electricity between you, but you refused to let it affect you.

“First time working as a bartender, eh?” he asked, voice smooth like velvet but with an edge that made your spine stiffen.

You nodded, glancing up at him briefly.

He smiled, though it barely passed as friendly. “You know, it’s dangerous, a woman like you working in a place like this.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and despite your best efforts, you could feel your heart race. But you didn’t show it.

“Why?” you’d asked, your voice cool despite the undercurrent of tension.

“You might just be too tempting for the wrong people,” he replied, taking a long sip of his drink. His gaze lingered on you, assessing, as if weighing a thought before speaking it aloud. Then, almost bored, he added, “Or maybe you purposely are dressing up as prey and act all surprised when the wolves start circling.”

You’d swallowed hard. His words had felt like a warning. A deliberate one.

There was something about the way he said that, something possessive and calculating. You wanted to push back, but there was that glimmer in his eyes that made you hesitate. He wasn’t just a man at the bar; he was a force to be reckoned with, and you had just stepped into his territory.

***

It must be the dead of night when you jolt awake. The cold bites into your skin.

Something is wrong.

You don’t even dare to open your eyes.

You hold your breath.

Listen.

Nothing but the creaking beams in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, geese murmur softly.

And yet… the feeling lingers.

Something is here.

Someone.

The sharp scent of Tommy’s aftershave reaches your nose.

Shit—

Then suddenly—

A gentle tug at your hair.

A warm breath against your ear.

You don’t dare to move.

Your body remains still, frozen in either terror or calculation.

He can’t know you’ve noticed him.

“Mmmh… such a good girl, sleeping so soundly?” he murmurs, his tone dripping with a twisted kind of pleasure.

You don’t react.

His fingers trace your cheek. Then, a rustling behind you—Tommy settles in the straw, pressing his body against yours. His lips ghost over your ear, trailing down your neck. His arm coils around your waist like a constrictor, slowly tightening.

“I could do anything to you, and you wouldn’t make a sound, eh?” he taunts.

His hand slips beneath your nightgown, a slow, deliberate movement that sends an unbearable tingling through your core. His touch is full of desire, almost possessive, but there’s a distinct challenge in it, as if he’s pushing your boundaries, trying to provoke a reaction—forcing you to show him you’re not as passive as you pretend to be. You know he’s not just after pleasure; he’s after control, seeing how far he can push before you break, how much he can tease you out of your silence.

It isn’t just the pleasure he’s seeking, you think, it’s the thrill of the hunt. He wants you to fight back, to resist—because the challenge is what excites him. It’s never enough to just take; he needs to feel that rush of overpowering you, of breaking you down piece by piece. His satisfaction lies in conquering, in seeing how far he can go before you finally surrender, whether physically or emotionally. If there’s even a hint of truth in these thoughts, this isn’t going to stop here.

"He chuckles. "Your breathing betrays you, you know that?"

You open your eyes.

What a stupid girl you have been to think you could fool him.

In the flickering glow of an oil lamp that he must have brought with him, his face hovers close. The warm, wavering light almost disguises the bitter cold of the night.

"Tommy—"

A low laugh. “What’s wrong? Did I wake you?”

You try to pull away.

He tightens his grip around your waist. His other hand slides up—to your throat.

No.

Fingertips ghost over your skin.

First gentle. Then with pressure.

"Hmm," he murmurs, voice like a blade. "Your heart is racing. I wonder why?"

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

You know better than testing him.

You withhold the answer from him while trying to stay calm—lest his sadistic instincts take over and he strangles you just for the fun of it.

Tommy watches you for a moment—amused, curious, with that faint smirk you despise and yet can’t seem to look away from. His fingers linger at your throat, pressing just enough to remind you of who’s in control.

"Good girl," he murmurs when you remain still. His thumb brushes over your pulse, exploring the delicate skin as his grip slowly loosens. But instead of letting you go, he lowers his head until his lips graze your neck—a fleeting, almost tender kiss, so at odds with the cold dominance in his hands.

"I could fucking tear you apart… if I wanted to." His voice is barely audible, yet every syllable seeps into your mind like poison. He slides your nightgown higher. "I wonder… would you beg me to stop, or to keep going?"

A tremor moves through you before you can stop it, giving you away. Because the truth is—you don’t know. The thought alone sends a deep, unsettling heat coursing through you. Would you fight him? Would you surrender? Or worse… would you even want to, exactly as he wants to make you believe?

A low chuckle ghosts over your skin, as if he can hear the war raging inside your head. And maybe, just maybe—he already knows the answer.

And then, just as suddenly as he came, he pulls away, as if he’s already lost interest.

"Sleep tight, love."

You hear the crunch of straw beneath his boots as he rises. He walks away slowly, deliberately, savoring the power he holds over you. But you know one thing for certain—

Tommy Shelby always comes back.

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[sitkowski]

punish || part one

one || i want to know what it feels like

pairing: incubus!jolly x f!reader cw: 18+ MDNI ⚠️ (for this chapter) allusions to mind manipulations, murder, oral sex (f!receiving), overstimulation. word count: 1.8k author's notes: okay and we're off! this one is gonna be a wild ride and it's my first multi chaptered fic in a while. chapter title comes from "onanist" by ethel cain, divider by @saradika-graphics.

⇉ masterpost || punish masterpost || playlist || taglist signups

There is a very attractive boy at the bar with silver hair that keeps looking Jolly’s way. He’s been sitting in a booth in the back for hours now, people watching. He’s selective about his meals, not about their gender. He can look at a person and see how well they will feed him, how they will taste. Some will last him a week, others mere hours. It’s been hundreds of years, more than he cares to recount now, but he still feels that rush of picking out the perfect meal, seeing the desperation in their eyes as they offer him everything they have.

Incubus. Sleep demon. Devil. Nightmare. He’s heard them all and he’s embraced what he is. He hasn’t felt remorse about the things that he has done to survive in a very long time. Lack of humanity, lack of conscience, call it what you will. He likes to think of it as surviving. If that means picking off a few club kids here and there to satiate his appetite for this evening, then so be it. It’s all food to him; emotions, sexual energy, the act itself. He isn’t fond of taking people against their will very often, and there are plenty of willing people who just need a little nudge in the right direction.

As he passes through the crowd to reach the bar, he siphons a little bit of sexual energy as he goes; a touch here, a glance there. The place is crowded, and so many bodies pressed together leave Jolly feeling high almost. Humans are very predictable and Jolly is a little vain, if he’s being honest with himself. He uses the fact that he is attractive to his advantage, like now as he approaches the bar and leans against it, giving that silver haired boy his most charming smile.

A little nudge.

It’s easy enough to lead him outside to his demise. The mouth of the alley behind the bar is dark and Jolly backs him into a corner, lowering his mouth just inches from his. He wonders what he looks like to this boy, if he can see through the human glamour he’s come to consider his skin. Jolly reaches up, dragging his fingers over his cheek, watching them lengthen against his pale flesh.

“You’re a fine meal indeed,” he whispers, and the boy’s mouth curves into a smile.

“Thank you.”

“No,” Jolly’s voice grows deeper and he presses one of those nails into the boy’s neck. Blood wells around the wound and he pulls it back to lick it away from his fingers. He tastes like iron and ripe fruit. “Thank you.”

The boy trembles in his arms as the poison takes hold, and Jolly honestly loves this part. Watching the life force, the soul and the tastiest part of a human, be exhaled like smoke that he leans in to take into himself as if he were shotgunning a cigarette. He takes it greedily and the boy doesn’t struggle. The poison doesn’t allow it, something Jolly’s always been a little grateful for. Not because he doesn’t like to inflict pain but because it makes it easier to get away with leaving the poor boy’s body in the alley to be found at a later time.

His hands twitch as he steps back to make sure that he left the boy hidden as well as looking somewhat comfortable. If it weren’t for the blood soaking into his pale blue shirt, the poor soul would just look as if he were sleeping. He’s fed one hunger but there’s always another waiting for him. Sometimes he combines the two, and sometimes he’ll only pick someone up to either be a meal, or to warm a spot in his bed for a while and they get to leave with their lives in the morning.

Jolly makes his way back into the bar, looking for a meal of another kind.

It seems like the most cliche thing in the world; your friends have abandoned you at the bar, and you find yourself having a conversation with a guy that leads to more drinks and more conversation and sitting close to one another like you’re in the middle of a meet cute romcom movie. But the two of you have been talking for over an hour, and maybe you’re imagining the connection you feel. A spark, or whatever. The way he makes you feel as if you’re the only person at this bar.

You don’t question bringing him home with you.

At least you remembered to get his first name. Joakim—call me Jolly, everyone does—is a perfect gentleman on the short walk from the bar to your tiny apartment. He drapes his leather jacket over your shoulders and he walks closer to the street, keeping his hand on your lower back the whole way. Maybe you should feel nervous, bringing a gorgeous stranger back to your place. You did tell your friends you weren’t leaving alone, but that was the most you did.

There's a brief moment where you think you've made a mistake, but then Jolly's touching you, hands warm as they brush against the skin beneath your top while he backs you up against your apartment door to kiss you. You immediately feel breathless with want and you bring your arms up around his shoulders, rising up on your tiptoes as he pulls you hard against his body. Only the sound of his jacket hitting the floor with a slap draws you away, and you shakily pick it up and shove it into his hands before you dig through your purse, sighing as he presses himself against your back. 

You can feel him hard against you through the fabric of your skirt and you manage to get the door unlocked, reaching back to fist a hand in his shirt and yank him inside. Immediately he's on you again, fingers sliding into your hair to cup the back of your neck and push you into the nearest wall. Your hands clutch his face, and you can feel how hot his skin is, he's almost burning up. You’ve never felt this needy for someone before, and maybe you should be more concerned.

He grasps your chin, pushing your head back to lick a line under your jaw and drag his teeth over your pulse point. Your panties are instantly soaked just from a little bit of kissing, and you let your head fall back against the wall as he clenches his fingers harder in the hair at the nape of your neck.

When Jolly lifts his head to look into your eyes, your breath hitches in your chest. He looks inhuman, eyes nearly black and his hair hanging in his face. The corner of his mouth tilts upward and he steps back swiftly, so fast you almost slide down the wall.

“Why don’t you show me where your bedroom is, beautiful?”

His words pull at something low in your stomach and you nod, trying to step away from the wall. Before you can make it very far, he’s pulling you back, and kissing you breathless again. You fall into his chest, whimpering and trying to pull him down the short hallway at the same time. At first, he’s unmovable, but he eventually relents and you lead him into your bedroom. He doesn’t bother to look around at anything. It doesn’t really bother you. Not when his hands slide beneath your sweater and he tugs it over your head, throwing it aside. He lowers the cups of  your bra, stroking your nipples leisurely with his thumb while he wets his bottom lip with his tongue. Your eyes track the movement greedily, unable to voice how much you want him. The idea of speaking right now is entirely lost on you. Finally, you reach behind yourself to undo the hooks, pulling the fabric away and dropping it by your feet

Jolly sinks down to his knees in front of you, and you watch raptly as he reaches up beneath your skirt to pull your underwear down your thighs. They get caught around your boots and he helps you out of them, clenching the fabric in his fist for a moment before he brings it up to his face and presses his nose into the balled up lace. Your skin flushes at the sight and he looks up at you before he tosses them onto your growing pile of clothes.

"Do you know what I want to do to you? I want to worship every inch of your skin, I want to make you scream. I want to eat you alive."

You nod, and he keeps staring at you until you realize that he wants you to actually give him permission to touch you further. “Yes, please.”

His fingers trail up and down your thighs, each pass lighting your skin on fire. You realize that he’s not looking at your face, he’s watching as your wetness is starting to run down your inner thigh. It doesn’t really register how turned on you actually are, until he stands up fluidly and tells you to get out of the rest of your clothes. He doesn’t take off his own, and this should strike you as odd, but it doesn’t.

The second he buries his face between your thighs, you come, sudden and sharp. Jolly doesn't stop, licking you through it. Your hands come down to grasp the back of his head, twisting into the strands and tugging hard. He growls against your cunt and you feel the vibrations of it, your entire body trembling in pleasure as your thighs tighten helplessly around his head. He's already dragging you towards your second orgasm, tongue flicking over your clit before he wraps his lips around it and sucks hard. Your back arches off the bed and you choke out a sobbing moan as he brings you over the edge again.

Your eyes widen as Jolly begins to lick at you again, and you want to tell him to stop, that it's too much, but your words die in your throat. You're practically riding his face as you come a third time, grabbing a pillow to pull over your face to muffle your screams so your neighbors don't hear.

When he finally lets you breathe, your hips are still twitching and tears are in your eyes. His mouth trails softly up your stomach, over the side of your breast and he plucks the pillow from your hands. His face is wet with your arousal and he looks smug. You finally find the sense to reach between your bodies to get to the front of his pants, but he grabs your wrist.

“This was just for you,” he assures you, voice coming out rough. “And maybe it gives me an excuse to see you again.”

It sounds so reasonable, even though you had thought this was going to be nothing more than a one night stand. When you walk him to the door a short time later, he says he’s going to call you but you don’t get your hopes up.

You’re probably never going to see him again.

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[hwaslayer]

wildfire (cs) | 14.5

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 1k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing, some crying, pretty short conversation but it's lowkey intense? just hella tension bruh lol

⇢ POSTDOC | YR 3

San sees his breath in the air. It's cold, everything feels so fucking cold and it aches his bones. He adjusts his beanie and digs his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket while heading down the steps of the stadium. He sees Yunho sitting on one of the bleachers, also wearing a hat and a thick jacket. 

It makes him sick to his stomach to see him after everything, but San knew he needed to get his word in.

Step by step.

Right foot.

Left foot.

He feels numb regardless of the steps he takes, the inhale's and exhale's. Shit still doesn't feel real.

San doesn't say anything when he plops onto the bleachers, giving some space between him and the man he used to call his bestfriend, the one he trusted his entire life with. They sit in silence for awhile, both avoiding contact until San lets out a sigh and breaks the air first.

"Why don't you just say what you need to say so we can get this over with?" Yunho sighs shakily and fiddles with his hands. It was Yunho's idea to meet up because he felt the need to talk to San in person, yet here he was, initiating the conversation.

"San, I just wanted to say sorry." He finally looks at him, his eyes bloodshot red. Tears threatening to escape.

"Sorry? Did you ask to meet thinking a sorry could fix something?"

"No, I know it can't, but you deserve to hear it—"

"I didn't deserve to hear it in the first place!" San's voice is raising and he's barely been here for 5 minutes. He knew he shouldn't have agreed to this, but deep down, there was part of him that believed something could be salvaged with his bestfriend.

Anything.

But, here they are. They can't even look at each other.

San doesn't even know what to say to him anymore.

"San." Yunho starts tearing up when he sees San trying his hardest to keep it together.

"Out of all the people, Yunho." San can barely even manage to spit out. "Out of all fucking people. It could have been anyone else, yet it had to be Iseul." 

"Look, I know I can't explain this and there are no excuses for this. But, you didn't deserve any of this and I wish I could've done better as your bestfriend." San swallows thickly and shakes his head, letting out a short scoff.

"You were there for everything." Yunho finally turns to San. "You were there when we got through school together. Stepping in as postdocs together. You were there when I first saw Iseul, you were there when I grew feelings for her, when I wanted to make things serious." San pauses and meets his gaze. He isn't sure if he feels angry at him, but he knows the wounds hurt like hell and it only seems to be getting deeper every time he continues on. "You were there when I proposed, you were there at our wedding as my best man." Yunho's head drops and nods. "You were there when things felt distant, you were there when I felt like me and Iseul kept arguing with no end in sight."

"I know, San. I'm sorry. It’s all so fucked up—” He repeats. 

"It is fucked up. Especially when you're here to witness everything completely fall apart, too.” San chokes on his own words. "Except you're the reason behind it all."

"It shouldn't have happened. W-we were never planning on this, it kinda just spiraled and—" Yunho finds himself trying to explain with anything, even though he knows he can't.

"It shouldn't have happened, but we're here! So, now what?" San looks at him. "Now, what?" He scoffs. "It's so sad because I was hoping to at least have my best fucking friend if things were ever to fall apart with her. I would have never guessed I'd be losing you, too."

"I want to be here for you, and I want to fix things."

"Why do you and Iseul think there's anything left to fix?" San says lowly. "I only agreed to come here so I could tell you directly that we don't need to be acquainted with each other anymore. You can keep all your fucking 'sorry's' and we can go our separate ways. We can go back to being strangers because that's more than perfectly fine with me." There's a small pause, awful tension floating in the air. It feels awkward, stiff. 

Wrong. 

And San wants out.

"I want nothing to do with you. Nothing. I'm just.. done with this. Don't text me, don't call me for anything. Delete everything. Anything we had was severed when you took that step with Iseul. I don't care who started it first. You both left me out of the equation so easily and to think you two were the company I kept around me all this time."

"I'm so sorry." Yunho repeats over and over again. He cries into his hands and San feels his own lip trembling. His head drops, the tears follow. 

"You're not." San shakes his head. "Would you have been the same way had I not walked in that night?" Silence. "Yeah. Goodluck to you both." They both don't say anything before San gets himself together and stands— no longer wanting to be near him, no longer wanting to linger in this energy.

To be reminded.

To be told over and over again that they were sorry, when he knows they aren't. How can they be? 

At the end of the day, they're still here. There's no patching his relationship with Iseul no matter how many times she tries to come back. There's no home, there's no safety. There is no Yunho. There's no bestfriend to rely on when times get rough. There are no more good times. There are no more parties and outings together. There are no more late nights talking about life and futures together.

And it's all so, so painful.

Because losing his bestfriend fucking hurts, too.

In the end, they're still here.

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @angelqueendom @barbielibra @brown88 @choisansplushie @yunhoswrldddd @hyukssunflower @vickykazuya @lucid-galaxys-world @jaytheatiny @pommelex @thechaotictheoryy @vixensss @santineez @nopension @domfikeluva @in-somnias-world @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @mountiiny @naoristerling @onmymymyway @thecutiepieme @wyrated

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 12

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 12

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: At the Derby, Tommy attempts to execute his plan to outmaneuver Campbell, trying to stay one step ahead. But as the pieces shift, it becomes clear that Campbell's priority might not be Tommy at all.

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language.

--

The air at the Epsom Derby carried the scent of fresh earth and expensive cologne, the chatter of high society mingling with the murmurs of men who had staked everything on a horse. Women in elegant dresses strutted past, their silk gloves clutching delicate purses, their laughter a sharp contrast to the tension coiled beneath the surface. The wealthy watched from their boxes, their voices light and careless.

Standing amidst the sea of well-dressed men and women, you realized that the Derby was less about the horses and more about power. This was where men like Tommy and Sabini moved their pieces across the board, where the real game was played behind the grandstands, in the back rooms of the betting house, in the glances exchanged between the powerful and the ruthless.

You kept close to Tommy’s side as you walked through the crowd, the weight of what was about to happen pressing down on your ribs.

Campbell’s men would be stationed along the north entrance. Disguised as stable hands and dressed to blend in. 

The plan played over in your mind like a drumbeat, steady and unrelenting. 

But for now, you had to wait.

Tommy walked at an unhurried pace, his hands in his pockets, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with the careful ease of a man who knew he was being watched. To anyone else, he looked like just another well-dressed man enjoying the races, perhaps a bookmaker, perhaps a gambler. 

The two of you weaved through the throng of spectators, the rhythmic sound of hooves striking the track in the distance mixing with the laughter of men already deep in their cups. A vendor called out, offering whiskey from a cart lined with crystal tumblers, and Tommy barely glanced at it before steering you toward the viewing stands.

"See that man in the grey suit?" Tommy asked under his breath.

You nodded slightly, eyes following his gaze. A man in his fifties stood near the betting stalls, adjusting the cuffs of his expensive coat, his gaze occasionally flicking to the track but never truly lingering there. He had the air of someone who belonged– not because he was born into this world, but because he had learned how to play in it.

Tommy exhaled a slow breath through his nose, a flicker of something amused in his expression. “That’s Richard Ellis. Used to be a bookmaker in Small Heath. Ran bets out of a pub that had a rat problem the size of fucking dogs.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That bad?”

Tommy nodded. “Arthur made a deal with him once– he’d handle the rats if Ellis cut us in on the bets. Didn’t tell him how he’d handle them.” A smirk played at the corner of his lips as he took a slow drag of his cigarette. “So Arthur lets a crate of cats loose in the pub one night. Place was chaos. Ellis nearly had a heart attack when he came downstairs and saw a dozen of ‘em fighting over a dead rat in the middle of the floor.”

You bit your lip to stifle your laughter. “That can’t be true.”

Tommy glanced at you, eyes glittering. “It is. Man couldn’t step foot in his own pub for a week.”

He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching Ellis from a distance. “He still won’t look me in the eye.”

“I wonder why.” You grinned, shaking your head before glancing toward the massive clock near the entrance. Fifteen minutes to five.

As you walked past the line of vendors and stalls, something caught your eye– a small, makeshift tent set apart from the others, its fabric dark, its entrance marked by old, faded ribbons.

A woman sat behind a low wooden table, a deck of cards spread in front of her. Not for tricks or betting, but for fortune-telling.

Tommy noticed your hesitation. “You want to have a go?”

You smirked. “Didn’t take you for a superstitious man, Tommy.”

“I’m not,” he said, pulling out his cigarette case. “But you? You like answers.”

It was half a challenge, half an invitation. With a raised brow, you stepped forward, settling into the chair across from the woman. Tommy remained standing, arms crossed, watching with the quiet amusement he always carried in moments like these.

The woman studied you, her dark eyes sharp beneath her headscarf. “You wish to know your future, drabarni?”

You hesitated. You didn’t believe in things like this. But something about the way she was looking at you made your stomach turn.

She gestured to your hand. “Let me see.”

You extended your palm, fingers slightly curled. Her own were warm and calloused as she traced the lines of your skin, her expression unreadable.

Tommy shifted slightly beside you, exhaling smoke as he watched.

The woman’s eyes darkened. “As the blood moon rises, something will fall,” she murmured.

You frowned. “What?”

She didn’t look up. “The sky will turn red. Debts will be paid.”

The woman’s thumb traced the lifeline on your palm, her expression unreadable. “The blood never washes clean.”

Your stomach tightened.

Her fingers ghosting over the lines of your palm once more. “When the sky turns red, so will the hands of the men who take more than fate was willing to give.”

Tommy scoffed beside you, the sound low and unimpressed, but his silence stretched a fraction too long. The woman turned her gaze to him, as if she could see straight through the cool mask he wore.

“Even the sharpest player forgets that the house always collects in the end,” she said softly.

Tommy flicked the end of his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly before it hit the dirt. “And yet, the house still takes my bets,” he muttered.

The woman’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “For now.”

A gust of wind swept through the tent, rattling the fabric, shifting the candlelight into flickering, restless shadows.

Tommy reached into his pocket, tossing a few coins onto the table before resting a firm hand against your back. “Come on,” he murmured, guiding you away.

You followed, but the woman’s words clung to you like smoke. 

“Bunch of shit. Superstition and stories that cost a bloody shilling,” Tommy muttered, his tone flat as he steered you back into the shifting crowd.

You nodded, but the words didn’t sit right. The woman’s voice lingered in your ears, curling around your thoughts like smoke from an untended fire.

Tommy’s hand stayed firm at your back, his touch grounding, steady. But there was tension there too, coiled tight beneath his skin, tucked beneath the carefully composed mask he always wore.

“You don’t believe in that sort of thing, do you?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He scoffed, barely sparing you a glance. “I believe in what I can see. What I can hold.” He exhaled, flicking open his cigarette case. “And what I can take.”

You swallowed, pushing away the unease settling low in your stomach.

The Derby continued around you, untouched by the conversation that had just occurred. The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke curled through the air, blending with the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass and warm earth. Laughter echoed from the betting stalls, a sharp contrast to the way your chest felt tight, uneasy.

Tommy shifted beside you, the subtle roll of his shoulders, the way his posture straightened just slightly. It was almost imperceptible, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the moment he moved from casual amusement to calculated control.

His gaze flicked across the crowd, and then, just once, he nodded.

To anyone else, it was meaningless. A glance. A habit. But you saw who he was nodding at.

Isiah, standing near the outer stalls, leaned against a post, idly flicking a match between his fingers. Further down, Johnny Dogs lingered by the betting house entrance, pretending to examine the odds board, waiting. They had been there all along, scattered among the crowd, blending in.

And now, they were moving to the north entrance to create a diversion. 

“Let’s go place a bet, shall we?” he said, voice light, as if the pieces of this carefully laid plan weren’t shifting into motion beneath your feet.

You gave a small nod, letting him guide you through the bustling throng of gamblers and high society. The chatter of race-day excitement swirled around you, but your focus remained razor-sharp, scanning the faces, looking for any sign of Campbell’s men.

Nothing yet.

Tommy was calm. Too calm. He moved through the crowd like a man who already knew the outcome, his gaze flicking to the large betting board as though he actually intended to place a wager. But you knew the truth– he was waiting.

The scent hit you first. Smoke. It was faint, but undeniable.

Your pulse quickened. The fire had started.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, confused voices rising as men turned toward the betting house.

Then came the first shout. “Oi! Fire!”

Heads snapped toward the source of the commotion, and suddenly, the murmurs turned into shouts. You caught a glimpse of thick, dark smoke curling out from the side of the building, the flicker of flames licking at the edges of a window.

It worked.

The betting house was no longer a viable meeting place.

Tommy exhaled, a slow, measured breath, before steering you toward a quieter stretch of the stands. His grip on your waist was firm but unhurried, as if he was just another man guiding his companion through the shifting crowd.

A group of men emerged from the betting house, stepping away from the thickening smoke.

One, in particular, carried an aura of authority above the rest. He had dark, slicked-back hair and a sharp suit. A presence that made people instinctively move out of his way.

His gaze flicked through the crowd before landing on Tommy.

And then– on you.

The way he looked at you was nothing like the way men usually did. It wasn’t leering, wasn’t curious. It was slow, calculated. Measuring.

A smirk pulled at his lips.

Tommy must have felt the shift in you, because his grip at your waist became just a fraction firmer. Then the gaze slid from you to him, and the smirk sharpened into something colder.

“Well, well,” the man drawled, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. “Fancy running into you here, Shelby.”

Tommy didn’t miss a beat. “It’s a race course, Sabini. Where else would I be?”

Sabini.  

He let a slow exhale through his nose, almost like a laugh, though there was no humor in his eyes.

“The betting house seems to be having some… trouble,” he mused, tilting his head slightly toward the smoke still rising behind him. His tone was casual, but the weight behind it was heavy. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it?”

Tommy barely flicked a glance toward the burning building. “You think I’d set fire to the one place we all came here to do business?” He gave an exaggerated shake of his head, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m insulted, Sabini.”

Sabini hummed, his dark eyes studying Tommy, then, briefly, flicking back to you.

“And who do we have here?”

His gaze dragged over you, not with the leering interest of most men in his world, but with something far more unsettling– curiosity.

You refused to shift under his scrutiny, keeping your expression carefully neutral, just as Tommy had taught you. But your pulse hammered, your fingers twitching at your sides.

Tommy, ever composed, took a slow drag from his cigarette before flicking the ashes to the ground. “No one you need to concern yourself with.”

Sabini smirked at that, eyes never leaving yours. “Is that right?”

You didn’t flinch, but the weight of his stare made your skin prickle. He was watching you too closely, assessing.

Tommy exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his voice light. “Let’s not pretend you give a fuck who I bring to the races, Sabini.”

Sabini’s smirk lingered for a moment before he clicked his tongue, finally breaking his gaze from you and shifting back to Tommy. “Fair enough,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “Doesn’t make much difference to me. She’s pretty, though.”

Sabini sighed, glancing over his shoulder at the burning betting house. The flames weren’t raging, but smoke still curled from the upper windows, and the growing crowd of onlookers meant that business here was well and truly finished.

“Well,” he mused, turning back, “since we’ve lost our accommodations, shall we find somewhere else?”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”

Sabini studied him for a second longer, as if trying to gauge whether Tommy had expected this change of plans. Then he turned sharply on his heel, his men falling into step beside him as he walked toward the far end of the stands.

Tommy stayed put, letting a beat pass before exhaling through his nose and turning to you.

“Alright, you remember?” he breathed. 

“The stables,” you said. 

He gave a curt nod. “Thirty minutes. Stay where people can see you.”

His eyes held yours, steady and unyielding, as if willing you to understand the weight behind his words. He had planned for this. Had accounted for Sabini’s unpredictability, for the shifting board beneath his feet. But there was still risk– there was always risk.

You inhaled sharply and nodded. “Alright.”

For a moment, he lingered, his hand brushing the side of your waist before pulling away. Then, with a final glance, he turned and walked after Sabini, disappearing into the crowd.

The moment he was gone, the noise of the Derby seemed sharper, louder.

The hum of conversation swelled, the cheers from the track struck too high, and the calls of bookies rang in your ears like a warning bell. The weight of Tommy’s presence had always been something you could feel, a quiet force at your side, solid and steady. Without him, the absence hit you all at once.

You felt exposed– vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected.

A cheer erupted from the track as the next race was called, the excitement rolling through the stands in waves. It was all so normal. So mundane. As if, just beyond this scene of wealth and leisure, the undercurrent of something dangerous wasn’t about to unfold.

You exhaled, steadying yourself. Keep moving. Keep blending in.

There was no need to rush to the stables yet. Tommy had given you thirty minutes. If you arrived too early, it would only draw attention.

So you wandered.

The weight of his absence still sat heavy in your chest as you slipped between groups of wealthy patrons, their laughter too bright, their conversations shallow. A passing waiter offered champagne from a silver tray, and you took a glass without thinking, letting the stem rest between your fingers as you drifted toward the edge of the grandstand.

Below, the track stretched out in the golden afternoon light, the next set of horses being led out by their handlers.

You focused on the rhythm of it– the way the thoroughbreds moved, their coats gleaming under the sun, their riders adjusting their reins, the hum of gamblers muttering about odds.

It was a strange, dissonant feeling, being here in the middle of it all, pretending like you were just another face in the crowd.

For a while, you let yourself play the part.

You leaned against the railing, eyes flicking lazily over the field. You took a slow sip of the champagne, letting the bubbles linger on your tongue. You even let yourself get caught up in the energy of the race for a moment, watching as the gates snapped open, the horses breaking into a powerful sprint down the track.

But then something nagged at you. At first, it was just a feeling. A vague unease curling in your chest, easily dismissed as nerves. But then your gaze drifted, pulled instinctively toward the officers standing guard, undistracted and unbothered, it hit you.

The north entrance.

That was where Tommy’s men were supposed to create a diversion– something loud enough to force Campbell’s men to shift, to keep their eyes off Tommy. A fight, a scuffle, anything.

But there was nothing.

No raised voices. No sudden movement. No sign of a disruption. 

Your stomach twisted.

The uniformed officers stationed around still stood where they had been when you first arrived, their postures easy, their focus unbroken. 

Your fingers tensed around the champagne glass.

There could be an explanation. Maybe Tommy had adjusted the plan. Maybe the fight had been handled quietly, out of sight. 

You swallowed, trying to shake the unease slithering through your veins, but it clung to you, sinking deep into your bones. The Derby continued around you, the hum of conversation and the roar of the crowd washing over you like a tide, but suddenly, it all felt unbearably distant.

You didn’t want to be here anymore.

You didn’t want to be surrounded by these people, these faceless men in fine suits, laughing over their whiskey, oblivious to the way the world could turn sharp and cruel beneath them.

You wanted Tommy.

The thought startled you, how strong the ache for his presence had become. You had been without him for less than fifteen minutes, but in that time, something had shifted, and now all you wanted was the weight of his eyes on you, the quiet steadiness of his voice.

He made you feel safe, in a way you’d grown to depend on.

The thought alone made your pulse quicken– not with fear, but with something close to longing.

You forced yourself to breathe, to think.

Waiting around wasn’t going to make the feeling go away. The minutes stretched, slow and unbearable, each one making your skin prickle with the certainty that something was watching you, even if you couldn’t see it.

You needed to move.

Decision made, you set your untouched glass of champagne down on the nearest table and turned, slipping easily into the shifting bodies of the crowd.

The stables were quieter.

Safer.

And Tommy would be there soon.

You weaved through the grandstand, careful not to rush, but your pace was quicker than before, your movements more deliberate. 

Every step closer to the far end of the Derby grounds eased a fraction of the weight in your chest, though the unease still pulsed beneath your skin.

By the time you reached the stables, the noise of the crowd had dulled to a low hum in the distance, swallowed by the vast stretch of open space between here and the main stands. The scent of hay, damp earth, and leather settled thick in the air, a stark contrast to the perfume and whiskey lingering on your coat from the crowded grandstand.

You slowed your pace, glancing around.

It was quiet.

A few stable hands moved about their work, tending to the horses, brushing them down, adjusting saddles. They paid you no mind, too focused on their own business, and for once, you were grateful for it.

You stepped further in, the wooden beams of the stable casting long shadows in the fading afternoon light.

The silence felt different here. 

You exhaled slowly and leaned against one of the empty stalls, letting the tension slip from your shoulders.

The minutes passed with little urgency, stretching long and slow, but this time, it didn’t bother you. After the noise, after the endless hum of people, the quiet felt welcome. The horses shifted in their stalls, their movements rhythmic, soothing. You focused on the sound of their breathing, the occasional rustle of hay, the soft clink of metal as one of the stable hands adjusted a bridle.

Tommy would be here soon.

You exhaled, letting yourself lean further into the stall door, fingers absently tracing the worn grain of the wood.

But then a voice, low and taunting, cut through the silence behind you.

“Waiting for someone?”

Your breath caught. Before you could move, before you could think, before you could do anything at all– something cold and unyielding pressed against the small of your back.

A gun.

Your body went rigid.

“Don’t scream,” Campbell murmured, his voice dripping with quiet amusement. “Or you’ll be dead before the sound leaves your throat.”

He was standing too close, his voice curling against your ear like a whisper of death itself. His gun pressed harder into your spine, just enough to make his point clear.

“Walk,” he ordered.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you forward as he directed you, step by step, out of the stables. The warmth of safety you had felt moments ago vanished, replaced by the cold sweat prickling at the base of your neck.

Each step felt heavier than the last, your breath tight in your chest as Campbell steered you toward the far end of the Derby grounds. The festive hum of the crowd still carried on in the distance– oblivious, detached from the reality closing in around you.

You saw a familiar shape in the sea of bodies.

John.

He stood near the vendor stalls, talking to someone, his hat tipped low against the sun.

Hope surged in your chest, desperate and sharp.

Your pulse roared in your ears as your eyes locked onto him. See me. Please, John. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides, your body screaming for you to do something– to call out, to move, to catch his attention before it was too late. For a second, John shifted, glancing to the side– toward you.

Your breath caught. 

But then he turned back again, oblivious. 

You bit down hard on your panic, forcing yourself to keep moving. By the time you reached the parking lot, any remnants of safety were gone.

Campbell shoved a pair of handcuffs into your grasp. “Put them on,” he ordered.

Your hands trembled as the cold metal slid over your wrists, locking with a sharp click.

The truck door creaked open, and before you could react, Campbell grabbed you by the arm and hauled you inside.

The door slammed shut behind him. The truck lurched forward. And then, you were moving.

Your last glimpse of the Derby grounds was through the narrow gap in the back window– the crowd, the shifting blur of faces, and somewhere in it, Tommy, unaware.

Campbell leaned back against the wall of the truck, watching you with quiet amusement, his gun resting against his knee.

“Now,” he said, voice smooth, easy. “Let’s have a little chat.”

The road stretched ahead, leading you further and further away.

And for the first time since Tommy left your side, you knew– 

You were well and truly all alone.

…

Tommy sat across from Sabini in the dimly lit room, his expression unreadable as the conversation between them unfolded. 

Sabini was posturing, throwing out veiled threats wrapped in pleasantries, testing the edges of Tommy’s patience. But Tommy had played this game too many times before. He knew when to push and when to let a man talk himself into a corner.

Sabini smirked, swirling the drink in his hand as his dark eyes dragged over Tommy’s face.

“I have to say, Shelby,” he drawled, tilting his head. “Your face has healed up nicely since the last time we saw each other. Looks almost… respectable again.”

Tommy didn’t blink.

Sabini chuckled, tapping a finger against his glass. “Though, I think I preferred it the other way. Suited you better.”

Tommy exhaled slowly, rolling his unlit cigarette between his fingers, his jaw tight. His face was fine now– the bruises faded, the split lip long healed– but the memory of being beaten into the concrete by Sabini’s men still burned fresh.

Along with the way you had stitched him back up again. 

He kept his voice even. “It’ll take more than a few Italians to keep me down, Sabini.”

Sabini’s smirk widened. “Oh, I know. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

There was a sudden shift in the air, a subtle undercurrent beneath the usual tension, and Tommy couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Then, the door creaked open. One of Tommy’s men slipped inside, moving quickly to his side, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“The north entrance,” the man murmured. “Guards were never there.”

Tommy’s fingers tightened slightly around the glass in front of him.

Not there?

That wasn’t possible.

He kept his expression steady, barely a flicker of reaction, but he felt it– the cold realization sliding into his gut.

The north entrance was supposed to be where Campbell’s men were stationed. Where Tommy had sent his own men to create a distraction.

But they hadn’t been there.

Which meant– 

His pulse quickened, but he didn’t move. Didn’t let Sabini see the shift.

But Sabini saw something.

A smirk curled at the corners of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair, swirling the drink in his hand.

“Problem, Shelby?” he mused, voice smooth. “You look… distracted.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched.

Sabini knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not the details, but he knew enough.

The meeting was over.

Tommy pushed back his chair and stood, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket with practiced ease.

Sabini watched him with quiet amusement, his smirk widening just slightly. “Leaving so soon? And here I thought we were just getting comfortable.”

Tommy barely spared him a glance. “I don’t get comfortable, Sabini.”

With that, he turned and strode out, his pace brisk, controlled.

But as soon as he stepped outside, the composure cracked.

His strides lengthened as he moved through the shifting crowd, the noise of the Derby grating against his ears, an unwelcome backdrop to the sudden weight settling in his chest. His pulse was steady, but his breathing sharpened, his body already anticipating something wrong.

Beside him, one of his men kept pace, his expression tight with unease. He had been the one to whisper in Tommy’s ear about the north entrance.

“What do you want me to do, Tom?” The man– Liam, asked, voice low.

“Find Arthur and John,” Tommy said without looking at him, his voice clipped, firm. “Bring them to me.”

The north entrance had been a bluff– their own distraction. 

But for what?

Liam nodded once and peeled off, disappearing into the throng of well-dressed patrons, leaving Tommy to push forward alone.

The weight in his gut grew heavier with every step. You would be at the stables. You had to be by now, it had nearly been thirty minutes… just like you said. 

But when he arrived, the place was quiet. Too quiet. The scent of hay and leather lingered, the horses shifting in their stalls, but she wasn’t there.

He waited.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

His hands curled into fists as he paced, his mind whirring. Maybe you had gotten spooked. Maybe you had wandered a little further. But the longer he stood there, the deeper the feeling of dread sank into his chest.

Tommy turned sharply on his heel, heading back into the main crowd.

He checked the vendors first, scanning the faces, his movements controlled but urgent. He stopped at the whiskey stall, the betting booths, his jaw tightening each time he came up empty.

His hand twitched at his side.

He turned away sharply, moving toward the betting booths. He scanned the men crowding the odds board, their eyes fixed on the shifting numbers, rolling cigars between their fingers as they whispered to each other about favorites and long shots.

Not there, either.

His jaw tightened.

He wove further through the throng, past vendors shouting out prices for hot meat pies and whiskey, past wealthy men in tailored suits and women in silks who paid him no mind.

Then he spotted a vendor selling cheap trinkets– a small stand with silver cigarette cases and pocket watches laid out in neat rows.

His pulse kicked up.

He knew you had a habit of idly running your fingers over things when you were waiting– coins on a counter, the rim of a glass, the buttons of your coat. Maybe you would have lingered there, just for a moment, just long enough for someone to remember.

He stepped forward.

“You seen a woman here?” he asked the vendor, keeping his voice level. “About this tall– Green dress?”

The man barely looked up as he adjusted one of the cases. “Plenty of women come through.”

Tommy’s fingers curled against his palm. “You’d remember this one.”

The vendor hesitated, brow furrowing slightly. “I dunno, mate. Sorry.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, nodding once before turning away, pushing further into the crowd.

His stride lengthened, the careful control in his posture thinning. The murmurs of the crowd blurred together, the distant sound of the next race being called barely registering.

He stopped near a bar, scanning the people lined up along the counter.

Then, “Oi. Are you Thomas Shelby?”

Tommy turned, muscles tensed, sharp eyes locking onto the man who had spoken.

He was older, dressed in a Derby official’s waistcoat, his expression bored, indifferent. Like he was delivering nothing more than a routine message.

“There’s a phone call for you,” the man said.

Tommy’s blood ran cold.

The older man turned without waiting for a response, leading Tommy away from the main thoroughfare of the Derby grounds. The noise of the crowd dulled as they stepped around the back of the vendor stalls, weaving through a narrow passage between two betting booths.

Tommy’s pulse pounded against his ribs, but his expression remained unreadable, his body moving with purpose. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers brushing against the metal of his cigarette case, grounding himself in the feel of something solid.

The man led him to a small, makeshift office tucked between the grandstand and the betting houses. A single telephone sat on a desk, the receiver resting off the hook, the cord stretched taut.

It was waiting. Tommy stepped forward, ignoring the man behind him as he reached for the receiver and lifted it to his ear.

He didn’t speak.

Not at first.

A long silence stretched between him and whoever was on the other end of the line.

Then there was a voice. Smooth. Measured. Amused.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched.

Campbell.

The sound of his voice sent a slow, simmering rage through Tommy’s veins, steady and lethal.

Campbell sighed, a mockery of disappointment. “She was quite cooperative, you know. Didn’t put up a fight. Kind of a shame– I was hoping for more excitement.”

Tommy’s stomach twisted. His breath stayed steady, but something dark flickered behind his eyes. He had heard enough men like Campbell speak to recognize the game being played.

“Where is she?” Tommy asked, his voice like a blade– sharp, cutting, controlled.

Campbell hummed. “Safe. For now.”

Tommy’s jaw ticked. “If you lay a finger on her–”

“Now, now,” Campbell interrupted smoothly. “Let’s not make threats, Tommy. We both know this is bigger than you and me.”

Tommy’s free hand twitched at his side. “You tell me where she is, or I’ll tear this whole fucking place apart– I’ll kill every last one of your fucking men–”

Campbell chuckled again, the sound slithering through the line.

“Oh, I do believe you would try.” A beat of silence. “But do you really think I’d leave her at the Derby, Tommy? Do you take me for a complete fool?”

Tommy’s grip on the receiver turned to iron. “What do you want?”

Campbell exhaled, slow and deliberate, like a man savoring the moment. “So self-centered, Mr. Shelby,” he mused. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Tommy’s fingers curled tighter around the receiver, his knuckles going white. “Then why the fuck are we having this conversation?”

A soft, satisfied chuckle. “Because I want you to know that this isn’t about business. This isn’t about deals, or leverage, or power.” A pause. Then, low and sharp, “This is personal.”

Tommy’s breath stayed even, but a dangerous quiet settled over him.

“I should have known sooner,” Campbell continued, his voice coated in bitter amusement. “She was always in the right place at the right time, wasn’t she? Always knew just enough to keep you one step ahead. And yet, she smiled that pretty smile at me, and played her part so well. I was growing rather fond of her company, too, you know?”

Tommy’s jaw tightened, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Campbell’s voice darkened. “You made a fool of me, Shelby. And she helped you do it.”

The room was suffocating, the Derby’s distant roar a dull, meaningless hum in the background. The anger flooding his veins was ice-cold– focused, lethal.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, keeping his voice level. “You need a win, don’t you?” He let the words settle, calculating his next move. “You’ve been after the IRA for how long? The fucking crown breathin’ down your neck? You think if you bring them to heel, you’ll climb your way back up?”

Another pause.

Tommy pressed harder.

“I have names,” he continued, voice sharp now. “Contacts. Locations. Weapons routes. And I know exactly how your government wants them handled.”

Silence.

Tommy swallowed back the bitterness in his throat, knowing exactly what kind of ground he was treading. He’d worked with the IRA before. Made enemies. Made allies. He still had contacts, and Campbell knew it. He didn’t give a fuck about the government’s game, didn’t give a fuck about their wars– he only cared about you.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Tommy said, voice like steel.

The line crackled. Then, finally, he heard a soft, thoughtful hum.

“You are a resourceful man, Tommy,” Campbell murmured. “I’ll give you that.”

Tommy’s pulse hammered in his throat, but his voice stayed even. “I can give you what you need.” 

Campbell’s voice returned, measured, unreadable. “I’ve got to say, I do enjoy watching you squirm.”

A fresh wave of rage clawed its way up Tommy’s throat, but he swallowed it back, forcing himself to wait for the next words. 

“You still don’t understand, do you?” His voice was smooth, almost pitiful. “I don’t want anything from you, Tommy.”

Tommy’s grip tightened on the receiver, his pulse roaring in his ears.

Campbell exhaled, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t about information. It’s about power. About control.”

A cold realization settled in Tommy’s gut, but he refused to acknowledge it. Not yet.

Campbell chuckled, the sound slithering through the line. “You’ve spent years convincing yourself that you’re untouchable. That no matter what happens, no matter who comes for you, you’ll always be one step ahead.” A pause. “But you’re not, are you?”

Tommy swallowed, his breath steady, but his mind was already moving, already searching for the angle, the leverage– anything he could use to change the outcome.

“I want you to feel it, Tommy,” Campbell continued, voice sharp now, cutting straight to the bone. “The way I felt it, every time you made a fool of me. I want you to understand what it is to be helpless.”

Tommy’s fingers curled against the desk, white-knuckled.

“I want you to know,” Campbell said, his tone almost gentle, “that I can take something you care about… and I can hurt it–”

Tommy forced his breath to be measured, controlled. “What have you done?”

“Nothing. Yet.” A smirk laced Campbell’s tone. “But I do intend to take my time. You see, I just want you to see that you can’t stop this. Not everything is under your control, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

Campbell exhaled, pleased. “I wonder, Tommy… how long before she begs me to stop?”

The words slithered through the receiver like a blade pressed to skin, slow and deliberate.

Campbell let the silence stretch, savoring it. Then, lower, softer– crueler, he asked, “How long before she screams your name– before she realizes you can’t save her?”

Without warning, the line went dead.

Tommy stood there, frozen, the dial tone humming like a funeral bell in his ear.

Then– Crack!

His fist slammed into the wooden desk, rattling the phone, sending the ink bottle tumbling over the edge.

His breath came heavy now, sharp and measured as he forced himself back into control.

Campbell had made a mistake.

A big fucking mistake.

Tommy turned, his hands already moving, reaching into his coat for a cigarette as he stormed toward the door. He shoved it open with force, stepping into the fading afternoon light. The air outside felt sharp against his skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning in his chest.

Arthur, John, and the rest of the boys were already there, waiting just beyond the vendor stalls.

John spotted him first, his sharp gaze flicking over Tommy’s face, reading the tension in his shoulders. “What the fuck is going on?”

Arthur stepped forward next, his expression dark, nostrils flaring. “Tom, what was that? We saw the bloke bring you back here–” His voice cut off as he caught the look in Tommy’s eyes.

The others fell quiet, waiting.

Tommy exhaled sharply, smoke curling into the air.

“We have to get out of here,” he said finally, his voice clipped, urgent.

John frowned. “What? Why?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Tommy– where’s the Doc?”

The words landed like a gunshot.

Tommy inhaled slowly, then exhaled through his nose as he looked up. When he spoke, his voice was low, steady, lethal. “Campbell has her.”

“Fuck.” John’s face twisted in fury, his hands immediately curling into fists.

Arthur took a step closer, his breath coming sharper now. “What do you mean, Campbell has her? How the fuck did that happen?”

Tommy clenched his jaw, his patience thin. “He’s been one step ahead of us this entire fucking time. He knew she was spying for me.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his boot. “He knew. The whole time, he fucking knew.”

The weight of his words settled over them like a cold fog.

John swore under his breath. Johnny Dogs shifted, his jaw tight. The others exchanged glances, waiting for the next move.

Arthur exhaled harshly, rolling his shoulders back. “Right,” he said, his voice a touch calmer now– dangerously so. “So what the fuck do we do now?”

Tommy straightened, adjusting his coat.

“We find her.”

He turned, already moving, already calculating.

“And we kill that bastard before he even knows we’re coming.”

The boys didn’t hesitate.

They followed.

Because no one took from Thomas Shelby and walked away unscathed. 

[imnoonejustapiramide]

Chapter Six

Upon a Chance | A Sensei wolf (Cobra Kai) x OC (older, European exchange student from Miyagi-Do that has a past she's trying to run from)

Previous chapter

"Sam, Lena, just stay focused- the both of you can do it!"

"Go for the kill!"

Lena hears senseis Larusso and Lawrence call out from behind them. Looking at Sam beside her, she gives the girl a nod, which Sam then returns with a determined look, before she turns her gaze in front of her- to her smirking opponent.

Lena turns her gaze to her own opponent but sees him staring at Sam in wonder, which she quirks her mouth at, before she then decides to call him out on it.

"Eyes on me, big guy," She says with a teasing tone towards the towering kid, who then immediately snaps his head to her, looking entirely caught off guard, and extremely flustered from having been caught looking at her friend that is.

But he wasn't the only one who had heard her little remark, for she heard Yoon calling her out from within the crowd, which she chuckles at.

"Oi stop with the flirting, it's disgusting, "

Sensei Wolf had caught it as well, but she didn't notice, for she had been ignoring his looks the whole day, but well- he didn't like it in the slightest, which showed, what with him wearing an annoyed and sharp expression.

Seeing her lighthearted expression, while still wearing a flush to his face- Axell falters for a moment, and that was all Lena needed to pounce.

The fight then began with the noise of the crows turning louder at each punch, and evaded movement that took place.

Axell turned to jab a sharp punch at her, but she effortlessly evaded it, her movements fluid, all the while her gaze stayed stuck on her opponent in front of her, who frowned at her, especially when she struck a jab against his side.

She only grinned at him, while she circled around him like a predator, all the while she also made sure to have Sam in her eye-sight, for if she'd need her help. But she was luckily handling herself at the moment, doing as she told her to do. Good. She thought before she turned her mind to the fight at hand.

while the kid was fast, especially for his size- she was faster, and much nimbler, which she of course used to her advantage.

And before he could process the last punch, she continued to crack at his crippling defenses, which he clearly wasn't used to doing, and made the boy's firm movements from before, become much sloppier with the way he tried to get at her.

He was even starting to get out of breath.

She watched him turn frustrated now, which made her smirk at him now, before she struck at him with a kick, which made him take some steps behind him because of the force of it.

She then met Wolf's eyes behind the boy.

His gaze was entirely on hers, unblinking, and calculated.

Axell then sent a roundhouse kick towards her, which she then at the last moment twisted over with a jump, before she held one hand on the ground, balanced on it and quickly turned her body to his already turning form, and kicked at him with all her might.

The crowd then turned thunderous at the spectacle, while she then twisted and flipped to stand on her feet once more, her gaze now on the sprawled boy in front of her who held a hand on the ground to push himself off of it, for he wasn't entirely on the mat just yet- but he froze at her confident approach.

"STAND UP!" Wolf then shouted from behind at the boy, but Axell wasn't reacting to it as the man thought he would.

Something in her gaze and ready fist, and the sound of his sensei shouting at him made him freeze in the moment, which Lena frowned at, for this was no time to freeze at (and also because the look looked too familiar for one), not while he still had the chance to defend himself, but nevertheless, she promised to end this- she raised her fist ready towards him, all the while she held eye-contact with the now wide-eyed tall boy in front of her- who suddenly looked seemed like a small and frightened child in front of her, he wasn't even seeing her...

But before she could even move to deliver the final punch, Axell's breathing quickened, before he then fliched his face to the side.

"Miyagi-Do OUT! The Iron Dragons have won!" The announcer then shouted, which brought Lena to a pauze, and the boy in front of her as well, finally getting out of the strange spell that took over him just now.

Lena's jaw then clenched at the announcement.

It was then silent before the crowd then roared.

She then stood back and held a hand in front of the boy, which he looked upon in confusion, before he hesitantly took it.

Pulling him up,

"Good fight," She told him with a soft smile and a nod, which he looked at in surprise, before he nodded and shyly returned it, making him seem much younger now, especially with his mussed hair falling into his eyes with the movement.

Which struck a cord within her.

"Y-Yes," He quietly replied, which made her widen her smile, before she gave him a final nod and turned to head over to Sam, who stood straight on the mat in front of her, and was listening without an expression to the female captain of the Iron Dragons, which Lena then frowned at.

Especially at the nasty look the other girl was giving her friend, she knew those types of girls and did not like this in the slightest, but before she could say anything, or do anything the girl then spotted her and with one last smirk left to go to her Dojo, which left Sam and her standing solely on the mat then.

Sam looked at the ground for a moment, Lena watched as she tightened her fists by her side, before the younger girl then turned her head up at her approach.

"...Lena, I'm sorry for making us lose," Sam then quietely told her, her voice sounded wet to her ears, and looking into her eyes- they were teary at her quiet perusing of her.

"It's all my fault, I shouldn't have been-" She then continued, all the while she harshly moved an arm upwards, but before she could continue in her self-pity, she was caught off guard by Lena's chuckle, which then turned to a tinkling laugh, which caught the attention of all those around them, which made Sam then turn scarlet in embarrasment.

"You- You're laughing?" The younger girl then spoke, hurt clear in her tone, before her expression then stuttered and she let out the floodgates, which alarmed Lena, who then put a hand over her mouth, before she stood straight, and shook her head at the younger girl- it hadn't been her intention to hurt the other girl.

"Sam, wait no- I'm not laughing at you, I'd never laugh at you, love. Look at me," She softly asked her, while she held onto the now sobbing girl's shoulders, before she then finally pulled her into a hug.

"Oh Sam, I'm sorry." She whispered in the girl's hair, while she carefully caressed the girl's shivering back, all the while she hushed her in a comforting way.

"It happened, which we should just accept, and do better the next time- for this isn't the end you know? We got more challenges ahead of us. We got this far, the two of us, which says enough. So, get those nasty thoughts out of your head, okay?" She then told the girl, before Sam then pulled back from the hug with a firm nod, her face blotched with tears, which Lena softly smiled at before she moved to carefully clean them off her face, which Sam smiled at, at the tenderness she shows her.

Like how an older sister would.

"Now, head held high, okay? And shall we now join the others?"She then asked her friend, who nodded before Lena held onto her with one arm, while they then walked over to their awaiting group of friends and senseis who smiled at the both of them and pulled them into an awaiting group.

"You did good, the both of you- and that kick Lena, don't think I didn't see that!" Sensei Daniel then said with a proud smile before he then pulled his daughter into his arms in comfort, which Lena smiled at, before she felt Miguel pull her into a side hug.

"We almost won, which everyone saw, especially with you kicking the big guy on the mat, this is only the first challenge, we'll win the others." He then firmly told her with determination, his eyes burning at the thought of it, which Lena only nodded to.

All the while she felt eyes on her back, which she ignored in favour of turning her attention to sensei Lawrence.

"Do you want to talk with her?" Tory heard Yoon ask her from behind while she was watching Lena comfort Sam in front of her.

Her chest ached at the sight of them.

Especially at how this day had turned out for her, which she was angered over- at her quick defeat.

But that didn't hurt as much as the sight in front of her did.

"No." She told him, while she turned her gaze away from the two in front of her to go outside, all the while she ignored Robby's longing looks towards her way.

"Where's Tory?" Lena curiously asked when she met up with Yoon, who she gave a hug to.

He shook his head,

"She left." he told her, his gaze full of concern for his teammate, which she of course spotted.

"Is she-" She then started before she was interupted by another voice.

"What did I tell you, you lost because of that failure of a captain, well captains, seeing as it was too easy to beat him." Kwon said with a sneer while he invited himself into their conversation, which Lena looked upon without any expression.

He looked at his teammate, who stood straight beside her, before he turned to smirk at her.

"Although- you did fight well. You could have won as well, that is- if you stopped holding yourself back. Because you clearly did, why is that?" He then curiously asked with a frown, for he didn't understand why she would do such a thing in the slightest.

That, and why she wasn't captain.

"Thanks, I guess. " She replied, without giving an answer to his question, for that wasn't his business.

Which Yoon didn't miss in the slightest, while he looked at her with a frown as well.

"Ah a secret, okay. How interesting." Kwon then remarked, before he tilted his head at her with a wide smirk.

"See you around, Miyagi."

"It's Lena." She then told him in English,while she watched him leave, not before he flashed a two-fingured salute at her.

"You have a strange friend," She then decided, while she returned her gaze at her friend, who didn't deign to answer it.

"I'll head up now, see you around Yoon." She then after a moment decided, which he then mustered a smile at,

"See you, and good luck,"

"You too," She told him before she headed towards the exit, her Dojo having left before her already.

While she walked in the now desolute corrider in thought, she with surprise felt herself be pulled into a room with a yelp, her back immediately hitting the now closed door behind her, where she then finds herself enclosed upon by two hands beside her head.

And looking up at the perpetrator, she's met with the serious gaze of Wolf.

"Caught you."

I am so sorry for ending this on another cliffhanger!

But don't worry y'all will have quite a chapter with these two in the next one 😏

But anyways, what did you think of the chapter- did you see this coming? Or did you expect more? Do tell me!!! <3

And what did you think of my action scene writing (I'm not that good at it obviously, but I try my best) 😅

And sorry if I made any typo's, I haven't edited this (nor any of my other chapters)!

[theslumberinggod]

Life Is Good (Zhongli X Reader)

You celebrate Zhongli's birthday from the comfort of your little cottage, reminiscing on how tumultuous life had once been.

Pairing: Zhongli X Reader

•~°~•

A deep chuckle reverberated through the air, “My dear, what have you been up to?”

Golden evening sun spilled through the humble cottage’s little arched windows, splashing on the utter disaster strewn about you. Pots and pans were stacked nearly to the ceiling, every surface was stained with some sort of ingredient, sugar, flour, and other necessary baking items were haphazardly left on the counter.  You stood there in your little kitchen, apron caked white in flour, sugar, eggs, hair messy, brows furrowed in a deeply serious expression.

You held your wooden spoon out like a weapon, brandishing it at your husband before he could take another step inside the small cooking space. 

“Not another step, my dearest,” You threatened, “I am not done with my surprise yet.”

Zhongli stood there, gloved hands placed behind his back, a brow raised. His golden eyes flicked over the disastrous scene, and the corner of his lips quirked up in a gentle, knowing smile. 

“But, I am already here…?”

“Shoo! Go get changed into something other than your work coat! You smell like the dead!” You stepped forward, frantically waving your hands. The state of your husband’s aroma was greatly exaggerated but it caused him to lift an arm to get a whiff of his sleeve. 

“Very well my dear,” He chuckled and turned, letting you chase him out of the small room into your shared bedroom. 

He let out a chuckle, shutting the door before you could protest further. Goodness that man! The nerve to come home early so randomly. You turned on your heel, flitting back into the kitchen to finalize your surprise. 

“I will call you out when I am ready, Zhongli!” Zhongli, Zhongli, Zhongli---it had taken some time for you to get used to calling him that. Something other than Rex Lapis, something other than his many, many names. 

As you attempted cleaning up, glancing out the window at rolling hills and rising mountains, catching sight of your chickens picking through the backyard, it dawned on you how idyllic this all was. 

Here you were, making a birthday cake for your husband of some-two thousand years or so in a little cottage on the outskirts of the capital of Liyue, without a single worry other than being this mess you had to clean, chickens to feed, and if this birthday cake turned out alright or not. 

You closed your eyes. 

Once, you were Miles Lapis, the sword to the word of the God of Contracts. He spoke, and you would carry his verdict out. The first Millelith, his most devout soldier.

Should you have to take up the blade again, should you once more face a battle where you waded knee deep in ichor and the bodies of friends and foe, you would do it. You would do it.

But you hoped that time wouldn’t be any time soon. 

You were enjoying this period of peace, this period, this chapter of a new life. 

You opened your eyes.

You exhaled shakily, peeling yourself away from the hallways of your mind, smiling to yourself at the domestic sight around you, shushing ghosts of the past for the pleasant aroma of the present. You went about decorating Zhongli’s cake, listening to him shuffle in your shared bedroom. 

“Is it ready yet, dear?” Zhongli called through the door. Oh no, he really had been patiently waiting and you had went and got lost in your thoughts again.

“Almost! Okay, you can come out, o sit at the table!” You called, not having to raise your voice much because of the small space of the home. Curiosity in his eyes, Zhongli stepped out. He had changed in  his ‘casual’ attire, which was really just a less tightly done up version of his work clothes. He always liked looking pristine, and you couldn’t complain, it was like an extra sugar coat to the eye candy he already was. 

The former Archon slipped out the small back door just past you as you dramatically used yourself to cover the cake, causing him to let out an amused noise. You watched with glee as he spotted the set table, a lacey tablecloth pulled over it with your best dishes set out, the patterns glinting in the setting sun. 

Hurriedly you discarded your apron and glanced in the mirror by the door, grimacing at the messy state of yourself, but shrugged it off. Zhongli has seen you in worse states---covered in blood that wasn’t yours and such. 

Wiping your hands off with a damp dishtowel, you grabbed the cake and shouldered through the rickety little door out onto the patio, endeared to the sight of Zhongli already soaking in the sight of the sun setting over the countryside, dragging the curtain of night from the highest arches of the endless sky sprawling above Liyue’s twisting landscape. 

You loved how he enjoyed every little thing. Every little day, and all it had to offer. He turned to you when you entered the porch, and you unabashedly grinned, holding up the cake. 

“Happy Birthday, Zhongli!” 

His eyes widened, and bemusement crossed his features, “This is wonderful darling but…my birthday?”

“You silly, handsome little dragon,” You shook your head, setting your glorious creation on the table, its size and weight enough to cause the poor thing to wobble a little. You plopped down in your chair, looking up at him. “Don’t tell me you forgot today was your own birthday?”

Zhongli let out a laugh as he leaned back in his chair. There was the slightest flush on his cheeks, a somewhat flustered expression only you could ever draw out with your terms of endearments and teasings, “I suppose I was quite caught up in the week. I’m the utmost grateful for your remembrance, or I would’ve missed out on this delightful thing you have conjured for me.”

You flushed, before reaching out and gently smacking his slender hands as he reached for the cutlery. “Thank you my darling, but I will be serving you.”

Zhongli chuckled, but made no comment on the human customs you had latched onto. Humans adored traditions, and even though you gave up your humanity a long time ago, you latched onto little bits and pieces like this. You cut him a sizable slice and handed it to him, eagerly watching him like a hawk as he took a small bite, polite as ever and savored the taste.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, “...Is this Old Sumeran Chocolate from…?”

“Yes,” You nodded rapidly, “I pulled some strings and called some favors, but I got my hands on some. It was quite sad watching this kind of chocolate disappear since it was our favorite, but I found out there are preservation efforts and I couldn’t help myself. I just had to.”

The way Zhongli smiled made the weeks of scrounging pocket change and wrangling Xiao and Lumine for help, writing letters, endless failed cakes and slaving hours away in the kitchen all worth it.

“You wonderful creature,” Zhongli closed his eyes as he took another bite, pure delight on his familiar features. “Do you remember the first time we had chocolate like this together?”

You furrowed your brows as you leaned to cut yourself a slice of cake, “I don’t think so. It was my go-to snack for so long until people stopped growing it.”

“You’re the one who introduced it to me,” He said with a hum, gentle and soft with his words, “It was just before battle, during the Archon War. Before the Millelith were established.”

You paused mid-slice of the cake. No wonder you didn’t remember that. That was before---before this. Before you and Zhongli sealed a contract that turned you into Miles Lapis, the First Millelith, his sword-arm, his.

Life had been a blur of panic, looming death and the crushing agony of loneliness. You had lost all you knew and loved long before that contract was sealed, long before the war finally ended. 

The chaos didn’t end after you and Rex Lapis became partners, not even the panic, the looming death, even the loneliness, but the cracks had been filled with Rex Lapis, your commander, your god, your friend, your something more. He had given you someone to love, and gave you someone to be loved by---a sturdy foundation for which stars could not remove.

You could only remember vividly the day it happened. The day the contract was proposed---sitting in the battlefield, the memory foggy but clear and sharp as a knife---

You pulled yourself out of your thoughts, away from the ghostly hallways in your head, once again immersed in the cool evening breeze, the golden light that made Zhongli’s eyes glow, the sprawling countryside filled with greens and beautiful hills and cliffsides, trees and flowers.

Zhongli, patiently eating his cake, here, at a small table, in a small cottage, celebrating his birthday---his 6-thousand-something birthday, but right now it was only his twenty-eighth birthday. 

“...Did it work? Did it lift your spirits?” You ask quietly as you focused on fixing yourself a piece of cake before taking a bite, savoring the delightful taste.

“Yes,” He smiled softly, lifting his eyes once again to you, “It was so unexpected. It was just a little chocolate. But it was precious---I realized that night you were quite precious, and I would be quite bereaved should I lose your presence.” 

You smiled bashfully, “We were both lucky I lived long enough for us to both come to the conclusion that we should not be separated.”

“You know there’s no such thing as luck,” Zhongli hummed, shaking his head.

“Is that so, my silly dragon? Look at your shirt. Surely you didn’t do that on purpose.”

He looked down, eyes narrowing at the sight of some frosting that had fallen onto his coat. He sighed, wiping it carefully off. “...I simply was too busy getting lost in your eyes and delicious cooking.”

Your face warmed at the compliments, heart aflutter---for even after all this time, he still managed to make you feel butterflies, “A flattering excuse, my darling.”

Conversation passed between the both of you as the sun began to disappear behind the mountains and the air chilled. All your chickens began to meander into their coop, crickets voiced themselves and night birds called out. The air chilled a little more, the warmth from the lantern above you both making itself known. The conversations that passed between you were of today’s events and of times long past, conversations others would find strange and absurd but were to you nothing more than an elderly couple discussing the lovely highlights of their long life shared together.

As the cake steadily disappeared, and you both wandered back into the kitchen to clean up together (you had insisted on doing it yourself, but Zhongli insisted otherwise) and quietly laughed and talked. Eventually, you had cleaned up, and the both of you lay back on your bed in your small, modest room, hands intertwined.

“I hope you had a good birthday,” You whispered, laying on your side facing him, blankets pulled to your chin. He smiled softly with a gentle hum, the tiredness of a mortal body hanging both over you, the tired, sleepy kind.

“I have. It has been delightful, one I will remember for many years to come.”

“...And…thank you,” You squeezed his hand, looking away, “Thank you for this. I like…I like our life right now.”

He lifted your hand and kissed your fingers gently, drawing your gaze back to him “Me too.”

“This life is good.” 

[whimsy-sturns]

Between Mercy and Hunger

vampire.ᐟreader x mortician.ᐟmatt - the second chapter

warnings: religious imagery. usage of urban fantasy. no use of y/n. mentions of death, blood, etc. slight emotional vulnerability. light banter. fluff if you squint realllllly hard. ik this chapter is short n sweet but let the pressure build. trust me 🌙

wc: 2k

divider credits to: @/bernardsbendystraws, @/junabuggy

Two weeks. Two weeks since the incident that happened at the morgue. Since everything changed for Matt. He’s tried to go back to his life, but something is… off. He sleeps poorly, wakes up disoriented, and feels a strange, gnawing sensation deep inside him. Like he’s missing something.

He tells himself it’s just his mind playing tricks, but deep down, he knows–you did something to him.

Matt doesn’t try to banish you. He doesn’t spend hours poring over ancient texts or calling priests for exorcisms.

He tells himself it’s because he needs closure. Because ignoring it won’t make it go away. Because after that night in the morgue, after seeing you sit up from the slab like some twisted resurrection, there is no going back to how things were.

But if he was truly desperate to rid himself of you, wouldn’t he have tried harder? Wouldn’t he have thrown himself at the feet of the church, begging for salvation?

Instead, he goes about his life as if waiting.

Waiting for the pull in his chest when he steps into the dark. 

Waiting for the feeling of unseen eyes watching from just beyond the light.

Waiting for you.

Maybe it’s because he’s always been drawn to death. Maybe it’s because for years, he’s been speaking to the dead, tending to them, existing in that quiet space between life and after. You’re not the first cold body he’s touched–but you’re the first that ever touched him back.

So no, he doesn’t try to banish you. Because the moment he does, he has to confront the truth.

That you were never just a nightmare.

That he’s not sure he wants to be saved.

The lake is silent. A forgotten place, surrounded by towering trees that seem to press inward, guarding its secrets. The water is still, dark as ink, reflecting only the silver light through the moon.

Matt doesn’t remember deciding to come here. He just… did. Like something was pulling him. 

He tells himself it's for closure. To put this whole nightmare behind him. But deep down, he knows that’s a lie.

And then, he sees you.

Standing at the water’s edge, bathed in moonlight, you’re back to him. Still. Almost serene. Like you belong there, part of the night itself. He should be afraid. But instead, he just watches.

“So this is what you do?” His voice breaks the silence, dry and sharp. “Linger in the dark, waiting for someone to stumble into your trap?”

You don’t turn immediately. You let the silence stretch, let him stew in his own uncertainty before you finally speak.

“You came to me, Matthew.” Your voice is softer than before–less theatrical, less cruel. Just matter-of-fact.

That rattles him more than he’d like to admit.

“I want answers.” He takes a step forward. “I want to know what the hell you are.”

This time, you do turn. You meet his gaze, and for the first time, you’re not hiding behind riddles or cryptic smiles.

“I think you already know.”

He watches you carefully. Everything about you is… off. Not in an obvious way, not grotesque or monstrous, but in the kind of way that makes his instincts coil in quiet alarm,

You don’t fidget. Not a single nervous shift, no rise and fall of your shoulders as you breathe.

Your expression is eerily smooth, like something carved from marble, only shifting when you decide it should.

Your movements, when they come, are deliberate–as if you have all the time in the world to react, no wasted energy.

But what gets him the most–what unnerves him–is the way your gaze lingers just a little too long on his throat.

His stomach tightens. His mind finally pieces it together. You’re hungry.

Your lips curve, the kind of smile that feels like it holds a secret just out of reach.

“You’re observant.”

His mouth twitches, something like a dry laugh dying in his throat. “So that’s it, then? That’s why you didn’t kill me last time?”

You tilt your head, considering. Not denying it.

“It’s why I should have.”

The words land heavier than they should. The weight of what you are–what he already knew deep down but refused to name–settles over him.

He exhales sharply through his nose, tilting his head back to glare at the sky as if God Himself could provide an answer for this nightmare.

Then he looks back at you, blue eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. “So what are we doing here, then?”

“Closure, wasn’t it?” Your voice is smooth, silken, just a touch condescending. “You came looking for answers.”

His nostrils flare. “And you came looking for blood.”

“Ah.” A small, amused hum. Not in denial.

Matt folds his arms, muscles tensing beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His sharp cheekbones cast angular shadows under the moonlight, his jaw locked tight, but there’s something else in his expression now.

Something less afraid.

More… curious.

He lets the silence stretch before speaking, voice edged with dry amusement.

“You know,” he starts, watching you closely, “I read somewhere that vampires don’t breathe.”

You blink at him, unbothered. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” His lips twitch, the barest hint of a smirk. “Kind of hard to be all alluring and terrifying when you’re standing there holding your breath like a corpse.” He mutters, voice dry, edged with something almost smug.

“Also, you’re a liar.”

You arch your brow, taken slightly aback by the sudden accusation.

“You breathed back at the morgue,” he points out, tone laced with sly, unwavering certainty. “I saw it. I heard it. Pretty unconvincing for someone who’s supposed to be dead.”

For the first time, your expression shifts. Not in shock or discomfort–no, nothing as human as that–but something far more deliberate. Like you’ve been waiting for him to catch on.

A slow, knowing smile curves your lips.

“That was just to make you realize I wasn’t actually dead,” you say, stepping forward, letting the words sink in. Then, softer–almost taunting:

“Well… not in the way you thought I was.”

The night air hangs thick around you both, the silence feeling unnervingly heavy after the revelation.

Matt stands frozen, staring at you like he’s just been struck. He breathes out shakily, but it’s more of a reflex than an attempt to calm himself. His chest rises and falls in quick succession–an action so distinctly human that it contrasts sharply with the eerie stillness that surrounds you.

“You…” His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. “You faked it.”

You don’t respond right away, instead letting your gaze linger on him with the quiet knowing of someone who has long seen things unfold before they happen.

“I didn’t want you to think I was truly dead,” you say finally, your voice smooth and unsettling, like an unseen predator circling its prey.

Matt’s mind races, trying to catch up, but it’s like trying to navigate fog. He stares at you–his blue eyes wide with something between disbelief and fear. The strange sense of vulnerability that he felt before? It’s still there, but now it’s tinged with unease, like he’s been lied to for far too long.

“I didn’t…” He starts, but he trails off, unsure how to finish the thought. His gaze darts away, nervously at first, but then back to you. He’s trying to piece things together.

“You didn’t want to be dead to me, right?”

Your eyes never leave him. You say nothing, but the way you tilt your head is an acknowledgment in itself.

It hits him like a cold wave: you were playing with him, but not in the way he thought. She was trying to get him to see–to feel–that she wasn’t just some mindless monster. That her existence was far more complex, tangled in a web of emotions she didn’t quite understand herself. And all the while, she was watching him, studying him, making sure he would never forget her.

He exhales sharply, finally grasping the weight of the situation, but it only adds to his confusion.

“Why me?” His voice cracks. The question isn’t rhetorical anymore– he needs an answer. More than anything, he needs closure.

You smile softly, almost imperceptibly, as if your secrets are still yours to keep. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”

Matt takes a few steps back, shaking his head, as though trying to rid himself of the oppressive feeling that you’ve just placed upon him. He feels sick, but not in the way he expected. It’s like the world had tilted on its axis, and now he’s left teetering on a line he never asked to walk. The lines between life and death, faith and fascination, are blurred.

Still, he can’t bring himself to walk away. He can’t bring himself to leave you. Even as the unease tightens in his chest, he knows something is pulling him back. 

“Why don’t you just end it? Why not kill me?” His voice is tight, like the words are scraping their way out of him. He’s searching for an answer, but deep down, he knows it’s not just about the physical threat. It’s something else–something deeper.

You stand still, your gaze steady, but inside, something swirls. A mixture of disbelief and unknowing. Why don’t you just end it?

“You’re not worth it,” you say gently, your voice distant and almost impersonal. It’s the easy answer. The answer you give him, not to push him away, but to keep the truth locked in a place even you won’t go.

But Matt doesn’t buy it. His eyes widen slightly, not just in disbelief, but in frustration. “Then why come back? Why–” His breath catches, and he can’t finish the sentence. 

You feel it before he says it–his confusion, his unease. It’s a question that’s been on his mind for days, weeks, maybe even longer. Why are you willing to return?

The stillness of the water reflects Matt’s face, making the moment feel unreal, like a dream. The tension that clings to the air thickens, and you suddenly feel the weight of it more than ever. You’ve been coming back to him, for reasons you can’t fully comprehend.

“You’ve asked that before.” You take a slow step toward him, just enough to close the gap. Not a threatening move, but one that speaks volumes in its intent. “You don’t like the answer.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. His breath is shallow, and for the first time, he’s not sure if he’s more afraid of you–or of what’s happening to him the longer you stay.

“I don’t understand,” he mutters, voice almost breaking. There’s a shaken up tone there, one he hasn’t shown to anyone in a long time. Maybe never. “Why do you keep showing up? What do you want from me?”

Your expression softens–just the slightest shift, like something fragile breaking through the barrier you’ve kept yourself. You hesitate, your gaze lingering on him, and for a moment, there’s something raw, something genuine.

“I don’t know,” you admit, barely above a whisper, as if you’re talking to yourself more than him, But the words are an opening–a crack in your carefully constructed facade. “I can’t explain it, not right now.”

He senses something shifting in you, something that doesn’t fit the creature he thought you were. But it confuses him further. If you don’t want to hurt him, then why come back? Why continue this strange, unsettling game you’ve been playing with him?

“You’ll understand eventually,” you say, a quiet certainty in your voice. You mean it, but at the same time, you’re unsure whether he ever will.

For a long moment, neither of you move, your eyes locking in a tense silence. Matt knows this won’t be the last time you cross his path, but a part of him almost wishes it would be. He’s not sure how to reconcile what’s happening–his faith, his own loneliness, and the undeniable connection between you two.

But as the silence lingers, you give him one last, reluctant smile, and with a soft, unhurried step backward, you turn toward the shadows.

“I’ll return.” The words hang in the air, chilling him to his core.

He doesn’t say anything as you disappear into the darkness. Part of him feels relief, but another part–the part that can’t understand, the part that’s growing more and more curious–aches for answers he knows he might never get.

out of the coffin: chapter two is out yayeyayyeyayeya. i will make a masterlist soon, don't worry. this series will have MULTIPLE parts so you will probably get lost in the sauce of my blog. same for chris when i get to writing about him also. i love writing this au soo muchhhhuhhh i already have chapter 3 written so i'll post it sometime next week or the week after.

more to come soon. stay tuned, witches.

Love and bitten kisses, May. 𖤐.☾

🧛‍♀️🧛: @bernardsbendystraws, @muwapsturniolo

[anotherworldawaitsus]

The Girl Next Door

Synopsis: A new neighbor turns Melissa’s world upside down.

Chapter: 4/10 (The Addict)

Series Warnings: Slow burn, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, protective Melissa, fem reader, age difference, WLW

Chapter Warnings: Minor violence, mentions of drug use, homophobic slur, sibling rift, protective Melissa has arrived

—————————————-

You had purposely chosen a neighborhood far removed from the streets where you grew up, carefully avoided all your old haunts, kept your head down. But you knew you couldn’t hide forever. It was only a matter of time until the past came knocking.

Which is why, when you rounded the corner one Friday night in April, you weren’t entirely surprised to see your little brother Mikey standing outside your apartment building. His face was thinner than you remembered, but you recognized him instantly.

“Hiya, sis,” he said, a flicker of that old smile ghosting across his features as you approached. “Heard you were back in town.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Ouch,” he said, scuffing his shoe into the ground. “We ain’t seen each other in how long, and that’s the first thing you—”

“What are you doing here?” you repeated loudly. A muscle in Mikey’s jaw jumped as he ground his teeth together. He hated to be interrupted.

“You gonna invite me in?” He plastered a fake smile on his face as a group of people walked by, nodding hello on their way to the bars. “Or should we just yell on the street like animals?”

You hesitated, sizing him up. He was practically a stranger to you, and you’d bet your entire paycheck that he was still spending every hour of the day getting high. But you didn’t care. Suddenly, you were eager for a fight.

“Why not?” A corrosive fury simmered in your veins as you pushed past him and unlocked the door.

“You got a nice place,” Mikey said once you were both inside. He looked around, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops of his pants. His eyes were restless, hungry.

You grabbed two beers from the refrigerator and handed him one.

“How’d you find out where I live?”

Your tone was blunt, unfriendly. He looked away.

“Duncan said you had a party here last month.”

“Duncan Davies?” you laughed darkly. “That little shit stain always had a big mouth.”

“Yeah well,” he said. “Guess my invite got lost in the mail.”

You scoffed, opening your mouth to say fuck yes it did. But suddenly your phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, you saw it was Boone.

“I gotta take this,” you said. “Work.”

Mikey bobbed his head, took a sip of beer. You stepped into the kitchen and answered the call, not even bothering to say hello.

“Your surprise party is the gift that keeps on giving,” you hissed.

“What do you mean?” You heard the rustling of papers and pictured your friend sitting on his sofa, rolling a joint.

“I mean,” you said, trying to keep your voice low. “Word got back to my burnout brother, and now he’s standing in my living room.”

Boone swore softly.

“I told you I wanted to keep a low profile, but you just had to be a goddamn social butterfly.” You knew you were being unfair, that you were just amped up and looking for someone to blame.

“What does he want?”

You ran a hand through your hair. “I have no idea.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Boone said. “But you can’t exactly avoid your family forever, can you? Maybe this is a good thing.”

“Trust me,” you sighed, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “It’s not.”

You hung up, sagging against the counter for a moment and taking a few deep breaths before you walked back into the living room.

Mikey didn’t hear you come in. He was hunched over the table by the front door, rifling through a drawer. Your wallet was in his left hand, a wad of bills in his right. Outrage licked its way up your spine, dull and painful. Of course.

“Looking for something?”

His head snapped up so fast it almost made you wince.

“I can explain,” he said. “This ain’t what it looks like.”

“No?” you laughed darkly. “Because it looks like you’re still a junkie and a thief.“

Fury clouded his features. He had been handsome once, but his face had a wasted look to it now. The hollows of his cheek were overly pronounced, almost skull-like.

“I just need something to get through the week,” he said, gripping the cash tightly in his fist.

“Where have I heard that one before?” you mocked. “Oh, right, at dad’s funeral, when you showed up loaded and begging mom for money.”

His cheeks flushed bright red. “You’re such a bitch.”

You slammed your beer down on the table hard enough that the bottle shattered. For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes glittered with malice, shame, sorrow. You remembered a time when you would have done anything for him, your baby brother with the same irresistible smile as your dad.

“Put the money down,” you growled. “And get lost.”

His lips twitched. “Make me,” he taunted.

The words were barely out of his mouth before you lunged. You’d always been faster when you were kids, and you were pleased to see you could still get the drop on him. You grabbed his neck, dog-walking him toward the door with his head squeezed tightly under your armpit.

“Let me go!” he yelled, voice strangled by your chokehold. “Get your fuckin’ hands off me!”

You spilled out into the hallway together, a clumsy tangle of arms and legs and fists. You threw a rogue punch toward his midsection. Blood was pounding in your ears.

He twisted in your grip with a roar of pain and frustration, his elbow catching you square in the ribs. The impact was hard enough to knock the breath out of you, and he pushed his advantage, gripping you by the throat and throwing you against the wall. He was scrawny, but still strong. Your jaw smacked against the hard tile and you slid to the floor, winded and dazed.

“You think Dad would be ashamed of me,” he half-shouted, straightening his jacket. “Look at you, fucking psycho dyke.”

He was almost unrecognizable in that moment, towering over you with a hateful sneer on his face. He stepped closer and you scrambled backwards, unsure what he intended to do. Luckily, you never found out.

At that moment, a baseball bat swung through the air, missing Mikey’s face by inches.

“Touch her again and I’ll break your kneecaps.”

>> Read the rest of this chapter right now on my Patreon! <<

[vividiana]

chapter 2

pairing: Astarion x f!Durge · word count: 4.6k

rating: M for now, will change to E (18+)

tags: modern AU, witness protection, strangers to friends to lovers (see AO3 for a more exhaustive list)

summary: It’s been over a year since Eve had to uproot her life and assume a new identity—anything to distance herself from the past she wishes she could forget. When an erratic, if oddly charming, newcomer stumbles into her place of work, she recognizes something familiar within him and the two can’t seem to stay away from each other. But Eve is not the only one running from her past.

An alternative, modern take on the Dark Urge x Astarion romance, filled with friendship, secrets, healing, and ABBA.

a/n: this chapter is a bit heavier as we start to get into Eve's backstory. but fortunately, she has World's Best Roommate to come home to, so it's not too terrible 💛

chapter-specific cw: mentions of past relationship abuse, mentions of murder, nightmares, flashbacks, blood, guns, anxiety attacks, being called pet names by slimy men

previous chapter · read on AO3 · dividers

“I’m afraid this is all we have time for today,” says Therapist Number Nine, or Halsin, as he insisted she call him. “Thank you for your honesty, Eve. I’m truly glad you decided to take this first step in coming here. Does the same time next week work for you?”

Eve is currently channeling all of her energy into maintaining a neutral expression, so the most she can manage is a nod. 

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

“Thanks,” she mutters before grabbing her bag and walking out of the office. 

The perky receptionist attempts to talk to her, but Eve is already reaching out for the door. She needs to get out, needs to breathe, needs to–

The afternoon air is too warm to offer her any relief. It envelops her in a constricting embrace, making it even harder to breathe.

She rushes back to her car and as soon as she closes the door, her body jerks with a loud sob. She rests her forehead on the steering wheel as the tears keep falling.

This is why she keeps changing therapists, why she never makes it past the first couple sessions. Because after all the formalities and testing the waters, they start digging, and when they dig, she starts to remember, and she doesn’t want to remember. She just wants it to stop hurting. To make it through the day without despising herself. Why is that so much to ask? 

But this one, this Halsin, with his kind, insightful eyes that made Eve feel like he was peering into the very core of her rotten soul, he didn’t seem to have a need for your standard interview. No, he had to get straight to the point, to call it as it is, or rather, as he saw it.

Abuse.

It echoes painfully against her skull, the concept rattling around her mind looking for fertile ground to take root, but she won’t let it. She doesn’t want it to stick, doesn’t want to face it head on.

The tears don’t stop and it scares her, the sheer force with which the pain seizes her body. It’s not that she doesn’t usually cry—it’s just never about this. Never about him. 

There is no relief to be found in those tears, only an increasingly hollow feeling, the gaping hole in her chest widening with every trembling sob.

She can’t stay here, because the longer she stays, the more details come back to her, the more vivid his voice grows in her mind—after she went through such great lengths to never have to hear it again. But she can’t find it in herself to force her muscles to move.

It’s not until someone pulls into a parking spot to her left that Eve is snapped back to the present, the sudden movement reminding her that the world around her carries on. She sits up and retrieves some tissues from the glove compartment to try to manage the sniffling mess her face has become.

She’s still too shaken to drive, so she decides to walk to a CVS down the street to get some water and a Twix bar. When she’s waiting to check out, she spots some discounted face masks and grabs one for her and one for Lae’zel. Surely the “Exfoliating Strawberry” will fix her.

When Eve finally makes it back to Clinton, she is, of course, late. And while she looks like a chewed-up possum, with her puffy cheeks and wrinkled jumpsuit wrangled out from the jaws of her dryer, Agent Ravengard looks like a model, all lean muscle and perfect smile. This time, his locks are pulled up into a bun, eyes obscured by a pair of round rimless sunglasses. He waits for her on a bench outside the coffee shop, his iced mocha and her chai latte in hand.

Gentleman that he is, Wyll tactfully ignores her frazzled state as he rises and hands her the beverage, then nods towards the park on the other side of the street.

“How was your weekend?” he asks as they start walking.

“It was fine,” she says, her voice still a bit hoarse. She clears her throat and continues: “Lae’zel dragged me out on a hike yesterday. And Saturday was not particularly exciting, since I had to work. My manager was giving me a hard time. This lady yelled at me because we were out of Smirnoff Ice. You know, the usual.”

“Have you thought about looking for a different job? Every time I ask about it, you sound exasperated.”

“Oh, every single day. But there is only so much you can do with a high school diploma, no employment history, and no references.”

“You know you can always put me down as a reference, right? We do that sometimes. Just give me a heads up, so I can prep. But I’m also quite good at making things up on the spot—I was in an improv group in college, have I ever told you that?”

“No, you haven’t,” she laughs. “But that seems very on-brand.”

They sit on one of the few remaining benches in the shade and Wyll asks her about her support network: whether she’s made any new friends or found a way to get involved with the local community. It feels like he is actively avoiding the subject of therapy.

But then there is a lull in the conversation and finally, trying to make himself sound as casual as possible, he asks:

“Oh, and how was your appointment today?” 

There it is. The real question, the one he was warming her up for.

“I don’t like this guy.” Eve avoids his gaze as she speaks, watching a bird perched on a bench a few feet away, ruffling its feathers.

“Mhm. And why is that?”

“He’s too nice,” she sighs as she turns to face him, painfully aware of how silly she sounds. “He treats me like I’ve never done anything wrong in my life.”

“Eve, you know I like you, but this feels like you’re just making up excuses at this point.”

“I’m not,” she insists. 

“He’s too nice? That’s the issue?”

“Yes. And there is another thing, he just– He’s barely met me and he thinks that he can tell me the truth about my life, when he doesn’t even understand the full picture.”

“So maybe with time, he will begin to understand the full picture? If you let him.”

Eve takes a large sip of her beverage to stall.

He doesn’t get it. And after all, why would he? We are nothing alike.

“Eve, you know I can’t force you to do this,” Wyll continues when she doesn’t respond. “It’s your life. I’m here to connect you with resources, but it’s up to you whether you use them or not. But you said it yourself, not so long ago: that you wanted to feel better, that you’re tired of living like this. I understand that whatever he said made you uncomfortable, and you can bring it up to him during your next session. But if you truly want things to change, you will have to deal with that discomfort. For a while, perhaps. I know you know this, too. And I understand that it’s hard to accept. But please just give it an honest try, will you? Not for me. For yourself.”

She’d rather do it for him, honestly. And so, to not make his job any harder than it already is, she says, however reluctantly:

“Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

“Splendid.” After a moment, he adds: “I know it’s not easy, Eve, but I think you’ll find it to be a good choice in the long run.”

She nods, thoroughly unconvinced.

In a great display of mercy, Wyll changes the subject and asks about Lae’zel. Eve jumps on the opportunity to divert from her problems and update him on the highs and lows of the county youth soccer league.

When he walks her back to her car, she asks:

“Has there been any progress with the investigation?”

“No, nothing new. I’m sorry, Eve.”

“But you’ll tell me if there is, yes? I’m still avoiding the news.”

“Of course.”

After they say their goodbyes, Eve heads to the elementary school, but this time she chooses to wait in her car. The drive home is quiet, Lae’zel glued to her phone, probably on the prowl for her next hook-up.

As soon as they make their way back to the apartment, Eve heads to her room and engages in the titillating activity of lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling, her gaze following the branching out cracks in the paint.

She knows she needs to find a distraction soon to avoid a repeat of her outburst in the car, but that would necessitate moving, which currently seems like an insurmountable task. 

There is a soft knock on the door.

“Come in.”

She turns her head to watch as Lae’zel walks in, an unusual hint of concern in her hazel eyes. She grabs the chair from Eve’s desk and sits facing the back, her elbows propped on the plastic as she speaks.

“Talk to me, boluda, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

But in the silence that follows, Eve eventually finds the right words and recounts the unfortunate appointment, skimming over the details of what exactly she told Halsin. She’s still facing the ceiling as she talks, which makes it a bit easier.

Lae’zel listens thoughtfully, refraining from any comments. When Eve finishes, she waits for a moment before asking:

“Do you need a distraction, company, space, or…?”

“I don’t know, I kinda want to rot in bed for a bit. But company might be nice.”

Lae’zel nods, her gaze gliding around the room. When it lands on the corkboard above the desk, she leans towards it, brows furrowed.

“What’s this about?” she asks, pointing to the pinned note.

“Oh, that. It’s kind of a long story,” Eve says, waving her hand dismissively.

But Lae’zel just cocks her eyebrow and Eve sighs, sitting up as she explains: 

“Okay, so there was this guy…”

“Uh-huh,” Lae mutters in a this will be good tone.

“...who came into the Blushing Mermaid on Friday. A new customer. Um– and he was a bit… frazzled, let’s say. Anyways, I go up to take his order and I don’t know what it is about him, but I get this feeling that he looks familiar, like we’ve met before. So I ask him about it, and then he just snaps at me, starts talking nonsense–”

“Sounds like a douchebag.”

“Well, yeah, But then I called him out on it, and he instantly apologized, which literally never happens. And he seemed genuinely sorry, like– It just felt like he was going through some stuff and wasn’t himself. Which I can understand.”

“And then what?”

“Well, we talked for a bit. You know, just your usual customer small-talk. And then he left and I saw that he wrote that note on the receipt and gave me a tip that was higher than his total. He came in on Saturday again and we chatted for a bit and that’s kind of it. Left a standard tip this time.”

“And you kept the note because…?”

Eve opens her mouth and closes it shortly, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Uh– I don’t know. It comes with a funny anecdote, I guess?”

“Mhm,” Lae’zel says. She has a talent for conveying entire sentences with hums and weighted stares. This particular one seems to communicate: you’re full of shit. After a moment of silence, she asks: “Was he hot?”

Eve can feel the blush that spreads across her cheeks under this sudden interrogation.

“I– He–” she stutters. And then, carefully choosing her words, she responds: “He had a certain charm about him, yes.”

“A certain charm. Mhm. And he came back on Saturday.”

“Yeah…” Eve says, already fretting where this is going.

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t–”

“Is the food that good?” Lae interrupts her.

“No, not really–”

“So maybe it’s the ambiance… is it cozy and inviting?”

“No but–”

“Eve, I went to the Mermaid one time to support you, and I will never step foot in that shithole again. Unless you ask me to murder your manager, which I would happily do.”

Eve takes a mental note of the generous offer before asking:

“Okay, so what’s your point?”

“What is so great about that place that he would come back the next day?” Lae asks, like she’s trying to get Eve to understand a math equation.

“I don’t know, but we have a lot of regulars! So people clearly like coming back.”

“Yes, but they’re mostly truckers, or older people who don’t want to eat alone, or men who want to watch a game with their bros. So which category does this mysterious stranger fall into, out of those three?”

“None. But he’s new in town and said he wanted to check out the local scene.”

“Right. So wouldn’t it make sense for him to go to a different restaurant next time to see what else is around here?”

“…maybe.”

“Unless, of course, there was something compelling him to come back. Like, maybe a cute, funny, feisty waitress, who wasn’t afraid to talk back, who has a beautiful smile and a great ass to match?”

“I, uh– Well thank you, but–”

“If you don’t want to make a pass at Wyll, then maybe you should bang Note Guy.”

“Can we go back to the part where you were showering me with compliments?”

“Gladly. You’re also very smart.”

“Aww, thanks.”

“Which doesn’t stop you from being a dumbass about certain things, this being one of them.”

“Okay, well, thank you Lae, this was a very helpful distraction, but I think this conversation is over now.”

“If you say so,” Lae says, standing up. She heads for the door, turning back to add: “When he comes back tomorrow, which he will, you should get his number.”

“Go away,” Eve says exasperated as she tosses a pillow at Lae’zel. She dodges without as much as batting an eye.

Left to her own devices, Eve fetches her laptop and as she scrolls through the selection of horror movies on Netflix, she tries not to think too hard about Note Guy’s smile.

The night is restless.

A gunshot.

Blood. 

There is so much blood.

He’s still holding the gun with one hand when the other grabs her chin, forcing her to look at the body.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he commands, voice dripping with venom. “You made me do this. This is your fucking fault.”

The gun clatters to the floor and Eve startles when his hands come up to cradle her face.

Tears.

But not hers– His.

She might have been impressed by how quickly he managed to make them fall, were she not hypnotized by the growing pool of crimson on the plastic tarp.

“You know I love you, babygirl. You know that, right? I have to keep you safe. This is how I keep you safe.”

Her throat is too tight to utter a sound, but she manages a curt nod. He leans in to shower her with quick, frantic kisses, lips wandering around her face and neck, whispering praises and declarations of love against her skin.

But all Eve can do is stare at the unfortunate eyewitness. She was so beautiful, full of color and life. But now, her long purple hair sticks to her scalp in clumps, darkened with blood, her golden eyes wide open, frozen in terror.

Wrong place. Wrong time. 

That’s all it took.

The body turns its head to look straight at her.

Eve jerks awake, drenched in cold sweat. It takes her a moment to realize where she is, that she’s safe.

It’s not even 7 a.m. but she doesn’t want to go back to sleep, doesn’t want to risk seeing him again. She just needs to find a way to stay occupied until noon and then her shift will start, giving her something else to stress about. 

But no matter what she does, she can’t shake how visceral the dream felt. She keeps hearing his voice, fragmented memories resurfacing through the haze.

“You look terrible,” Wulbren greets her when she finally makes it into the diner.

“Thanks for noticing!” she responds, a little louder than intended, as she walks past him.

The next couple hours pass in a blur. 

It’s not her best day. One might even say that it’s one of the worst days in her illustrious career at the Blushing Mermaid. She confuses people’s orders multiple times. She nearly snaps at a customer for asking her why the prices are so high, as if that was somehow her decision.

Contrary to Lae’zel’s predictions, Note Guy doesn’t show up at his usual time, which Eve feels strangely grateful for. She doesn’t want him to see her like this, when her brain is so scattered, when just being here physically hurts. And it’s more than wanting to make a good impression on a customer—no, it’s something uniquely about him, about how he might perceive her. Though why would she care about his opinion in the first place? 

Half-way through the day, she is carrying a tray full of glasses when all of a sudden, she loses her balance. The tray tops over, glass shattering into a thousand pieces as it hits the floor.

Someone claps and cheers, like she’s a fucking court jester who went for ye olde broken glass gimmick in a desperate attempt to liven up the crowd.

Thank you. That’s so helpful and exactly what I needed right now.

She rushes to a couple seated at the nearest table, assessing for damage.

“Are you okay? I’m very sorry.”

“We’re okay sweetie,” the older woman reassures her. “Are you?”

The simplicity of the question hits her like a brick wall.

No.

“I’m okay, thank you. I’ll be right back to clean up.”

But as she heads for the kitchen, Lakrissa emerges with a broom and mop in hand.

“I’ve got it,” she whispers as they pass. “Go drink some water or something.”

Of course, it’s not long before Wulbren shows up looking for her, because apparently having a breakdown and needing a couple minutes to compose herself outside of her scheduled lunch break is highly unprofessional.

A couple hours later, as she enters the bar room, she spots the familiar white curls and curses under her breath. This time, Note Guy is wearing a lilac linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She briefly notes how much the color suits him before the dread of talking to him in her current state takes over.

“Welcome back,” she says when she comes up to his table.

He smiles with that stupidly charming smile of his and makes some comment about how busy the place is for a Tuesday night. His attempt at striking up a conversation goes completely over her head and instead of acknowledging it in any way, she just asks:

“What can I get you?”

Smooth. Keep up the attitude and he will stop coming back.

He must notice that something is off because he eases on the cheeriness and doesn’t force her into small talk, which Eve is eternally grateful for. Small mercies. 

By some miracle, she makes it to the last few minutes of her shift. 

She checks in on a booth full of men who have grown increasingly drunk and obnoxious throughout the evening. As she’s picking up the empty beer glasses off their table, she feels a hand rest on her waist as another man scoots behind her to join the group.

“Scuse me,” he mutters.

Because of course how could you possibly pass someone without touching them? It makes her skin crawl, her jaw tense as she picks up the pace.

“Aw, always with the frown,” the man says as he sits down, his speech slurring slightly. “What’s the problem, sweetie? You can tell me, I’m a good listener.”

“Anything else I can get you?” she asks, looking at the other people at the table.

“Get us another round,” the man says.

“Nah, Rick, you’ve had enough,” another one chimes in.

An argument breaks out, and Eve grasps at the opportunity to excuse herself:

“I’ll give you a moment to decide. I’m heading out soon, but I’ll have my colleague check up on you.”

When she turns away, she catches Note Guy’s gaze for a second, before he averts his eyes hurriedly.

She walks up to his table and asks:

“Anything I can get you before I’m off?”

“Just the check, please.” And then he looks like he might say something more, but instead he opts for a short: “Thank you.”

Eve goes through the motions of finishing up her shift, her mind miles away. When she eventually clocks out, she throws on her denim jacket and leaves through the back floor. Relief washes over her as she steps into the crisp night air, grateful that this disastrous day is finally over.

But the relief is short-lived as a familiar voice reaches her from the steps leading up to the front door of the diner.

“Oh, it’s you!” says Rick or Nick or whoever else, a limp cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Eve tenses immediately, her palms closing around a small can in her jacket pocket. She doesn’t particularly want to finish this day off by treating some drunk to a helping of pepper spray, though if he gives her the faintest reason, she won’t hesitate.

But the man seems harmless enough, though no less insufferable, as he stumbles down the steps and onto the parking lot, positioning himself rather inconveniently on the path to her car. 

“Didn’t mean to bother you back there, Miss,” he slurs as Eve walks briskly, eyes fixed on her destination. 

“It’s just– You looked so sad today and I know that look. My wife left me and it’s still hard sometimes. She took the dog, you know, my Millie–”

He continues his sorry tale as Eve keeps walking, refusing to acknowledge his existence.

“You know, sometimes when I get groceries I accidentally buy those chewy treats she liked so much. It’s a habit. Honest to God, I just forget–”

The diner door opens and shuts, but she doesn’t let it distract her as she passes the man in a wide berth.

But then she hears slow footsteps behind her, and her muscles tense anew, fingers gripping the spray as she flicks the safety mechanism to the side. And because apparently the situation is not aggravating enough, the familiar voice slithers into her mind, dripping with affection that makes her skin crawl:

“You gotta learn how to fight, baby, in case I’m not there to protect you. I need to know you can take care of yourself before I send you on a job all alone.”

“Twenty years of marriage and all of a sudden she wants a divorce, no warning, she says I stopped trying–”

Eve is almost by the car when another, chipper voice cuts through Dick’s drunken rant.

“There you are, darling! I told you to wait for me.”

Eve’s head snaps back in disbelief as she sees Note Guy jog towards them, his mouth curled up into a fond smile.

He stops beside her, and Eve catches a glimpse of his arm snaking up to her shoulders, but no touch follows. It’s as if he’s hovering his palm over her back in some exaggerated pantomime of affection.

“Is there a problem?” he asks sweetly, but his expression is tense as he looks up and down the man before them.

The customer ceases his sloppy soliloquy as his eyes flit back and forth between the two of them. Eve can almost hear the booze-soaked cogs turn in his mind as he tries to piece together the puzzle before him.

“Nah, no problem. Miss and I were just talking.” He gestures to Eve as he takes a drag of his cigarette.

“Mhm,” Note Guy hums, and then makes a show of checking his watch. “I think it’s time to go home, don’t you?” But he makes no effort to move, instead looking at the customer pointedly.

“Right, I ‘spose,” the man says, palming at his jacket pockets. “Shit, the boys took my keys.” He sighs, as if he wanted to say: don’t you hate it when that happens? “It’s not that far, guess I’ll just– I’ll be off then. Night, Miss,” he says before heading down the street.

Eve’s finger is still on the pepper spray when she turns to the man at her side. He takes a large step back, looking a touch embarrassed.

“Darling?” she asks incredulously.

“I briefly considered ‘babe,’ but that seemed even more awkward,” he says, fidgeting with his sleeves.

“Well, either way, this was unnecessary,” Eve says coldly. 

“Oh. Right. Well, I just– I saw him bother you in the restaurant and then– I didn’t want to just walk past without saying something when he was clearly making you uncomfortable. But I won’t take up more of your time,” he says, taking another step back. “Good night.” 

A tinge of guilt grips at her chest as she watches him turn around and briskly walk away. Her mouth opens before she can question it.

“Wait!”

He stops and turns halfway to glance back at her.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, before resuming his walk.

She stands there for a moment, eyes fixed on his silhouette, hoping that the next time she sees him, she will feel more like herself—and not like she wants to curl up into a ball and hide from the world.

Once she’s back at her apartment building, she starts putting in the code to the door when it swings open, and a woman steps out, smiling to herself.

As the woman holds the door open, Eve recognizes her from the Hinge photo Lae’zel showed her last week—Jen, 25. Even prettier in person.

“Thanks,” Eve says, grabbing the handle, and watches Jen walk away, swaying slightly on her chunky platform boots. Her black night slip of a dress does absolutely nothing to shield her from the evening chill, but she doesn’t seem to care.

Eve can’t help but smile, head shaking in disbelief as she makes her way upstairs. 

When she gets to the apartment, she finds Lae in the kitchen in nothing but a tank top and underwear. She’s chopping some vegetables, the countertop full of neatly arranged tupperware containers.

“So that’s what you do after sex? Meal prep?!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lae’zel says, not looking away from the task at hand.

“I think you do,” Eve says, leaning against the fridge with her arms crossed. And then in a pointed tone, she adds: “I passed Jen on my way out.” 

But Lae’zel seems thoroughly unfazed.

“And?”

“It seems like you’re breaking your own rules. Need I remind you? Lae’zel’s Sex Codex, Rule Number One: ‘No second dates. Always leave them wanting more.”

“I left her wanting more, trust me.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did.” 

“How was work?” Lae’zel asks, making it abundantly clear that she will not be discussing her entanglement with Jen any further.

“Just about everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong.”

“What about Note Guy?”

“Oh. Like I said: everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong. Including Note Guy.”

This prompts Lae’zel to finally turn away from her chopping board.

“I need to know everything,” she demands, knife in hand.

“I desperately need a shower, but meet me in ten for face masks and story time?”

“It’s a date.”

a/n: thank you for reading! 🧡 a quick note on the language: "boluda" generally means "idiot," but in Argentinian Spanish it can also be used as a term of endearment between friends, which is how Lae uses it here

taglist: @roguishcat @arzen9 ✨ (lmk if you'd like to be added!)

my masterlist

[ohlenrbgs]

GET UP SWEETIE,✨Chapter 10 of Easy to Care, Easy to Love is up now!✨ YOU NEED TO SEE THIS!

[thrilling-oneway]

i don't remember if i ever shared my vbs one. wtv

[niennanir]

Listen to your elders

So last week I posted abut the importance of downloading your fic. And then three days later AO3 went down for 24 hours. No one was more weirded out by this than I was. But while y’all were acting like the library at Alexandria was on fire I was reading my download fic and editing chapter eight of Buck, Rogers, and the 21st Century. And also thinking about what I could do to be helpful when the crisis was actually over.

So first off, I’m going to repeat that if you’re going to bookmark a fic, you really need to also download the fic and back it up in a safe place. I just do it automatically now and it’s a good habit to get into.

But let’s talk about some other scenarios. Last October I lost power for over a week after hurricane Ian. Apart from not having internet or A/C I did find plenty to do, I collect books so I had plenty to read, but maybe, unlike me, your favorite comfort reads aren’t sitting on a bookshelf. So let’s do something about that, shall we?

In olden times many long years ago around 1995 we printed off a lot of fic. It was mostly SOP to print a fic you planned to reread and stick it in a three ring binder. And that’s totally valid today too, but you can also make a very nice paperback with a minimum amount of skill and materials.

Let’s start with the download; Go to Ao3 and select your fic, we’ll be working with one of mine. This method works best with one shots, long fic tends to need a more complicated approach. Get yourself an HTML download

Open up the HTML download and select all then copy paste into any word processor. Set the page to landscape and two columns, then change the font to something you find easy to read, this is your book, no judgement. This is all you have to do for layout but I like to play a little bit. I move all the meta, summary, notes to the end and pick out a fun font for the title: 

No time like the present to do a quick proofread. Congratulations, you’ve just created your first typeset. On to the fun part.

Now you’re going to need some materials:  8.5x11in paper ruler one sheet of 12x12 medium card stock (60-80lb) scissors pencil pen or fine tip marker sheet of wax paper white glue two binder clips 2 heavy books or 1 brick butter knife

You’ll also need a printer, if you’re in the US there is almost a 100% chance your local library has a printer you can use if you don’t have your own. None of these materials are expensive and you can literally use cheap copy paper and Elmers glue.

Print your text block, one page per side. Fold the first page in half so that the blank side is inside and the printed side out:

use the butter knife to crease the edge. Repeat on all the sheets. When you’ve finished, stack them up with the raw edge on the left and the folded edge on the right. I used standard copy paper, because you’re only printing on one side there’s no bleed to worry about. Take the text block and line everything up. Use the binder clips to hold the raw edge in place.

Wrap the text block in the wax paper so that the raw edge and binder clips are facing out. I’m going to use my home built book press but you don’t need one, a brick or a couple of books or anything else heavy will work fine.

Once the text block is anchored down, take off he binder clips and get out the glue.

You can use a brush but you don’t need one, smear some glue on that raw edge.

Go make a margarita, watch The Mandalorian, call your mother. Don’t come back for at least an hour

In an hour smear some more glue on there and shift your brick forward so that the whole book is covered. This keeps the paper from warping. While glue part 2 is drying we’ll do the cover. Get out your 12x12 cardstock

Mark the cardstock off at 8.5 inches and cut it. Measure in 5.5 inches from the left and put in a score line with the butter knife (the back edge not the sharp edge)

Carefully fold the score line, this is your front cover. You have some options for the cover title, you can use a cutting machine like a cricut if you have one, you can print out a title on the computer and use carbon paper to transfer the text to the cardstock. I was in a mood so I just freehanded that beoch. Pencil first then in pen.

Take your text block out from under your brick. Line it up against the score mark and mark the second score on the other side of the spine

Fold the score and glue the textblock into the cover at the spine. Once the glue dries up mark the back cover with the pencil and then trim the back cover to fit with your scissors.

Voila:

I’m going to put this baby on the shelf next to the Silmarillion.

The whole process, not counting drying time, took less than an hour.

If you want to make a book of a longer fic, I recommend Renegade Publishing, they have a ton of resources for fan-binders. 

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Accidentally Falling For a Fae Prince - Malleus Draconia x reader

When you get dragged into a novel which ends with the heroine in a polycule with the most annoying men in literature, you decide that you're gonna skip town. ...Only to trip over the fae prince, Malleus Draconia.

Series Masterlist

Work’s been a disaster from the moment you stepped in. Your boss, who makes dollar bills while you’re lucky to scrape together a few dimes, is in one of those moods. So, instead of pretending to be productive, you do what any rational person would do: you pull up a random webnovel website and let the ridiculousness wash over you.

And oh boy, is it ridiculous.

You start reading "The Villainess's Revenge: My Heart is Colder Than Lukewarm Tea!" and, within the first chapter, you realize it’s like watching cement dry—but with less plot development. The villainess is cartoonishly evil, stomping around in ballgowns with a sneer so exaggerated it’s a wonder her face hasn’t permanently locked in place. Her tragic backstory? She once got served lukewarm tea. And, oh no, she stepped in mud at a ball. The horror. Riveting stuff, truly.

Meanwhile, the heroine? She’s clearly phoning it in. Every scene she’s in, her eyes are dead inside like she’s as exhausted as you are by the sheer nonsense of the plot. If this girl could quit her own story, she would’ve done it yesterday. You can't help but mentally send her your condolences.

Then, there’s the male leads. If you can even call them that.

First, the Crown Prince, whose idea of a crisis is a fashion faux pas. This guy once canceled a whole wedding because his socks didn’t match. His spirals into existential crises every time a thread is out of place would be entertaining if it weren’t so tragic. The way he’s written, you swear he could kill a man with a critical stare over improper cufflinks.

Next up, the Duke. Brooding, romantic, and absolutely incapable of writing good poetry. Every time he spots the heroine, he launches into the worst rhymes you’ve ever heard. It’s so bad that you’re embarrassed for both of them. He follows her everywhere, reading his masterpieces at the most inappropriate times—like during a funeral. Who does that?

And finally, the Hero Knight. Ah, the knight. The epitome of overzealous stupidity. He turned grocery shopping into a three-day quest for the “Golden Lettuce of Destiny,” and vowed to defend the heroine’s honor from…nobody. You’d swear he’s larping 24/7. It’s exhausting just reading about him.

As if that weren’t bad enough, the heroine ends up in a polycule with all of them because the author was so sick of comments asking, “Who will she date?” that they just threw their hands up and went, “Fine, she dates everyone!” The heroine looks exhausted, and you feel for her. You feel for yourself, too, because reading this is actively lowering your IQ.

You sit there, flabbergasted, staring at the screen. This is what you’ve chosen to waste your time on? What’s worse, your boss will probably come around the corner any minute to scold you—oh wait, nope, the corner of the ceiling just gave out and bonk—there goes a chunk of plaster, right on your head.

You cannot believe this is how you get taken out.

You wake up and, somehow, it’s worse. You’re in a four-poster bed, covered in satin sheets, and your first thought is goddammit—you’ve been isekai’d. And not just into any world. That world. The webnovel.

You drag yourself out of bed, feeling a sudden wave of dread. You were the heroine in this mess. The heroine. Goddammit, why does everything bad only happen to you? For a moment, you're relieved you’re not the villainess. But then you remember: you’re stuck in a polycule with three absolute clowns.

Nope. Not happening. You will not end up with any of these pushy idiots. Goal one? Avoid the polycule at all costs.

Suddenly, the door flies open with a bang, and in burst all three male leads, dramatically weeping and crying out how you’ve been in a coma for so long. Their over-the-top emotions would be heartwarming if they weren’t so ridiculous.

“You’ve returned to us, my dearest flower of the kingdom!” the Crown Prince sobs, still perfectly dressed despite the tears streaming down his face. He sniffs and dabs his eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with his own face. Of course.

The Duke starts reciting the worst love poem you've ever heard, right there, in the middle of your room, as if you didn’t just wake up from a coma.

“I wandered, lost, like a daisy in a field of… uh… misery, because you, my sun, were hidden in the sky of my heart…” The rest is a blur because your brain has officially short-circuited.

And the Hero Knight? He’s already on his knees, swearing to protect you from whatever invisible threat he’s made up this time. “Fear not, fair lady! I shall defend thee against all who oppose your grace!”

You manage to kick all of them out of your room with a lot of effort and a lot of heavy glares. The moment you’re alone, you find a suicide note on the dresser, written by the actual heroine. Apparently, she drank poison just to get away from these weirdos.

What an icon.

But not you. You’re not dying again for these guys. No way.

You’re moving through the bustling market in full disguise, keeping an eye out for any knights or familiar faces. Your plan is simple: escape the polycule before any of those nutjobs track you down. With every step, you remind yourself that freedom is just one boat ride away—preferably to a distant land that has no idea who the Hero Knight, the Duke, or the crown prince are.

But as you round a corner, your thoughts scatter when you bump—quite literally—into something solid. You stagger back, blinking up at a tall figure dressed in all black. At first, panic flashes through you—please don’t be one of them—but when your eyes meet his, it’s not the Crown Prince, the Duke, or the Hero Knight.

It’s someone new. And he seems… perfectly pleasant. His strikingly elegant features, crowned by horns, should make him imposing, but his eyes soften as he looks at you. There’s an almost serene curiosity in them.

"Ah, forgive me," he says smoothly, his deep voice lilting with a formality that surprises you. "I didn’t see you there."

"No, no, it’s my fault," you reply, awkwardly waving your hands, trying to figure out why he’s so different from everyone else in this place. He’s polite. Polite. Already, you feel better about this encounter than you have about every conversation with the three other disasters that have been stalking you.

He steps aside, but instead of walking away, he looks around the marketplace with a faint, thoughtful frown. “I seem to have… lost my way,” he admits, glancing back at you. “This place is unfamiliar to me.”

Something in his tone, in the way his eyes briefly widen as he takes in the simplest market stalls—like he’s genuinely fascinated—makes you soften toward him. Ugh, bleeding heart strikes again. Before you know it, you find yourself asking, “Do you need help? I can… show you around.”

He turns his gaze back to you, and his lips quirk into the smallest, softest smile. “That would be most appreciated.”

As you walk together, he marvels at the simplest things—the fresh bread from a stall, the colorful fabrics, the scent of flowers sold at a cart. He’s curious about everything, eyes lingering on each sight like it’s the first time he’s ever seen such mundane wonders. His fascination is oddly endearing. It’s clear he’s not used to mingling in places like this, and his awe at the most normal things is… well, cute.

"Have you ever seen so many people in one place?" you ask, trying to fill the silence, though you’re surprised to find that you’re not uncomfortable around him.

He chuckles lightly. “Not in such a casual setting, no. It’s quite… charming. Everything feels so alive.”

You almost snort at the idea that this guy finds a basic market so thrilling, but you keep it in check. At least he’s not another drama king like the Crown Prince or a bad poet like the Duke.

It’s been a surprisingly pleasant afternoon until your luck inevitably runs out. You spot the familiar, impeccably dressed figure of the Crown Prince moving through the crowd with his knights. He’s scanning the area, and panic rises in your throat.

“Crap,” you mutter under your breath. Instinctively, you grab the man’s sleeve, tugging him down the nearest alley. “We need to go. Now.”

He blinks, looking puzzled but not resisting. “Is something wrong?”

Yes! you think, your mind flashing to the emotional wreck that is the prince. "No time to explain. Just trust me."

But you’re too late. The Crown Prince, in all his resplendent, overly perfect glory, catches sight of you just as you’re about to disappear into the shadows.

“Well, well,” the prince calls out with an overly bright smile. “If it isn’t my darling—oh!” His eyes widen as he finally notices the tall figure standing next to you. “Prince Malleus Draconia of Briar Valley!”

You blue screen.

Your grip loosens on Malleus’s sleeve as your brain sputters. Prince. Fae Prince. You’d just been casually chatting with the Prince of Briar Valley like he was some random lost guy? Did you seriously just… You internally spiral as the realization sinks in. Of course, he's a prince! The horns! The aura!

Malleus, for his part, remains calm and collected, inclining his head toward the Crown Prince. “Ah, it seems I’ve been found,” he says smoothly, completely unaware of the crisis currently happening inside your head.

The Crown Prince gives Malleus a florid bow, then immediately turns his attention back to you. “My dear, you shouldn’t be wandering the streets alone. Allow me to escort you to the palace.” His hand reaches out toward you, his smile practiced and princely, but your gut clenches with discomfort. No, nope, no thanks.

You step back instinctively, your unease written all over your face. Before you can even figure out how to politely decline without causing a scene, Malleus moves.

Malleus, who up until now was watching the exchange with mild curiosity, steps forward. His eyes narrow slightly as he looks the Crown Prince up and down. The prince stumbles over his words and backs away under the weight of Malleus’ stare.

The Crown Prince’s smile falters. He hesitates, glancing between you and Malleus, clearly unsure how to proceed. “I—um—of course, Prince Malleus, I didn’t mean to overstep,” he stammers, eyes darting nervously between the two of you.

You stand there, stunned, watching as Malleus’ mere presence makes the most annoyingly confident man in the kingdom back off. Is this real life?

The prince clears his throat awkwardly, then shoots you one last uneasy smile before making a swift retreat with his knights, leaving you standing there with Malleus.

You let out a long, relieved breath and glance up at him, feeling a little less like you’re about to lose your mind. “Thanks… for that.”

Malleus’ lips quirk into a tiny, knowing smile. “It was my pleasure.” He tilts his head, eyes still twinkling with that same curiosity from earlier. “Although, I must admit, I’m rather curious why you were so eager to avoid him.”

You laugh nervously, running a hand through your hair. “Let’s just say… he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

You don't know how you’ve ended up in this mess. One minute, you’re lost in the market, trying to figure out how to escape this ridiculous polycule situation, and the next, you’ve been dragged into a carriage on your way to the palace—with the Crown Prince, your overly dramatic Knight, and the Fae Prince himself.

Malleus, the Fae Prince, had politely asked if you would accompany him to the palace, and in a panic, you said yes. Because, really, how could you admit to both him and the Crown Prince that you’d actually been planning to skip town? So now, here you are, sitting through the most awkward carriage ride of your life.

Your knight, perched beside you, clears his throat dramatically. “Fear not, my lady,” he says in a voice filled with too much gravitas for the situation. “I shall protect you from all perils! Should the wind itself dare to brush against your delicate frame, I shall strike it down with my blade! No harm shall come to you so long as I draw breath!”

You facepalm internally. Please. Stop talking.

The Crown Prince, sitting across from you, adjusts his cufflinks for the tenth time. “I must say,” he purrs, fishing for compliments, “this outfit is particularly resplendent today, don’t you think? The shade of royal blue brings out the depth in my eyes. It was hand-tailored, of course. What do you think, my dear?”

You blink at him, trying to process whether he’s serious. He is. He’s absolutely serious.

Malleus watches the exchange in silent confusion, his eyes flicking between the three of you as if trying to figure out if this is normal human behavior. After all, you’ve got one guy swearing to kill the breeze, another obsessed with his reflection, and you, trying to melt into the upholstery.

“Is this… how humans typically behave?” Malleus asks, his voice soft and genuinely curious.

You shake your head vigorously. “No. This is how clowns behave.” Malleus raises an eyebrow but seems satisfied with your answer, settling back into his seat.

When the carriage finally—finally—arrives at the palace, you’re barely holding onto your sanity. But things are about to get worse.

As you’re ushered into the meeting hall, a trio approaches you. It’s Lilia, Silver, and… Sebek.

Sebek, who looks one step away from a full-blown aneurysm.

"Lord Malleus!" Sebek practically screeches, running toward Malleus like the world was ending. “How could you wander off on your own?! Do you know how much chaos you caused?! I almost fainted from sheer terror!”

Malleus doesn’t even flinch. “I had a guide.” He gestures toward you.

Sebek’s eyes land on you, and you quickly glance around for an escape route. “YOU?! YOU DARED TOUCH—”

Before Sebek can finish, you spot the Duke—one of your many suitors and part of the delegation—striding toward you with his usual brooding expression. You instinctively grab onto Malleus’ sleeve for some comfort (or maybe protection from what’s about to come next).

The Duke’s eyes light up as he sees you, and then… he begins to recite. “Oh, my dearest, like the moon that doth gleam upon a cheese plate—no, wait—upon a field of… toes? Your hair, like the petals of wilted roses in the rain... um… and your eyes… they are like two potatoes, cooked to perfection…”

Even Sebek is speechless. You think you see a vein pop on his forehead, but for once, he’s too stunned to yell.

Lilia, standing beside Sebek, chuckles, amused. “Well, I have to say, that’s… quite something.”

Malleus tilts his head, blinking at the Duke’s strange poetry. “Are potatoes considered a form of flattery in human culture?”

“No,” you mutter. “No, they’re not.”

Just when you think things can’t possibly get more absurd, the meeting begins. Because you’re technically the daughter of a Duke, you’re forced to sit through the whole ordeal. They start discussing the logistics of showing the fae delegation around the city.

“We need someone trustworthy to act as a guide,” one of the officials says, glancing toward the Crown Prince.

Malleus, who had been quietly observing the room, suddenly speaks up. “I believe I’ve already found the perfect guide.”

You freeze. No. No, no, no.

“The young lady who helped me in the market,” Malleus continues, looking directly at you.

The room falls silent. You, of all people, are the last person who wants to be anywhere near the fae delegation or, worse, your insane suitors. But before you can even open your mouth to refuse, the Crown Prince starts.

“My dear,” he says, leaning forward with a princely grin, “while I understand you’ve already formed an acquaintance with Prince Malleus, perhaps it would be better for someone more… experienced to take on this role.” He flashes his most charming smile, which, after everything today, only makes you cringe.

But Malleus just stares at him, completely unbothered. “No. I want her as my guide.”

Silver shifts slightly, glancing at you with an expression you can’t quite place, while Lilia’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “How interesting,” Lilia murmurs, clearly entertained by the situation.

Sebek, however, explodes. “IF LORD MALLEUS WANTS HER AS HIS GUIDE, THEN SO BE IT!” He turns toward the Crown Prince, practically vibrating with anger. “YOU WILL NOT QUESTION HIS DECISION!”

The Crown Prince, for once, looks genuinely taken aback. “I—I meant no offense! Of course, whatever Lord Malleus desires…”

You sink into your chair, feeling like your last chance at a peaceful life just flew out the window. Malleus turns to you with an expectant, polite smile. “I look forward to our time together.”

You groan inwardly. How is this my life?

You had to admit, Malleus was really nice. When you compared him to the absolute circus of clowns you had to deal with, he was practically a gift sent from above. So, you made a decision—if you were going to be his guide, you were going to be the best guide ever. And once they wrapped up this whole diplomatic visit, you'd beg him to take you with him to Briar Valley, where hopefully, your ridiculous suitors would be very far away.

Apparently, being a guide also meant dragging him along to everything you did, including navigating high society. This was where things got tricky. The original heroine had endured these events like a pro, but you? You were just a lowly office worker who'd read bad webnovels to avoid work. Now you were living in one.

First stop: a tea party.

As you sit down with Malleus beside you—who’s awkwardly perched in a chair much too small for him—you scan the room. Of course, all three of your ridiculous suitors are here. The Crown Prince, obsessing over the intricate lace of his cravat. The Hero Knight, sharpening his sword for no reason in the middle of a garden party. And the Duke, scribbling poetry on a napkin with all the grace of a sleep-deprived teenager finishing their homework five minutes before class.

But this wasn’t just about them. This was also your first time meeting the so-called villainess.

The villainess arrived like a whirlwind of petticoats and extravagant headpieces, smiling in that "I'm about to ruin your whole existence" kind of way. You smiled back, trying not to look dead inside when she launched into a diatribe about ruffles.

"And you see," she said, flickering her wrist with an air of superiority, "it was positively scandalous! The seamstress gave me a gown with only forty ruffles. Can you imagine? What am I, a commoner?"

You tried to smile politely. Truly. But Malleus, seated beside you, was staring at her with this fascinated look, as if watching a rare bird display its feathers. You could tell he was having a hard time grasping what the point of her story was. So were you.

But then, of course, the conversation turned personal.

“And the Duke,” the villainess said with a sly smirk, “such a poetic soul. He deserves better than to pine over someone who clearly has no appreciation for his art. Don’t you think?”

You blinked. Was this woman for real? You glanced at the Duke, who had suddenly gone from scribbling to gazing at you with that awful puppy-dog look. The one that meant another horrible poem was probably brewing.

You couldn’t help it. The words came out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. “Please take him.”

The villainess's eyes widened. “What?”

Malleus looked at you in amusement, while the Duke gasped dramatically, as if you’d just run him through with a sword.

You clasped your hands together and leaned forward earnestly. “Please, please take him. I don’t want him. At all. He’s all yours. You can have him—along with his potato-themed poems.”

The Duke visibly wilted. “But—! My lady! You—you wound me!”

“No, Duke, you wound me—with your terrible metaphors,” you deadpan. “And I’m begging you. Take him. Please. For the love of everything holy, I’m begging you.”

The villainess, probably for the first time in her life, looked completely flustered. “Are you… serious?”

“Absolutely,” you said, nodding. “I will sign papers. I’ll throw a party. I’ll—whatever it takes. Just… he’s yours.”

Malleus and Lilia were practically shaking with barely-contained laughter at this point, while the Duke had dropped to one knee, a napkin-clutched in his hand like some sad bouquet. “My poems… they were written with you in mind. Each line! Each stanza! Crafted from the depths of my heart!”

“Exactly,” you said, unblinking. “That’s why I need you to take him. Before he writes more.”

The villainess stared at you, completely dumbfounded. Then, after a pause, she broke into a smile. “Well, I’ve never had a man gifted to me before. I suppose I can make an exception.”

You felt like you could cry with relief. “Thank you.”

And just like that, your beef with the villainess was squashed. You traded your tragic suitor for peace of mind, and the villainess, now on the receiving end of the Duke’s “affections,” seemed pleased with her new prize.

Malleus leaned in, his voice low but filled with amusement. “I must say, you handled that quite well.”

You sighed, finally able to relax. “I handled that with desperation.”

And just like that, you’d rid yourself of two your problems. Now… to figure out how to survive the other two without losing your sanity.

You barely had time to process your victory over one villainess before a second one spawned out of nowhere like this was some kind of twisted video game. The Isekai Overlords clearly weren’t done with you yet. And this one? Oh, she was worse. The Crown Prince’s younger sister—spoiled princess extraordinaire—who genuinely believed her father was the reason the sun rose in the morning.

But, to your surprise, she didn’t even care about you. Like, at all. She acted like you didn’t even exist. Honestly? You were grateful. At least you could blend into the background this time and—oh no. Oh no.

She was making a beeline straight for Malleus.

You watched, horrified, as the princess latched onto him, throwing herself at him like he was a rare limited-edition collectible and not, you know, the Prince of Briar Valley and one of the most powerful beings in the world. Malleus shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure how to handle the situation, while Sebek was being barely restrained by Lilia and Silver. Lilia, of course, had that mischievous glint in his eye, like he was enjoying the whole ordeal.

You, on the other hand, were not enjoying it. You could practically see your retirement plans shriveling up in front of you—this had diplomatic nightmare written all over it. If Malleus so much as sneezed, you were pretty sure this princess would declare war on Briar Valley.

So, you did the only thing you could think of: you stepped in.

“Um, excuse me, Your Highness,” you said, stepping between the princess and Malleus. “Could you maybe… not cling to him like he’s a handbag?”

She turned to you with a look of utter disdain, like you were a fly she was too annoyed to swat away. “And who are you, exactly?”

Before you could answer, she pointed an accusatory finger at you. “I challenge you to a duel! For his hand!”

You blinked. “Bro, what?”

The princess huffed. “For the hand of Prince Malleus, of course! You think I didn’t see you fawning over him?”

“Fawning? I’m literally just his guide!” You gestured to Malleus, who, for some reason, looked almost giddy. “I’m not dating him, we’re not engaged, and if you push it, we’re maybe friends.”

Malleus practically beamed at the word “friends.” Was he… happy about this? About being defended like some damsel in distress? You were defending the most powerful fae in existence, and here he was, looking like you just made his entire year.

Sebek and Silver immediately stepped forward, but before they could say anything, Malleus raised a hand. “No. I would like to see how my guide—and friend—defends my honor.”

Your brain short-circuited. What?!

The princess smirked, clearly thinking she had you cornered. “Prepare yourself for the duel then! My personal knight will face you.”

You glanced at the knight, a towering figure who looked like he’d been training for war since birth, and then back at the sword that had been thrust into your hands. This was not how you imagined your day going. You hadn’t even touched a sword before. Meanwhile, your opponent was stretching like this was a warm-up exercise.

Still, you had no choice. With a deep breath and the knowledge that you were about to make a complete fool of yourself, you stepped forward, sword held awkwardly in front of you.

The duel began.

The knight lunged at you with a practiced, fluid motion. You, on the other hand, tripped over a rock, accidentally ducking his strike, and in your flailing attempt to stay upright, the hilt of your sword smacked him right in the face.

There was a collective gasp from the audience.

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath.

The knight staggered, his face scrunched in confusion. He tried again, this time swinging from the side. You managed to parry—purely out of luck—and in the process, tripped forward, sending your sword clattering out of your hands and somehow knocking the knight’s legs out from under him. He fell to the ground with a thud.

Dead silence followed.

You stood there, frozen, your sword lying a few feet away. The knight was on his back, staring up at the sky, clearly bewildered by what had just happened. You hadn't even swung properly!

Lilia burst out laughing. “My, my! That was quite the duel! You’ll have to take responsibility now.”

“Responsibility?” you echoed, flustered beyond belief. “For what? I just—he tripped! I tripped! That wasn’t even—”

“Exactly,” Lilia teased. “You won the duel. Now you must take responsibility for defending Prince Malleus’ honor so valiantly.”

Malleus, looking thoroughly impressed, gave you a small, pleased smile. “Indeed. You have my gratitude.”

The princess, meanwhile, was gaping at you like she couldn’t believe what just happened. “This… this is an outrage!”

You sighed, feeling utterly exhausted. “Look, I didn’t even want to duel in the first place. Can’t we just—call it a day? I’ve had enough of knights and duels and—” You gestured vaguely to Malleus. “I’m not even dating him.”

Malleus’ smile widened. “But we are friends.”

Lilia chuckled. “Ah, young love is so complicated.”

You shot him a glare. This was not what you signed up for. But hey, at least you won the duel—somehow.

You were lounging in your mansion’s parlor, the day blissfully uneventful for once. The warm sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a cozy glow over the room. Malleus was mid-conversation—no, scratch that—mid-rant about gargoyles. To your surprise, you were actually kind of into it.

“And that’s the primary difference between gargoyles and grotesques,” Malleus continued passionately. “You see, gargoyles are not merely decorative but also functional, designed to channel water away from the structure, whereas grotesques, while similar in appearance, serve no such purpose. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

You nodded, intrigued, and cut in with a genuine question. “Wait, so is the functionality the only difference? Like, are they made from the same material?”

Malleus blinked, slightly taken aback that you were not only listening but actively participating. “Yes, precisely. They are often carved from the same stone, but it’s their purpose that sets them apart. For example, in the southern—” He paused, seeming to catch himself, suddenly looking sheepish. “Ah, forgive me. I fear I’ve been talking too much.”

Sebek nearly jumped out of his seat, eyes wide with horror. “Lord Malleus! Everything you say is perfect! Don’t apologize for sharing your magnificent knowledge!”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little. “No, really, I enjoy it,” you said, waving off Malleus’ concerns. “I mean, how often do you get to talk about something so niche with someone who knows this much about it? I actually have a question—do any of the gargoyles in the Briar Valley have, like, historical significance? Like ones that are still functioning after all this time?”

Malleus lit up, and he launched right back into it, going on about ancient gargoyles in the Briar Valley that had withstood the test of time. He even started comparing the craftsmanship of various eras, and to your own surprise, you threw in a few comments about architecture and water systems, things you barely remembered from some random articles you’d read ages ago.

Halfway through a comparison of Gothic versus Renaissance gargoyle styles, a soft knock interrupted. Your maid entered, bowing slightly. “My lady, pardon the interruption, but we need your guidance with something in the kitchens.”

You sighed but smiled, pushing yourself off the couch. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let them bully you into leaving the gargoyle talk,” you teased as you walked out, completely unaware of the effect your comment had left behind.

As soon as the door closed, Malleus stood there, momentarily speechless. His pale cheeks took on the faintest hint of color, and his eyes were wide, as if someone had just smacked him with a metaphorical brick of emotions. The prince of Briar Valley, the most powerful creature in existence, was blushing like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

Lilia, ever the mischievous one, was already grinning from ear to ear, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, well, well… isn’t this interesting?” he purred, barely suppressing a chuckle.

Silver raised an amused brow, casting a side glance at Malleus. “It’s not every day we see him blush.”

Sebek, on the other hand, was utterly baffled but still overjoyed at seeing his lord smiling so widely. “Of course Lord Malleus is happy!” Sebek exclaimed proudly, though there was a trace of confusion in his voice. “He’s been honored with your presence and your rapt attention, as is only right! I just—” Sebek glanced around, as if trying to understand the subtle undercurrent in the room, “—I don’t understand why he’s so… red?”

Lilia patted Sebek on the back, barely holding in his laughter. “Oh, Sebek, my boy. This is what happens when someone gets the attention they’ve long desired.”

Malleus cleared his throat, trying—and failing—to compose himself. “I’m merely… pleased,” he said, though his blush betrayed him. “It’s rare to find someone who listens so attentively.”

Lilia chuckled softly. “Yes, and who knows the difference between gargoyles and grotesques, I imagine. Quite the match for you, wouldn’t you say?”

Malleus, flustered beyond belief, gave Lilia a sidelong look but said nothing, clearly more preoccupied with the strange warmth blooming in his chest.

By the time you returned, unaware of the scene you’d left behind, Malleus was still trying to gather himself. Lilia shot you a knowing smile, and Silver just gave you a look like you have no idea what’s happening, do you? Sebek, as always, continued to beam with unshakable loyalty to his blushing lord.

But hey, at least Malleus was happy—really happy.

It all started innocently enough—you were having dinner with Malleus, Sebek, Lilia, and Silver. Sebek was, as usual, going on one of his rants about how absolutely divine Malleus was, Lilia was being cryptic and vaguely mischievous, and Silver was dozing off between courses.

You, being the delightful disaster that you were, cracked a joke between bites. “Honestly, if Sebek praises Malleus any more, we might as well commission a statue of him��complete with an audio loop of Sebek’s praises.”

Malleus laughed. Actually laughed. It was such a rare sound, deep and rich, and when you heard it, your heart stuttered in your chest like someone had just jabbed you with a lightning bolt.

Oh no.

You knew, from that very moment, you were in deep, deep shit.

From that point on, everything Malleus did made it impossible for you to act normal around him. His laugh, the way his eyes crinkled when he found something amusing, the warmth in his voice when he spoke to you—how had you not noticed before? And now, every time Lilia even looked at you, it was with this knowing, mischievous grin, like the universe had finally granted him the entertainment he’d been waiting for all these centuries.

“This,” Lilia said one day, leaning in conspiratorially with a grin that could light up a room, “this is what I’ve lived so long for.”

And to make matters worse, it wasn’t just your mind tormenting you. Oh no. It was like the entire world was in on the joke. You could practically see sparkles in the air every time Malleus so much as glanced your way. Sparkles, for crying out loud. Your heart was in critical danger.

Your solution? Avoid him.

But it wasn’t that simple. You tried hiding behind furniture, ducking into bushes, and even feigning an incredibly inconvenient bout of food poisoning just to avoid being near him. One time, you spotted Malleus coming down the hall and, in a blind panic, dove behind a potted plant. The plant was tiny. You were not. Somehow, you thought it would work.

It didn’t. Malleus casually walked over, spotted you crouching awkwardly behind the plant, and said, “Is there something wrong with that shrubbery? Should I summon someone to tend to it?”

Another time, you attempted to “sneak” out of the palace by pretending you were a passing merchant. You wore a very large hat and wrapped yourself in an oversized cloak. Malleus found you immediately.

“Aren’t you feeling a bit warm in that?” he asked, blinking at your ridiculous ensemble.

He had fae hearing. He could always find you.

Even guiding him around town became a disaster. How were you supposed to be a competent host when all you could think about was how unfairly hot he was? Every word he said carried this charming, ancient elegance, and here you were, a flustered mess with zero composure.

Lilia? Still having the time of his life. He was practically choking on his laughter at this point. Silver, somehow, slept through most of your crises, and Sebek was just thrilled Malleus was spending so much time with him (though he was clearly confused about why you were acting so weird).

Finally, you had enough. One night, under the cover of the moon, you snuck into the garden with the determination of someone completely done with their own suffering. You found a flower—granted, you didn’t know what it was, but it looked nice—and you marched up to Malleus, who was out enjoying the evening air, blissfully unaware of the emotional train wreck headed his way.

“I need to say something!” you blurted, shoving the flower toward him.

Malleus took the flower carefully, glancing down at it. His expression shifted from curious to… mildly concerned? “This flower,” he said slowly, “is traditionally used in Briar Valley to signify deep betrayal…”

You blinked. Oh god.

“No, wait! I didn’t mean—!” you stammered, but before you could backtrack, your brain decided it had had enough. You blurted out the truth, no holds barred: “I like you, okay?! I’ve been a mess for weeks because of how ridiculously perfect you are, and I’m tired of avoiding you and hiding behind plants! So there!”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Malleus stared at you, his eyes wide with shock, and then, much to your surprise (and relief), he broke into the widest smile you’d ever seen on him. It was like the moon had just gotten brighter.

“You’re confessing… to me?” he asked softly, his voice filled with genuine joy.

“Yes,” you groaned, face burning with embarrassment. “Now please reject me so I can go lie in a ditch somewhere.”

But instead of rejection, you got happy dragon noises. Malleus gently pulled you into his arms and, with a voice full of affection, declared, “You are mine, then. From this day forward, you are my beloved.”

Cue your soul leaving your body.

When you broke the news to your father the next day, the poor Duke nearly fainted at the sight of the Prince of Briar Valley standing there, flanked by Silver, Sebek, and Lilia, the former general grinning like the Cheshire cat.

The Duke was intimidated—terrified, really—and quickly agreed to let the courtship proceed. But there was a catch.

“You’ll have to tell the Crown Prince and the Hero Knight yourself,” your father said, his face pale. “I’m not getting involved in that.”

Your retirement plans had officially died.

Despite all the chaos that had entered your life since becoming Malleus's beloved, you had to admit—there were perks. One of those was what you’d come to call "fae luck." It became especially apparent during a particularly tense diplomatic meeting involving the fae, the beastmen, and your kingdom.

The room was filled with strained conversations, the kind of diplomacy that could either result in peace or war, depending on how fragile the egos in the room were. You were sitting between Malleus and the second prince, doing your best to avoid looking at the first prince, who had already been giving you way too much attention for comfort.

Then it happened.

The first prince, ever the picture of grace, rose to speak. As he took his first step forward… THUD. He tripped spectacularly, arms flailing, and landed directly in the lap of the Beastmen Queen. There was a collective gasp, and for a heartbeat, you thought maybe this could be saved—until he opened his mouth.

“Well, I guess I’ve… fallen for you!”

Silence.

The Beastmen Queen's expression froze. The fae delegation collectively facepalmed, and you could practically feel the tension suffocating the room.

And then the Beastmen were on their feet, growling and demanding the immediate removal of the first prince from the line of succession. One of their diplomats, fur bristling with indignation, roared, “This is an insult to our Queen! Remove this fool from the throne!”

Instead of apologizing, as a normal, sane person might have, the first prince, face red with embarrassment, dug himself even deeper. “It was a joke! Can’t you beastmen take a joke? Honestly, I don’t see why everyone’s so sensitive.”

The Beastmen's amger intensified, and you saw the Emperor and Empress—who had been trying desperately to maintain order—sink deeper into their seats, their expressions a mix of horror and resignation. The entire room was teetering on the brink of an international incident.

And then… you spotted it.

A little green wisp, barely visible, flitting through the air right around where the prince had been standing before his magnificent face-plant.

You glanced toward Malleus, who was sitting beside you, looking perfectly composed, save for the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Beside him, Lilia gave you a knowing wink, his mischievous grin unmistakable.

They caused this.

Within moments, the decision was made: the first prince was officially removed as heir to the throne. His younger brother, the second prince—who had always been calm, composed, and infinitely more capable—was declared the new Crown Prince.

It was glorious.

But before you could celebrate, the first prince turned toward you, his expression sour and filled with desperation. "You—" he began, as if about to drag you into his misery.

Not today, prince.

Finally given the chance to reject him properly, you rose from your seat, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh as you faced him.

“I’ve been waiting so long to say this,” you began, crossing your arms and locking eyes with him. “I reject you. Completely. Wholly. Utterly. There is not a single fiber in my being that has ever been remotely interested in you. In fact, the only thing that’s ever kept me in proximity to you was the sheer necessity of survival.”

The first prince’s mouth opened, but you weren’t done.

“Remember all those times you made those comments about my ‘station’ and how ‘lucky’ I was to be considered by you?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t say anything back then because I was too polite, but now? No thanks. Absolutely not. I would rather spend a century in the swamps than a minute more listening to you.”

Sebek, of all people, burst into laughter. “She’s got a point!” he managed between snickers. Lilia was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes twinkling in amusement, and Silver, barely awake, gave a lazy thumbs-up in support.

Malleus, meanwhile, looked positively enchanted. His eyes sparkled as he watched you lay into the former prince, pride and affection written all over his face. When you were done, he leaned toward you, murmuring with a soft smile, “I do love seeing you stand up for yourself.”

The first prince, his face red with humiliation, stammered, “You can’t speak to me like that!”

“Oh, but I just did,” you replied with a sweet smile. “And you know what? It felt amazing.”

With that, the first prince slunk away, his tail metaphorically between his legs, while the room buzzed with whispered laughter. Even the Beastmen, who had been ready to rip the prince to shreds, seemed satisfied.

You had never felt more victorious. Malleus looked at you with such adoration, and Lilia… well, Lilia looked like he was already planning his next round of mischief.

It was a good day.

The festival was going about as smoothly as a cat in a bathtub. You were trying to act like you weren’t hopelessly entangled with the most dangerously attractive fae prince in existence, while also managing to survive the company of your absurd entourage.

Sebek was marching around, loudly reminding anyone within earshot of his unwavering devotion to Lord Malleus. His eyes would dart to you occasionally, like he was calculating whether you were worthy of being in the same airspace as his revered master. Silver, half-asleep, was keeping one lazy yet disturbingly sharp eye on you, while Lilia was in his element—practically vibrating with amusement, like he was waiting for you to trip and fall into a cauldron of chaos.

And then there was the Hero Knight. This guy had shown up uninvited, all shiny armor and noble delusions, insisting he protect you from… something? Yourself? Malleus? Winning too many festival games?

“Are you sure you’re safe?” the Hero Knight asked, sidling up far too close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve heard stories about these fae festivals. One wrong step, and you’ll be cursed to dance for a hundred years, or worse—turned into a tree.”

You squinted at him. “Right. I’ll make sure to avoid the face-painting booth. Wouldn’t want to end up as a shrub for eternity.”

Malleus, ever patient, simply raised an eyebrow, as if contemplating whether this so-called Hero Knight was worth the oxygen he was breathing. Lilia, meanwhile, was biting his lip to stop from laughing.

But then, amid your rising frustration, you spotted it: the holy grail of festival prizes. The gargoyle plushie.

It wasn’t just any gargoyle plushie. It was perfect. Chunky, with tiny wings and a slightly disgruntled expression, it radiated the exact energy you associated with Malleus—regal, intimidating, yet somehow huggable.

You pointed at it like you’d just discovered a hidden treasure. “I need that.”

Malleus, ever-attentive, followed your gaze and smiled softly. “Do you desire the gargoyle?”

“Obviously! It’s basically you in plushie form,” you said, already walking toward the game stall. “But, you know, it’s rigged. All festival games are.”

Malleus watched you with his trademark elegant amusement. “Perhaps I can—”

“No, no,” you interrupted, raising a hand. “I’m winning this fair and square. No fae magic, no dragon lord intervention. Just pure skill.”

You grabbed the darts, took a deep breath, and began your assault on the rigged game. It wasn’t easy. The darts bounced, the targets mocked you, and you could feel the Hero Knight hovering over your shoulder like a bad itch.

“Are you sure this is wise?” the Hero Knight asked again, his voice dripping with concern. “This feels like a trap. What if they’ve enchanted the darts? What if—”

You whirled on him, fed up. “Listen, Sir Gallant-with-too-much-hair-gel, it’s a dart game. Not an assassination plot. If I can survive dealing with you, I think I can handle a few rigged targets.”

Lilia absolutely lost it. He doubled over, wheezing in laughter, while Silver let out an amused snort. Even Sebek looked like he was struggling not to smirk, though he quickly composed himself.

Malleus, ever regal, simply smiled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I have faith in your abilities, my dear.”

Fueled by that comment—and the knowledge that the Hero Knight was slowly losing what remained of his dignity—you managed to hit the final target. The plushie was yours.

Triumphantly, you grabbed the gargoyle and turned to Malleus. “For you.”

Malleus, to your utter delight, looked genuinely touched. His eyes softened, and that rare, warm smile appeared. “You won this for me?”

“Obviously,” you said, trying not to melt under his gaze. “A prince should have his own gargoyle.”

Silver, who had been observing the entire scene with increasing clarity despite his usual drowsiness, raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

Sebek, who was still processing the fact that you’d just casually given his lord a gargoyle plushie, grunted. “You… you truly care for Lord Malleus.”

Before you could say anything, the Hero Knight, still floundering, piped up. “Well, I could’ve won that gargoyle too, you know. If you wanted to—”

“Oh, please,” you cut him off, turning to the Knight. “You probably would’ve asked the stall vendor to throw in a manual on ‘How to Not Be a Total Wet Blanket at Festivals.’”

Lilia nearly collapsed. “Oh, please stop—I can’t—” he gasped, clearly having the time of his life.

You waved him off and turned back to Malleus, who was still holding the plushie with the same reverence one might reserve for an ancient relic. “Shall we continue?”

Next up was a couple’s game. You had no intention of participating—until you noticed the Hero Knight gearing up to suggest that he join in to protect you. Oh no. Not today. You grabbed Malleus’ arm and dragged him into the game, completely ignoring the Knight’s sputtering objections.

“It’s… it’s traditionally for couples…” Silver noted, giving you a look that clearly said, I see what’s happening here.

You ignored him too.

The game was simple enough: throw rings onto bottles, but for some reason, the tension was palpable. Probably because you were standing next to one of the most powerful beings in existence, and you’d dragged him into a ridiculous couples’ game in front of his overly protective retinue.

But you won. And to rub salt in the Hero Knight’s ego, you fed Malleus one of the sweets you’d won.

“Y-You!” Sebek spluttered, looking as though you’d just committed the highest treason against decorum. “Feeding Lord Malleus… this… this is too much!”

The Hero Knight, on the other hand, looked utterly baffled. “Are you… are you sure that’s safe? What if the sweets are—”

“I swear, if you don’t stop, I’m going to feed you to the fairies,” you hissed, snapping the sweet in half and popping it into Malleus’ mouth. He smiled as he ate it, clearly enjoying himself.

By the time the fireworks started, you had somehow survived the night without murdering the Hero Knight. The sky exploded in a kaleidoscope of colors, and for a brief moment, it was peaceful.

And then, without thinking, you kissed Malleus.

There was a split second of stunned silence. And then all hell broke loose.

Sebek let out a screech that could rival a banshee. “My Lord! My Lord!” His voice cracked in disbelief, but then—surprisingly—he softened. “If… If Lord Malleus must fall for a human, I am glad it is someone… as devoted as you. My lady.”

You looked at him, touched. “Thank you, Sebek.”

Silver gave a rare smile, looking both amused and resigned. “Congratulations. You’ve managed to pull this off somehow.”

Lilia, predictably, was still dying of laughter, barely able to breathe between fits of wheezing.

And the Hero Knight? He looked like someone had just told him vampires were real and lived next door. “This… I… What…?”

You turned to him with a smile that could cut steel. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’ve been trying to tell you for months that I wasn’t interested. I’d rather kiss a gargoyle than you—actually, no. The gargoyle’s got more charm. Better conversation skills too.”

Lilia was full-on cackling now, leaning against a festival stall for support as the Hero Knight’s dignity shriveled up into nothingness.

Malleus, looking absolutely radiant, wrapped an arm around your waist. “Shall we depart? I believe we have a kingdom to return to.”

The next day, you stood with Malleus and his merry band of chaos, bidding farewell to your parents and butler. The Duke was still recovering from the heart attack Malleus had given him when he asked for your hand in courtship.

As you waved to your family, Malleus gently took your hand, leading you toward the carriage that would take you to Briar Valley.

“Well,” you muttered as you glanced back one last time, “this story of mine took a weird turn.”

Lilia, still grinning like a fiend, chimed in. “Oh, just wait until the sequel.”

The last thing you heard as the carriage rolled away was the Hero Knight muttering in the distance, “I could’ve won that gargoyle…”

You smiled. Maybe the webnovel wasn’t such a disaster after all.

Ahh I hope y'all like this one, malleus is one of my favs and I had so much fun writing him.

The Kalim one is being edited because it's a little too somber for me and I wanna make it a little more fun and Azul one is almost fully edited too!

So, here's a poll for the one after these. (They'll all get a turn)

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist