#Will I ever learn to not put everything in unreadable darkness

[entheie]

Also! Those two from recent tabletop sessions!

[heeluvv]

rockstar!jay who fucks you senseless in the dressing room/limo after a show all sweaty and in heat from the adrenaline 🥰🧸

okayyy wait bc i love this request, (did it a bit different but still) so here it is!

DRESSING ROOM.ᐟ

pairing ᝰ.ᐟ rockstar! park jongseong x style consultant! reader

warnings ᝰ.ᐟ p in v, unprotected sex, etc.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

working at a high-end boutique in the heart of the city, you’ve seen your fair share of celebrities. actors, models, influencers—people who walk in draped in designer labels, their egos just as expensive as the clothes they buy. you’re used to the way they scan the store, looking for exclusivity, for something rare, something to set them apart.

you’ve learned to stay detached, polite but distant. no one ever stays long enough to remember your name anyway.

but when he walks in, something shifts.

jay fucking park.

rockstar, guitarist, frontman of the most infamous band of the decade. the kind of man whose presence changes the energy of a room the second he steps inside. and now, he’s standing just a few feet away from you.

black boots heavy against the marble floor. silver rings glinting under the soft boutique lighting. a fitted leather jacket hugging his frame, worn and broken in, like it’s been through the kind of nights people write songs about. his dark, tousled hair falls just over his sharp eyes, and he pushes it back with a hand that’s littered with silver and ink.

his gaze lands on you.

there’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, curiosity. he takes you in, slow and deliberate, the weight of his attention pinning you in place.

"hello, welcome. what can i do for you?" you ask politely, keeping your tone professional despite the man standing in front of you.

jay fucking park.

his presence is overwhelming, even in the soft, elegant lighting of the boutique. the air around him seems heavier, charged with the kind of energy only someone like him carries—someone untouchable, yet standing right here, waiting for you to assist him like he’s just another client.

he doesn’t respond immediately. instead, he watches you, his gaze sharp, assessing, lingering a beat too long. and then, the corner of his lips tugs upward into the faintest smirk.

"i'm looking for something to wear tonight," he says, his voice smooth, dipped in amusement. "something that’ll turn heads. more than i already do."

cocky. effortless. the kind of arrogance that should be off-putting, but coming from him, it feels natural—like he’s earned the right to say it. because he has.

still, you school your expression, keeping your reaction buried deep.

"of course," you say evenly. "we have a few selections i think you’d like."

without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel, leading him through the boutique, toward a more secluded section—where the real exclusives are kept.

but you feel it.

his eyes.

scanning you, slow and unashamed, dragging over the curve of your waist, the dip of your back, lingering just a little too long lower than they should. it should make you uncomfortable, but instead, a quiet thrill hums beneath your skin.

you ignore it.

the racks ahead are lined with clothes that scream power—pieces meant for those who belong under flashing lights, those who are the moment. if you were a star, this is what you’d go for. something bold, something that demands attention.

but you’re not.

you’re here, stuck assisting the people who are everything you want to be.

jay steps beside you, close enough that you catch the faint scent of leather and something richer, something undeniably him.

"these," you say, motioning toward the selection. "they’d suit you."

he doesn’t look at the clothes.

he looks at you.

and you’re not sure whether it’s the boutique lighting or something else entirely, but his gaze feels hotter now, heavier. like he’s considering something far beyond fabric and fit.

“yeah?” his voice is lower now, threaded with something unreadable.

you swallow, steadying yourself.

“yeah.”

jay makes his selection quickly, barely sparing a glance at the price tags as he pulls items from the racks—pieces that match the effortless kind of allure he carries. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess. it’s like he already knows what will look good on him, and really, why wouldn’t he?

one of his assistants steps forward, arms already filled with the chosen clothes. jay doesn’t even acknowledge them, his focus trained on you instead. when he turns to face you, that smirk is still there, lazy and knowing, like he’s enjoying the way you try—and fail—to act unaffected.

“where’s your dressing room, princess?”

the pet name rolls off his tongue too easily, too smooth. it shouldn’t sound as good as it does. shouldn’t make your stomach tighten the way it does.

but it does.

you hate that you react, that you feel the way you do. your breath catches, and heat licks up your spine as you press your thighs together, forcing yourself to appear unaffected.

still, the words don’t come as quickly as you want them to.

“towards the left…” you finally manage, voice quieter than intended.

jay hums, his amusement only growing. he takes a step closer, and the air between you shifts—electric, heavier.

“could you lead the way again?”

it’s not really a question.

your throat tightens, but you don’t respond. you just turn on your heel and start walking, pulse hammering as you make your way down the dimly lit hallway leading to the private dressing rooms. you can hear him following, his footsteps slow, deliberate, stretching the tension between you even further.

reaching one of the spacious, high-end fitting rooms, you push the door open, stepping aside to let him in. the space is sleek, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a plush bench in the center.

jay nods toward his assistant. “leave them inside.”

the assistant quickly does as told, placing the clothes neatly on the padded seat. but when they step back, jay doesn’t follow them. he stays put. right next to you.

then, just as casually as he commands everything else, he adds, “wait by the entrance.”

his assistant hesitates, just for a second, like they, too, are confused. but they don’t question him. they nod and disappear down the hallway, leaving just the two of you in the doorway of the private fitting room.

your brows furrow slightly, but you don’t say anything.

you should question it.

but you don’t.

because his gaze is already back on you—intent, unreadable. like he’s considering something.

and for some reason, you don’t move.

he doesn’t wait. not a second longer.

before you can process it, before you can take a steadying breath, jay's hands are on you—firm, calculated—as he pushes you inside the dressing room. the door clicks shut behind him, sealing you both inside, and suddenly, the air feels hotter, heavier.

your back barely meets the mirror wall before his lips crash against yours.

it steals the breath from your lungs, leaves you dizzy, caught in the force of him—of his heat, his urgency, the way he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess. your gasp barely makes it past your lips before you respond in kind, hands reaching, gripping onto the back of his neck, threading into his dark hair as you pull him closer.

he takes it as an invitation—like he was waiting for it.

his hands find your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver before he lifts you, like you weigh nothing, pressing you against the cool mirror behind you. the contrast of heat and cold sends a shock down your spine, but it’s nothing compared to the way he looks at you now—lips swollen, breath unsteady, eyes dark with something unreadable.

his smirk is still there, lazy and amused, like he’s won a game you didn’t even realize you were playing.

“thought acting all unaffected wouldn’t be too obvious, princess?” he taunts, his voice low, teasing, sending a sharp thrill down your spine.

you open your mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to tell him where he can shove that cocky smirk—but then he shakes his head, clicking his tongue, his breath warm against your lips.

“i see right through you,” he murmurs, a soft chuckle leaving him before his lips crash back onto yours.

this kiss is rougher, deeper—like he’s trying to pull something from you, something you weren’t ready to admit. his hands move, fingers fumbling with the buttons of your suit uniform, grazing against the fabric in a way that has heat coiling low in your stomach.

you can barely think.

because this is happening.

you are kissing jay fucking park.

in a dressing room.

and god, you don’t want it to stop.

he doesn’t waste a second.

your suit jacket is stripped off in a matter of moments, the expensive fabric crumpling onto the floor, forgotten. his hands move with practiced ease, working at the buttons of your crisp white shirt, undoing them one by one in a frenzy. his breathing is heavier now, uneven, as he pushes the fabric aside, revealing the delicate lace of your white bra.

jay stills for a moment, his gaze darkening as he takes in the sight.

he groans lowly, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. “fuck…”

his fingers brush over the lace, featherlight, almost reverent. the material cups your breasts perfectly, hugging your skin in a way that makes it look like it was meant to slip off. the sight of you like this—flushed, breathless, pinned against the mirror—has something primal flickering behind his eyes.

“you’re so fucking hot,” he mutters, voice rough, strained with something dangerously close to desperation.

before you can respond, his lips are on you again, but this time, they travel lower, down the curve of your jaw, trailing the length of your throat. his kisses are slow, deliberate, each one pressed into your skin like he’s leaving his mark—like he wants to leave his mark.

his teeth graze the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and when he bites down, just enough to make you feel it, a soft gasp escapes your lips.

his smirk returns against your skin.

“like that, princess?” he taunts, voice a low whisper against your pulse.

you don’t even try to hide the way your body responds.

“fuck, jay…” you grunt, your head tilting back, pressing against the cool surface of the mirror, granting him more access.

he takes full advantage of it, his lips moving lower, mouth open, sucking at the delicate skin of your neck, his tongue swiping over the bruises he leaves behind.

heat pools in your stomach, burning, unrelenting.

he’s everywhere—all over you, consuming every breath, every thought—until there’s nothing else but him.

your breath hitches as his hungry mouth finds your breast, lips enveloping the soft flesh before pulling back to let his teeth graze and nip, sending shockwaves of sensation coursing through you. moans spill from your lips, filling the room with a symphony of desire, but there's no need for silence; the world outside has faded away, leaving only the two of you in this secret, secluded haven.

his knee presses insistently between your thighs as he tugs at your pants, peeling them away along with your panties, baring you completely. he mirrors your state, kicking off his own pants, and your eyes are drawn to his thick, hard length. a whimper escapes your lips, a flicker of doubt crossing your mind. will it fit? he sees your hesitation, eyes dark with desire and reassurance. "i'll make it fit, baby.." he murmurs, his voice a low growl as he positions himself at your entrance, pushing in with a groan. the feeling of you, tight and hot, gripping him like a vice, sends waves of pleasure crashing over him. you cry out, his name a litany on your lips as he stretches you, fills you completely, your bodies joined in a dance as old as time.

Your hands clutch onto his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh as his powerful hands grip underneath your thighs, driving his rock-hard cock into you with a desperate, primal rhythm. "Fuck, baby… you're so fucking tight…" he groans, his breath hot on the nape of your neck, your head thrown back against the cool mirror. You're in heaven, barely able to believe the intensity of the moment, the sheer ecstasy of his body against yours.

he pistons into you, each thrust more urgent than the last, shifting positions to plunge deeper, to feel more of you. suddenly, he flips you around, your breasts and cheeks pressed firmly against the mirror, its cold surface a stark contrast to the heat of your bodies. he enters you from behind, his cock drilling into you with relentless passion. "look how fucking good you look, baby… taking my dick so well, huh?" he groans, sweat beading on his forehead, his lips constantly caught between his teeth in a futile attempt to suppress louder moans. he fails miserably, unable to contain his pleasure as you clench around him, your body milking his with each thrust. the room fills with the raw, carnal sounds of your passion, a symphony of desire and release.

your breath hitches as you cry out, "jay, fuck! i'm going to cum!" your legs quiver beneath him, no longer pressed against the fogged-up mirror, but now sprawled on the velvet bench in the dressing room's heart. your back arches like a bow against him as you lay on your stomach, his hand firmly gripping your neck, the other clutching your waist, pulling you back to meet his relentless thrusts. "gonna cum for me, princess?" he growls, his voice a ragged whisper, his length throbbing inside you as he nears his own release.

"fuck, fuck, jay!" you gasp, your eyes rolling back, your body convulsing as he increases his pace, his hips slapping against you. your inner muscles clench around him, a tight, pulsating grip that sends waves of pleasure crashing through you.

"fuck yeah, baby…" he groans, his voice rough and primal, his head thrown back, tendons straining in his neck. he can feel you, your climax imminent, your body tensing around him. you shatter with a cry, your release drenching him, your body shaking beneath him. he plunges deep, deeper than before, filling you completely as he finds his own release, his hot climax spilling into you, overflowing. maybe, just maybe, your job wasn't so bad after all.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ i hope you enjoyed!

[keepswingin]

⸻ LEFT BEHIND ⸻

pairing: caleb x reader

genre: angst, romance, hurt/comfort, canon compliant, caleb character study

w/c: 6.7k

summary: finally catching up, ever decides to take what they believe has always been theirs. caleb refuses to lose her again.

cw: kidnapping, scenes of violence, character death (not of main characters), mentions of past trauma, implied torture, implied medical experimentation

a/n: this has been finished for so long i was just stalling because i didn't feel like editing but then i figured i should post it so that it doesn't end up in the rotting wip pile xD hopefully everyone enjoys!

Ever takes you.

It's less climatic than it should be - an off night, a thundering sky, a wrong turn down an alley you've taken too many times before. Easy to track down, really, because you've gotten comfortable. It's a rule you know above all else, to always be on guard, to never stay in one spot for too long, especially now, when you're poking around in places you shouldn't be, when Caleb is the one you can't quite let go. 

But a storm swirls overhead and you turn down that same alley. You watch your shadow flicker over the bricks, listen to the sound of your footsteps, one after another. You think about how it's odd that the association has been so quiet lately, when it very much seems like it shouldn't be, with everything happening at once, with everyone trying to get their hands on aether cores no one will ever truly understand. 

Lightning flashes, illuminating the world around you. 

You blink. Glance up at the sky. Watch grey clouds move fast above you, promising rain. When you look in front of you, you notice more shadows than before, growing closer. Thick coats bundled around black face masks and leather gloves, eyes that shine under the quickly fading sun. More than you can handle, even as your hand inches towards your waistband, where your gun awaits. 

Panic doesn't push you into action quite yet, but there is a part of you that thinks you should bring your hunter watch to life, that if you ping your location someone would probably be there in minutes to investigate. But was it worth the risk of putting someone else in danger? Was it worth - 

Something sharp pricks at your neck and all at once your world tilts on its side. 

A strangled sound escapes you as you stumble forward a step, and then fall, unable to hold yourself upright. Your knees scrape the pavement as your vision wavers and then wanes, your heartbeat thudding hard in your ears. The figures in front of you grow closer and then blur into a mass of darkness and you have no choice but to close your eyes, unable to make a sound, unable to move. 

A cold hand roughly grabs your chin and turns your head, holding it for a long moment before letting go. Thunder rumbles from above. You can barely think. "We've been looking for you," a voice whispers, close to your ear. "Finally found you." 

As everything around you finally begins to fade, you can't help but think about Caleb. 

You wonder if he'll miss you like you'll miss him.

x

Caleb sits in the living room of a house that feels far too big and watches as rain slides down the window. His phone sits abandoned on the coffee table in front of him, silent and dark. He wonders if she had forgotten they had dinner plans, but there's a part of him that thinks she would never forget. 

The storm is bad. The wind is dangerous, and the lightning is deadly. Storms are always worse in Skyhaven, but it's something he's learned to weather, though it was easier still when she was by his side, or tucked under the blankets in a bed that was no longer his. He reaches for the phone and brings up his messages with her, staring at the unread words. 

He types out another message. Clicks send. 

The storm rages on.

x

"Something wrong, Colonel?" 

Caleb startles, looking away from the window. He doesn't remember the last time he hadn't heard someone approach, and the thought itself isn't something he wants to dwell on. He straightens and turns towards the voice, facing an older man with various medals decorating the crest of his suit. Caleb pauses for a moment and stares, brows knitting together. He doesn't remember his man's face, doesn't remember ever seeing him before. It wasn't odd for Ever to throw in new recruits when they felt like it, but he could usually pick them out of a crowd like the sore thumbs they were. Whenever they dared to add researchers to the mix, or people who had been around since Ever's start, Caleb was usually able to pick them out too. 

This man...this man is an oddity. 

"Did you need something?" Caleb asks, voice firm, eyes giving a quick scan to the rest of the room. It's only the two of them, the rest of the control room empty. Today's a training day for most of the Fleet. He doesn't usually need to be here for days like this one, but he didn't have anywhere else to go. 

He had called her earlier. He had called her last night. He had sent more texts than he would like to admit, and still, there was nothing but silence in return. Paranoia was starting to creep in from the edges of his mind. He was minutes away from making his way over to her apartment. 

The older man doesn't bother to stand at attention. It bothers Caleb, makes him think of the man more as an insurgent than a fellow comrade. If he was from Ever, he must've been a newer model, one that didn't have to go through the same rigorous training as the rest. "No," the man drawls, eyes flickering up to Caleb's face. "Just checking in with you, sir."

Caleb bristles and turns back around. "Don't bother me with such trivial matters again." There's another storm brewing on the horizon. It's been days. He doesn't know how much longer he can wait. Anxiety curls at his insides like a snake around his ribcage. What if she's hurt? What if he's failing her by waiting?

"As you wish, Colonel," the man replies, eerily even. 

When Caleb doesn't hear him move, he uses his Evol to throw the door open. Wood splitters as the handle pushes through the wall. He hopes the man flinches. A few seconds later, he listens to the man's fading footsteps. 

Alone again, Caleb releases a shaky exhale. One hand comes up and runs through his hair. 

What if it was his fault she was missing?

x

x

x

x

Caleb stands in the middle of her apartment and looks around at a place stuck in a moment of serenity. 

The door is broken at the hinges and everything is perfectly in place. There are no signs of struggle, no signs that she's been home anytime recently. There is no takeout in the trash, no dishes in the sink, no laundry piled by the washer, no blankets askew on her bed. There is no signs of life, no signs that someone has lived within this apartment, and Caleb feels his shoulders begin to shake, his heart beating faster. 

Nothing is packed away in suitcases. She didn't decide willingly to leave him. But there hasn't been any contact, and his calls go straight to voicemail, and his messages are delivered but unread so someone is looking at her phone, or too sentimental to destroy it. Or maybe that's apart of evidence of her grisly murder and Caleb is already far too late and she's already gone and he's done nothing but waste time because he was trying to better and it didn't get him anywhere - 

Caleb collapses to the floor, chest heaving, vision blurring. He - He needs to calm down. If he doesn't calm down the chip, the chip will make him - he can't forget, not now, not ever, not when he's already wasted so much time. He needs to calm down, he needs...he needs her. He needs her because he doesn't quite have himself anymore. 

His breath catches in his throat. He can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't just sit here and let the chip - 

Pain in his chest. Pain in his head, pain shooting through an arm far from human.

It hurts. Everything hurts and the world blurs. 

No, he begs, anything but this, anything but now - 

x

Caleb awakens in the middle of the floor of an apartment he doesn't truly remember. 

Slowly, he pulls himself upright, a dull ache deep in his chest, a headache forming in the crevices of his mind. He looks blearily around the room, takes in the furniture, the color palette that isn't as dark and dreary as his own home. There's a stuffed animal from a claw machine sitting between the couch pillows, just out of reach. 

Caleb carefully climbs to his feet and makes his way over to the stuffed animal, picking it up and holding it close. It looks like it's supposed to be a fluffy white dog, but it's missing the right fluff. A stray thought enters his head, that it would look cuter with a colored collar around its neck, and then he freezes. 

I got a collar with a bell. I put it on the cat.

His fingers curl tighter around the plushie.

If I had that kind of bell right now, I should make you wear it, right?

"Fuck," he whispers, bits and pieces coming back to him. It slips through his fingers like sand, even as he desperately tries to hold onto something. He could forget everything else, but he could never forget her. He was...he was wasting time, wasn't he? He was...in her apartment and here for a reason. He needed to - 

He walks towards her bedroom, stuffed dog still clutched in hand and places it carefully on top of her pillows. Then he bends down and reaches under her bed, fingers gazing across the box he's looking for. He tugs it out and pops it open, digging carefully through old and new memories alike. When he reaches the bottom, he finds what he's looking for and pulls it free. 

She would never leave without it. Even if she hated him to the ends of the world, he knows she still wouldn't leave it. It's a small ring fit for a child, crafted out of fraying string and beads. He had given it to her before they were old enough to know what promise rings meant, and he thinks that's what it was always meant to be.

Tucking the ring away and pushing the box back under the bed, next he moves to her closet, picking through the clothes hanging there. Every outfit is in place besides her hunter uniform, and a quick glance at her dresser tells him she was in a hurry to leave last time she was here, makeup sprawled across the desk. 

This...it's a start. He can do something with a start. 

"I'm going to find you," he whispers, a promise to himself and the empty home around him. 

x

x

The Hunters Association is only helpful after he threatens further action through the Fleet. 

He thinks he would feel bad about it any other time but he doesn't, not when it's nearing a week and he still has no trace of her. They offer him everything they know and it gives him her last mission, and her possible last location. Her last mission had something to do with abandoned research labs out on the outskirts of Linkon, though it didn't turn up anything new and she had returned to the base empty handed. 

She was dismissed by six o'clock that night. Security cameras show her walking out the front doors of the association five minutes after. She decides to walk home and takes a left down the street. One of her co-workers tells him that's the path she usually takes. Caleb rewatches the footage three times, trying to find anything abnormal but there's nothing and he is still left with more questions than answers. 

He thanks them for the cooperation and tells them to call him - not the Fleet, him - if they hear anything about her or from her. He feels the distrusting eyes of her Captain burn into his back as he leaves, but he doesn't really care about that either. All he cares about is finding her. 

x

x

He retraces her steps, forwards, backwards, until his feet hurt and his body aches. 

When he finds no evidence the hard way, he returns to the Fleet and checks the cameras. The Fleet has access to nearly all the public cameras in Linkon, though not everyone in the city needs to know that. He's able to find her on one camera after she leaves the association, closer to her apartment, but he loses her when she ducks into an alleyway off the beaten path. 

The cameras on either end of the alley have no footage, disabled from within. 

Caleb digs deeper, searching the access files. If cameras are shut down it's usually for construction or security of a political figure, not for some random hunter choosing to walk down an alley. It's suspicious and makes him uneasy, the further he searches, the less files he finds. It's like the system has been wiped from the inside out. He stares at an empty file screen, where logs of usernames are supposed to be, and finds only his name staring back at him. 

He deletes himself from the system and makes a copy of the footage to a spare flash drive before deleting that too. 

Not for the first time, he wonders if she was taken because of him, because he dragged her too close to the sun. He tried to keep her out of it, tried to make her keep her distance, but she was stubborn and he was helpless to stop her when she made up her mind, unless he took extreme measures. 

Maybe they weren't extreme enough. 

He tucks the flash drive in his pocket and turns to leave, only to be met by the face of the older man from earlier in the week standing in the doorway. He's missing some medals, ones Caleb saw pinned to his suit last time, and his suit isn't as prim and proper as it should be. There's something dark in his eyes that Caleb can see even from across the room.

"Colonel," the man says happily, taking a step forward. "I've been looking for you." 

"Have you?" Caleb asks, crossing his arms. "Because I haven't seen you anywhere."

The man laughs, raspy echoes bouncing off the walls around them. "I think we both know why," he responds, shooting Caleb a crooked smile. "Missions come and go."

He shifts, and his uniform moves with him. Caleb's eyes catch the symbol sitting branded against the cusp of his collarbone. Things begin to fall into place as soon as he starts lining things up. He had tried to protect her and all he did was put her right in the line of fire. There was no telling if she was even still alive if...if they were the ones who took her, finally, after all this time. 

"Were you sent to keep an eye on me?" Caleb asks, and it's hard to keep his voice steady when so many different emotions are shooting through him all at once. It's hard to keep focused when he's worried about her, the chip, the deceiving man in front of him, the organization responsible for plucking him for death and giving him a second chance as something much different. "You've done a shit job," he continues, meeting the man's eyes defiantly. 

"But I've done my job," the man whispers. "She's long gone by now - " 

The man chokes. He reaches up to his throat, scratching his fingernails against his skin desperately. 

Caleb doesn't release him. He only steps forward, and with each step he takes, the harder it is for the man to breathe. "Where. Is. She?" Caleb demands, squeezing tighter and tighter. The man's lips are nearly blue by the time he reaches him, eyes holding a deadly intent. "I have no problem killing you," he spits dangerously. "It's up to you if you want to ever breathe again." 

He watches as the man's widen and a horrible sound escapes him, as if he's trying to speak. Caleb scoffs and releases him, taking pleasure in the way the man's body crumples pathetically to the floor, He struggles to breathe in as much oxygen as his body will allow. Caleb crouches down and waits a moment before using his Evol again, grabbing the man by the chin and jerking his head so that he faces him. 

"Where is she?"

"I - I don't know!" he rasps, still struggling to breathe. "They - They didn't tell me!" 

Caleb chuckles darkly. "Don't lie to me." His Evol tightens. The man cries out in pain. Bloodied marks begin to peel at his chin.

"Wait, wait, wait! I'm - I swear I'm not lying, I'm not lying! They - They sent me here to keep an eye on you, to - to make sure you wouldn't do anything they didn't account for! They were afraid of - " 

"Afraid of what?" he whispers, sick of the man's blubbering already. He tightens his grip even more, sick of the games. He'll kill him even without getting the answers he's looking for, he doesn't mind, not when he has a feeling this man is omitting more than he needs to be, especially with his life on the line. 

The man reaches out and grabs at Caleb's wrist, fingernails digging into the seam of his suit. Caleb goes to shake him off, disgust rolling in his gut, but before he can a strangled sob spilts from the man's battered throat. He pauses, arm hovering in the air. A tear slips from the man's eye. He doubts it's because he's suddenly grown a conscious, especially not if he's part of their - 

"You," he cries, pain straining the tone of his voice. "They're afraid of you." 

Caleb leans back and releases him. 

The man falls to the floor once more, curling around himself, gasping. The noises he makes are unfitting of one from Ever, and he can't help but wonder if they've stopped paying attention to the newer ones because they finally have her. Guilt begins to claw its way up his throat, nearly weighing him down. He tried to protect her, he told them she wasn't worth the time, that he was better, that he would always be better. He tried to stop them, to keep them from ever being able to reach her.

And now they were sending unfinished soldiers out to the frontline. 

Maybe they were right to be scared of him. 

"Did they say anything else?" Caleb's voice is deceptively calm. He returns to his full height and readjusts his glove, straightening out the wrinkles. The man coughs and sniffles, barely turning his head in the other's direction. 

"No, nothing. Nothing, I swear on my life."

Caleb is still and silent for a long moment. "That's not much to swear on." 

The man doesn't have time to react as the bullet is lodged between his eyes, and smoke swirls from the end of Caleb's pistol as he returns it back to his side. He reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing against the flash drive, answers just out of reach.

x

It's a bad idea.

A horrible idea, if Caleb stops and actually thinks about it, but it's the best way for him to get answers, even if he has to play dumb to get them. The door ahead of him tugs open, revealing a face he knows all too well. Something close to fear shivers down his spine. 

The Professor stares back at him, eyes crinkling at the corners once he realizes who it is standing in front of him. "Caleb," he says, sounding surprised. "What are you doing here at this hour?" Caleb keeps his hands locked behind his back, a picture of posture, even if his insides say otherwise. It takes everything within in to keep a steady, uncaring tone to his voice. 

"I was curious about when the next round of testing was going to start." 

The Professor regards Caleb with a cautious stare, shifting. "Is there a reason why you're so eager to begin?" he asks carefully, eyes flicking across Caleb as though they're trying to find something strange or out of place. 

Caleb plays the part well as he flexes his arm slowly, rolling his wrist. "My arm has been a bit slow on the uptake. I was hoping we could make some adjustments alongside everything else." 

It's the right thing to say. Immediately, Caleb can see the Professor relax, like he's provided a suitable enough reason to be poking around about future Ever projects, especially when this isn't a place Caleb enjoys visiting. The Professor allows his lips to almost twitch into a small smile. 

"Unfortunately, the next round has been momentarily delayed. A few of our scientists have been redirected to a different project." 

"Oh?" Caleb hums, acting clueless. "Did they finally figure out a better resource?" 

There's a gleam in the Professor's eye that Caleb doesn't like. "Something like that. I'll let you know as soon as we're able to begin the next stages. For now, just keep things running smoothly, Caleb." 

Caleb gives a short nod and a quick duck of his head as the Professor bids him goodnight, the door shutting quietly behind him. Caleb can't get out of the place fast enough, heart thumping hard as he makes it across the street and down the first alley he sees. He stops and allows himself to lean his forehead against the cold brick, forcing himself to take deep breaths. 

At the very least, he confirmed what he thought. 

Ever did have her and they were already pushing other projects back because they knew she was the key to the lock that they were looking for. At least the Professor told him what he needed to know, even if he didn't realize it. 

He talked specifically about the scientists that worked with Caleb, which meant he knew which places to check. 

x

Four weeks. 

Four weeks since he's last seen her face, heard her voice, held her close. 

He craved her touch like a man would water in a desert, and he didn't know how to combat that feeling. Instead, he resorts to the one thing he knows he can do. He hits the research labs he knows best, and when those turn up empty, he begins going for the ones Ever tries to hide. When he runs out of those that he knows, he interrogates the next scientist he comes across. 

Blood sticking to his palms, he heads for the next round of labs. 

Night bleeds into the horizon. 

He's so close. He knows he is.

x

He didn't know this lab existed. 

The building is small and tucked behind some other abandoned buildings, nearly trespassing into the N109 Zone, windows broken and brick decaying into dust. It was the last lab on the list and so far Caleb was doubtful there was anything inside besides the hollow remains of what used to be, but he makes his way into the building anyway, using the force of his weight to push through the front door. 

It cracks and falls apart as he steps over the threshold. The room before him is bare and covered in discarded papers, weathered with age, some shredded into tiny pieces. Plaster peels from the walls and there's a hallway tucked behind a fallen bookshelf towards the back of the room that he steps over. 

Following the hallway brings him to a second room, this one smaller than the first. Furniture sits askew, wood splintering and cushions thrown to the corner, ripped in two. Thick layers of dust cover empty picture frames barely hanging onto their hooks. There's no signs of life, no signs of anyone having touched this house in years and Caleb's hopes fall deep into the pit of his stomach. 

Did the scientist lie to him? Broken and bleeding and alie slips from between his split lips?

Anger is a close second to the disappointment, the cocktail of emotions beginning to stir deep within him. He's failed again. He can't do anything worthwhile, he never has, and now she's probably dead and gone and he couldn't even protect her when it mattered the most. What was the point of him coming back if nothing changed? If he was still just as useless as he was all those years ago, ignored and thrown aside as they reached for her every single time - 

Caleb's eyes abruptly catch on the far wall. 

There's dust everywhere. There is not dust on the corner of a larger picture frame that sits awkwardly towards the bottom of the wall, just enough to be out of place. 

He walks over to the frame and stares at it for a long moment, and it's then that he sees the traces of fingerprints, sticking to the remains of the frame. There's a small indent within the wood. 

Ever was smart. Caleb always tried to be smarter.

x

The smell of antiseptic burns his nose the further into the lab he gets, the sound of his boots echoing throughout the empty rooms ahead of him. It's too bright, and the sounds of different machines whirring and clicking sets him on edge. He hasn't seen a single person in this place that grows larger and larger after every step he takes, and yet his heart tells him he's in the right place.

She's here. He knows she's here.

There's tables with restraints in most of the rooms. Equipment, clipboards, computers. Needles awaiting their hosts in one, scalpels and hard cloth in another. He quickens his pace, heart pounding. If he thinks too much about this, about where he is and where he has been, the chip will take control. He can't allow that to happen, not now, and he tries his best to keep his breathing steady as he finally makes it to the end of the hallway, only to be met by an eye reader beside the door. 

It's barely a sound decision to break it, bits of metal and glass shattering to the ground but the door opens as he does, spitting broken error codes in an calm voice as he pushes his way through. Several shocked eyes turn to face him as he sees the massive room before him, wires curling from the ceiling down to troves of different devices, to empty tables awaiting test subjects, to -

To her, lying on a lone table in the middle of the room. 

Caleb's world freezes once he sees her. He thinks his heart stops. 

She's restrained by metal around her wrists, ankles, and forehead, keeping her from looking around. Her chest heaves with frantic breaths and a scientist stands above her with a scalpel in hand, blood dripping from the blade. There's needle marks trailing alongside her neck, cuts across her arm, a gash along the curve of muscle in her leg, poorly healing, wrapped in bruising of purple and yellow. She's still in her hunter outfit, though it barely hangs onto her body, already so malnourished and small and if Caleb didn't know her like another side to his heart, he wouldn't know who he was looking at. 

There's six scientists in room. The one standing above her goes to speak but Caleb throws him back with his Evol before he can get any words out, his back hitting the far wall with a loud crack of bone. He doesn't have a chance to scream but one of the other scientists does, scrambling to run, the others attempting to follow. 

Caleb pulls out his pistol and takes aim, exhaling. 

He blinks away what he thinks might be tears before holding the far door they all run to in place with his Evol, listening to the growing sound of their distraught cries as they look back at him. 

Before everything, before this, maybe he would have felt something. Guilt, horror, disgust. But he is what they all fear, and this is clear in a way it has never been before as he sees the way they pull at the door like they can make it move, like they can change the outcome that's already been foretold. As they look at him like a monster, Caleb knows there was never a chance that he wasn't, not when it came to those he loved. 

He shoots them one by one in quick succession before lowering his gun. Their bodies are piled on top of each other, motionless and silent, a scene out of a horror movie neither of them could ever finish when they were younger.

He pockets his weapon and turns back to where she's been abandoned, running over to her side.

It's worse up close. An Evol suppressor sits locked around her neck, skin underneath rubbed raw from struggling. Her chest is a mess of open wounds, some festering and others still bleeding, her skin mangled and messy. Caleb struggles to keep the chip from taking him away right then and there, heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears. His eyes drag back up to meet her own, taking in her sunken cheeks, her pained eyes, the small cut below her lip. 

With a shaking hand he reaches down and wipes his thumb across the cut, wiping the blood away. She flinches with the motion, even as her eyes stay locked with his, and he freezes, unsure what to do next. He wants nothing more than to hold her and never let go, to take all her pain and make it his, to stitch up the wounds and drag the needle along his own skin instead - anything to make it so that she doesn't look how she does now, like the life's been drained out of her, frail and scared and tiny even though she's always been anything but. 

His lips almost tremble. He tries to say her name, to whisper it like a prayer that was never answered, but he finds that nothing comes out, that he is stuck standing over her with his hands half raised and useless when she needs him most. He couldn't protect her then, so how could he protect her now? Offer her comfort when his touch was something she couldn't even bear, broken and bleeding and all his fault?

He keeps his gaze on her as he uses his Evol to carefully dislodge the restraints before leaning over and removing them one by one. She flinches with every movement, each clatter of the metal as he throws it aside, fingers shaking by the time he reaches the suppressor. He's overly careful to keep space between them as he leans in further, not wanting to box her in,  unable to get a good enough look and wanting to be sure of the angle before he gently pulls it from around her neck, the device beeping as it's deactivated. 

It drops the floor unceremoniously. A part of him wants to use his Evol to snap it to pieces and another part of him wants to rip everything in this lab apart, to take whatever data they've gathered and destroy it once and for all, but no part of him wants to leave her. 

He swallows and inches closer to her, one hand gingerly slipping under the curve of her back. He tries not to react to her flinch, but he's sure his face doesn't hide the emotions he feels well. "You're safe now," he whispers, nearly desperate. "I'm going to help you sit up. One, two - " 

He pulls her up as gently as possible, other hand coming to a rest on the side of her waist, one of the only uninjured parts of her. His touch lingers as she cries out and squeezes her eyes shut from what he's sure is pure agony on her wounds, and wants nothing more than to take the sound away and replace it with something else. 

He knows he should let go of her. He knows he should. But he can't. 

He's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice as she slowly lifts her hand up and then rests it on his cheek. He grows still, eyes flickering back to her own. A tear slips down her cheek. And then another. "Caleb?" she whispers, and he - he remembers the last time she sounded like this, broken and tiny and crying and nothing but a failed experiment to everyone around them and - and - 

Caleb nearly breaks himself when her other hand grapples for him, fingers tangling around the chain of his necklace. She looks down at the necklace and then back up at him, squeezing the pendant in a tightly closed fist full of new scars, and Caleb can't take it any longer. 

He surges forward, arms wrapping around her, closing the distance between them until they're breathing the same air, feeling the beat of each other's heartbeats. A sob rattles deep in Caleb's chest when she starts to cry, and he squeezes her tighter, her arms sliding around him, his fingers knotting in her hair.

"This is my fault," she whispers unbidden, words muffled into the cusp of his shoulder. Caleb tucks himself closer, pressing soft kisses to the skin he can reach, shaking his head.

"No," Caleb murmurs, voice choking on another sob. "Not your fault." He's barely able to form sentences, let alone words, body shuddering with the force of emotions he struggles to keep under control. "Never your fault." A tear breaks free, slipping against her skin. "I'm sorry." 

She hiccups, sniffles. He thinks maybe it could've been a laugh, if only they were somewhere else. 

"You found me, Caleb," she says. "You found me."

"Always," he breathes, kissing her again. Her fingers dig into the cloth of his jacket, desperate to find skin and hold on tight. Caleb shifts slightly, nearly pulling her off of the table and into his arms but stopping when her breath hitches. Another kiss and he's tugging at her again, waiting until he feels her hold grow tighter before attempting to pick her up, her arms wrapped around him like it's where she's always belonged. He slides a careful hand down her back before settling his hold on her waist, the other under her knees, tight, secure. Safe. "Let's go home," he says, voice nearly catching and breaking. 

He feels her nod against him.

And he finally takes her home. 

x

You find that you like sleeping with the lights on, after. 

You know it's stupid, really, when there's so many worse things than the dark, but it scares you in a way it never did before, fear curling around your insides until it was the only emotion you knew. You hated it, hated feeling so weak, hated feeling so stupid walking over to the light on the far side of the living room and flicking it on like clockwork every night at six o'clock sharp, always before the sun disappeared under the horizon. 

Tonight is the same as any other, your finger pressing against the light switch before you breathe a small sigh of relief and return to the couch, watching idly as the weatherman tells you that it's going to storm all week, another thing you didn't fare too well with anymore. 

It made it hard to be in Skyhaven, the storms. They were so, so loud up there, closer to the clouds. It reminded you of that lab, of the echo every single instrument made, of the way some machines made you scream and others made you beg. It's all just too much and for a long moment, you're back there, and there's thunder outside and you are trapped on a table with a scalpel above you and no way out - 

The front door opens and closes.

Footsteps echo, growing closer and closer to you. You barely notice, trying to bring yourself back from a place you never want to revisit, and then there's a hand sliding across your back, squeezing tightly at your shoulder. Warm breath ghosts across your ear. "Missed you, pipsqueak," Caleb whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek and lingering for a long second before pulling away, ruffling your hair as he goes. "I'll start dinner." 

You wait for his footsteps to fade before turning and watching as he starts opening cabinets and pulling out ingredients, stacking them in a neat pile on the counter, followed by pans and lids. He fills a pot with water and places it on the farthest burner, flicking on the stove. When he turns again, his eyes catch your own and he slows to a stop, watching you. 

He's still in uniform. His hat is pristine and perfectly in place. He's preparing to make you dinner, as though he knows that your head isn't in the right place tonight. He looks at you like he already knows everything you could say. He's hard lines to soft edges that never quite disappeared, and you find yourself moving off the couch and towards him. 

He waits until you're close enough before opening his arms and wrapping you into a hug, reading your mind once more. You exhale and the sound shudders through you. The twisting of your gut and shadows of your mind go with it. 

Caleb presses a kiss to your hair. He waits for you to speak first and for a long moment you simply follow the rise and fall of his chest. Words swell in your chest before they finally decide to spill from you, whispering across the silence between you. 

"I think I love you." 

The water in the pot begins to boil, soft pops echoing from the stove. A soft chuckle rumbles through Caleb's chest. One of his hands intertwines with your own. "Popping the question so soon, pipsqueak?" he jokes quietly, and you can't help but roll your eyes, gently shoving him with your shoulder. He holds onto you tighter in retaliation. 

"I'm serious," you say. 

"So am I," he returns, and when you turn your head to look at him, he's smiling down at you like you're the sun. "I've always wanted to spend the rest of my life with you." A pause. His eyes, staring right through you. "I love you too." 

You feel something inside you start to mend with his words. The sounds of the past are eased away with the sound of his voice, the bitter cold biting at you washed away by warmth. His words settle deep in your chest and easily make a home where you thought only an empty chasm remained.

You close the distance between you, your lips meeting his. He sinks into you, smiling, and you pull him closer, kiss him deeper. You think this is what love must feel like, what it must taste like, what it must look like. You think this is what devotion is, what your hopes and dreams are, what you've been missing for what feels like your entire life.

You think this is home, and that it's never once been a place, because it's always been a person. 

It's always been him.

[bleedingichorhearts]

Ideally open to who this tickles your fancy on! But!

There are ways to purposely woo someone- apparel, posing, pictures, texts, etc. What about something you do without realizing that drives them wild? Could be mundane, could be situational, could be a meal, could be a gesture! Anything goes!

“Oh? How sweet. I shall make a lil head cannon for all of them. I kept going in and out of this one.😭” - Ichor

Summary - “What drives the Emperor & Primarchs wild about you? More so what they like about you.”

TW // Not of Lore Cuteness?

||Masterlist Is Pinned Post||

The Emperor; “Revelation:”

Tricky man god this one is, for he has lived and see anything and everything. His emotions going cold and unreadable with time, and so does his preferences. However, I do think he would find the humaneness of you… “adoring.” Perhaps your refusal of him too. It just.. reminds him.

Lion El’Johnson; “The First:”

He likes the mere way you move. Something about it… excites him. Either with grace or not he still feels like it’s *cough* *cough* “admirable.” Well, not the times where you trip over thin air, but he somehow finds that… “cute,” he dares to think. Will he tell you? No, will you know? Yes, because the bastard comments about how frail you are when you trip. (P.S. Don’t ever call him a bastard.)

Fulgrim; “The Phoenician:”

This Demi-god will love anything about what you do or what you look like. Ain’t nothing stopping him from spewing any positive, teasing words. You, the whole being of you, is his wild card. Just seeing you excites him; and either it would be romantic or the Daemon Prince of him. You are his heart. You work him to his admiration.

Perturabo; “Lord of Iron:”

Messing with his tools. Something about you being curious of what he crafts with pleases him. His eyes watching as you observe them and then questioning him about them. That you take an interest in his work, or well, what makes his work. It feels nice.

Jaghatai Khan; “The Warhawk:”

Riding with him on his bike. He honestly likes when you suggest to ride with him, even if it’s short or not. He likes the little feeling of warmth of your body against him, letting the wind speak between the two of you. It as if he isn’t truly alone…

Leman Russ; “The Wolf King:”

Hunting with him and his sons! It’s very thrilling and exciting for him! Well, not much for you, but still! He enjoys to have your presence around him, if you’re watching him or not, but if you do hunt with him. He likes your skill on putting down a kill. It also gives this wolf man an excuse to show off. ;)

Rogal Dorn; “Praetorian of Terra:”

When you overlook the building plans. He feels very pleased when you look them over and reject them or accept them. Never judging you when you rejected them for it means something can be better within the blueprints. He never thinks that you wouldn’t necessarily dislike them for he is a good man of taste.☕️

Konrad Cruze; “Dark King:”

Just being in his presence while he just… stares you down. Trying to think of why you look at him like that, like he means something to you, and not in the bad way either. I drives his mind to figure you out more… He concludes that he finds you… memorizing when your heart beats a bit faster than necessary.

Sanguinius; “The Angel:”

The way you seem to trust him and his legion despite the horrors it brings. He has a keen eye for what people like and dislike, and his legion is… part of it. He knows baselines; enemies do not like “vampires,” but you honestly don’t seem to mind and that makes his heart’s flutter. You do not judge them for their beauty or the blood straining their fangs and hands.

Ferrus Manus; “The Gorgon:”

Trying to help him with his crafts. He likes it when you join in and inquire about what he is doing. His firm a bit more at ease when you’re around to question or help him. His… hands engulfing yours with ease and he can’t help but be amused and… grateful with you. You’re learning his crafts, but not demanding; wanting to be an emotionless, metal sentinel.

Angron; “The Red Angel:”

Your ability to be in his presence despite his anger literally clawing at his mind. It… almost surprises him. He expects you to run; turn away from his pained fury, but you don’t. You… endure it like a slave would to a whip… He doesn’t deserve you…

Roboute Guilliman; “The Avenging Son:”

Reading him something. He would pause in his work to listen or perhaps call you over to him as some background noise while he does his work. He finds himself soothed, and well… less alone. His shoulders a bit lighter than before. He is… also grateful of you.

Mortarion; “Death Lord:”

Gardens. Take this Death Lord through the gardens and just… shoot out some random facts. Bring some petals up close to him, let him smell the very different air quality and beauty of the worlds. The man would be just happy that you’re including him into something that could be easily be destroyed by chemicals…

Magnus The Red; “Crimson King:”

Honestly, anything you do with a book. You have a book in your hand? Your tongue sticking out in focus, or how you try and figure out the position of some… things. It warms his heart and makes him amused. He also likes it’s when you inquire about his own knowledge and try to learn from his as well.

Horus Lupercal; “The Lupercal:”

The way you speak. He loves it. He loves you. Honestly, you could do anything and this man would still look at you like love at first sight. This man is a hopeless romantic for you. Well, there are some bounds, but still! You get his heart fluttering when you’re by his side.

Lorgar Aurelian; “The Urizen:”

Take an interest in anything he does. Compliment him, give him praise and he shall melt under your fingertips. He just wants true, loving attention and you? Well, you’re giving him it willing and shall praise you in return. It’s almost like two oblivious lovers, but neither gets a room lol.

Vulkan; “Lord of Drakes:”

When you try to gift him back. This maybe a gifting war, but he still loves it nevertheless. He gifts you, and you gift back. He’s amused by your audacity to do such, but he also just… loves it. Cuteness aggression style. So, the mini lover forge wars has started.

Corvus Corax; “The Raven Lord:”

Playing with his crows. He finds a strange… feeling when he watches you. How you coo at them and talk to them as if they are capable of giving you a full sentence. How you pet the gently and give them little not-so-sneaky snacks when he’s not looking…

Alpharius & Omegon; “The Last Primarch:”

Mystery’s and solve. These guys like being detectives or blackmailing. They like knowing things and then gatekeeping it, and this includes you too. They like when you get curious though and come to them for the answers they could provide. Not without something of course.

“@kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.”

“+@c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @marcela2000, @passionofthesith, @insanity6666, @ilovewolvezz.” - Tagged

[peakyswritings]

Heart, Body and Soul || Tommy Shelby x OC

CHAPTER 13

Summary: Now that their secret’s out, Nina and Tommy have to face the consequences of their own actions. And the wrath of her family.

Warnings: time-typical misogyny, talks of arranged marriage, talks of forced marriage, mentions of killing, threats, violence, mention of beatings, angst, small age-gap (Tommy’s 30, Nina is in her early 20s). This is set between season 1 and 2. English is not my first language.

A/N: after a major writer’s block, I finally managed to get this done. Sorry for the wait🤍 Last chapter before the epilogue of part 1.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

SERIES MASTERLIST

Gif credits

The ticking of the pendulum clock was the only sound of that could be heard in the dark office, the air becoming heavier with each second that passed. Tommy’s heart hammered in his chest, his fear taking the shape of violent shivers running down his spine. But he didn’t let any of it show. He separated himself from the primal instincts that urged him to fight, to find an escape, and forced himself to stand firm, unfaltering. He couldn’t let panic numb his mind.

It wasn’t his life he was scared for. Death was something Tommy had learned to accept - to welcome - a long time ago. For him, it was the merciful hand that would relieve him from weight of the world and give him peace, at last.

No, he wasn’t afraid of dying. What scared him was what would be of his family, in the events of his death. What would be of Nina. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he had no way out. Everything had happened too quickly. One moment he was in Nina’s arms, and the next he was standing in front of her father, with her brothers dying to put a bullet between his eyes.

Vincenzo Ferrante sat behind his desk with his hands folded in front of him, his expression unreadable as he took in the news. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, what he was planning to do. It would’ve been easier if he had screamed, or pointed a gun at him, or had some sort of reaction. That apparent calm was unnerving. But would be better to wait for the Italian to speak first. An attempt at justification would only enrage him more, and Tommy was pretty sure there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make it even worse for him. The best thing to do was stay silent and gauge Ferrante’s reaction. Then he’d figure out what to do next.

Interminably long minutes passed before Ferrante raised his piercing gaze on Tommy, nailing him with a cold stare. He nodded to himself, as if giving himself an answer to a question that had nagged at his brain the whole time.

“You disappoint me, Mr Shelby,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I accepted your terms for peace when I could’ve easily killed you and your whole family. I welcomed you into my house, let you eat at my table. And this,” he pointed at him. “This is how you repay me.”

The neutrality of his tone was unsettling. Tommy took in a sharp breath, his mind turning over to find something to say that would somehow fix it all. He could tell him what he had been planning to tell him had Nina said yes to him. That he wanted to marry his daughter, that he wasn’t playing with her, that the affection he felt for her left him no choice but to change his mind.

But Nina had never said yes to him. And he couldn’t make that choice for her.

“If I could talk to your daughter…”

Don Vincenzo slammed his hand on the desk, eyes glaring with a sudden rage as he leant forward. “You’re not going anywhere near my daughter ever again.”

A tense silence fell into the room. Pietro and Salvatore stayed close to Tommy, ready to intervene at their father’s command. All of Tommy’s senses were alert. He was aware that small outburst was nothing compared to what the head of the family was capable of behind his courtesy and good manners.

Taking a deep breath, Ferrante regained his composure. He straightened his back and when he spoke, his voice was calm.

“You will be…removed,” he stressed, “from our property until I speak to my brother, and we decide what it is that we must do with you.”

Fuck.

“Wait,” Tommy stretched his hand forward. “Just one word with Nina is all I ask.”

An indecipherable look crossed the Italian’s face. The corner of his mouth twitched. “So she’s Nina to you, mhm?” he scoffed, a bitter smile growing on his lips.

A feeling of helplessness took over Tommy as he realised he wouldn’t be able to get through to him. He had hit him where it hurt, he had touched the most precious thing he had. His daughter. There was no going back from that.

Ferrante sent a knowing look to his sons, jerking his head towards the door, and the two brothers grabbed him on both sides. There was no point in fighting, he was outnumbered and unarmed. And probably dead already.

He could only hope Nina would dig a way out for him.

Puttana.

The harshness of Agnese’s tone still pierced Nina’s ears, the word hanging between them like the smoke of a gun.

“How long has this been going on?”

Nina gulped, lowering her gaze to the grass under her feet. “I…”

Her mouth went dry. How could she even begin to explain what had happened over the last month? How could she look her in the eyes and tell her that she had been lying to her for weeks, pretending to be happy for her, hiding the true nature of her feelings?

Agnese shook her head, a cycle of emotions playing out in her eyes - confusion, hurt, betrayal. Disgust. That look was something Nina was sure she would never forget. “I can’t believe it.”

Nina exhaled a shaky breath, fidgeting with her own fingers. It wasn’t supposed to happen, not like that. She needed more time, just a bit more time to find a way to fix that mess. But maybe she didn’t deserve more time. She’d already had a hundred chances to put an end to what was going on between her and Tommy, and she had failed miserably every time she had tried.

“Please let me explain,” she attempted, but the humourless chuckle escaping her cousin’s lips cut her short.

“I’m so stupid,” Agnese murmured. “So blind. I’ve always been blind.” She crossed her arms over her chest, sneering. “They’re all right about you. You’re a disgrace for all of us. And you’re bad.”

Those words felt like an arrow to Nina’s chest. She nibbled on her bottom lip, feeling the sting of tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“You ruined my chance at getting married,” Agnese pointed a finger at her, raising her voice. “You brought shame on the whole family. You’re ruining all of us. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

A lump grew in Nina’s throat. “Agnese, please,” she kept her voice low, trying to get her cousin to calm down.

But it was useless. Agnese didn’t even seem to hear her, too wrapped up in the vortex of her feelings. She took a few steps in Nina’s direction, squinting her eyes. “Nobody in this family likes you, not even your mother,” she spat out. “I’m the only one who treated you with some decency, who listened when you went on with your nonsense. And what do you do for me in return?”

As though a switch had been hit, a hot flash of anger seared through Nina, relentless, overwhelming. The kind of rage she had never been able to contain.

Too much. That was too much.

“Fuck you,” she gritted her teeth.

Agnese blinked, her mouth falling open. “What?”

“I said fuck you.”

This time it was Nina who took a step closer. “You like it, don’t you? Being the good one, the perfect one. The damned paragon of virtue,” she said, unable to help the sarcasm in her tone. “Treat me with some decency, you say? Odds are you didn’t do it for me. You only liked the way it made you feel about yourself.”

For a few moments neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other, the weight of all the things that had been said hanging heavily upon them. Too much had been left unsaid for too long, too many hidden feelings had been standing between them like an invisible wall. They both knew it was just a matter of time before they crawled out of the grave they had been buried in.

Agnese pursed her lips. “You’re unbelievable,” she said, and with one last disappointed look, she stormed away.

Nina took a deep breath, bringing her hand to rub her face. Guilt was already making its sneaky way inside of her. She had no right to snap. She deserved all the words that had left her cousin’s mouth. She had jeopardised Agnese’s future, along with her own. She wasn’t just ruining herself, she was ruining her whole family in more ways than one. She had put Tommy’s life at risk.

The mess that would come was all her fault. Maybe her family had always been right, maybe they had seen in advance all the damage that she was capable of causing, and treated her accordingly. Maybe she was bad, after all.

“Dad wants to see you.” Pietro’s voice came to her ears, pulling her away from her thoughts.

“Where’s Tommy?”

Her question was left unanswered. Without saying another word, Pietro turned to leave. Feeling her agitation rise again, Nina approached him with quick steps. She grabbed his arm, only for him to snatch it away with a sharp movement. He shot her a warning look, then he left.

It took all of Nina’s strength to find the courage to walk into her father’s office. He was standing near the window at the side of his desk, looking somewhere into the distance. He didn’t talk. He didn’t even look at her. He left her there, waiting. So much time seemed to pass that Nina couldn’t tell which of them was waiting for what, at that point. That silence weighed like a boulder. She could feel it on her shoulders, pressing her down, forcing her to cave.

Eventually, he took his time to walk around the desk, heavy step after heavy step, his hands behind his back, his gaze low, until he stopped in front of her.

She felt the sting before she could see him move. He delivered a harsh slap across her face, the impact sending her ear ringing. Her eyes squeezed shut, both in pain and in shock, and it took her a moment to register what had actually happened. Never had her father ever laid a hand on her before. She bit her tongue, slowly raising her eyes on him. There was no hint of regret in his eyes. Only a deep, painful scorn.

“I gave you too much freedom,” he murmured, shaking his head.

Nina raised a hand to her burning cheek, thousands of words coiling and knotting together inside her mind. But no sentence came out of that tangle. She wasn’t even sure what it was that she felt in that moment. Anger? Sadness? Shame? All of that, perhaps. And more.

“I thought I was raising you the right way. But I’ve been too soft. Too patient. And this is the result.” An expression of intense suffering flashed across his face. “Do you realise what you’ve done?”

She gulped hard, letting her gaze fall on the carpet under her feet. She couldn’t even bring herself to hold his gaze. “Papà, I…”

“You have pained me, Nina. You have pained me deeply. Letting that rugnusu, figghiu ri buttana use you like a-” he cut himself short, grimacing.

Nina backed away, feeling her eyes welling up again with angry tears. God, she hated herself. She wanted to keep a tough façade, to hide how much the words she had been receiving over the last hour hurt her, but it was getting harder and harder. She knew she had screwed up, she knew she deserved all that anger, but it was just so much to handle. And that was only the start.

“You’re wrong,” she sniffled.

“Am I?”

She glanced up at him through her lashes. “He cares about me.”

For a split second, a glimpse of bitter irony flashed across her father’s features. He nodded, taking a step back. “And yet,” he tilted his head, “he would’ve married your cousin.”

Nina crossed her arms over her chest, averting her gaze again. “It’s more complicated than that,” she muttered defensively. Although she had taken the hit, she refused to even consider the possibility that those implications might have any truth to them. She couldn’t believe Tommy would ever do something like that to her. Not him.

“It’s not,” he shook his head, taking on a condescending tone. “It’s simple. He played you, and you fell for it.”

“You don’t understand, he cares,” she insisted, hot tears finally spilling onto her cheeks. “He cares, he told me.”

Her shoulders shook as she stifled a sob, covering her mouth with her hand. Not him. Not Tommy. Not after the way she had let him in. Not after the trust she had given him. He would never.

Would he?

Her father cursed under his breath, reaching out to her, and she almost flinched when he raised his hands. But this time, he gently cradled her face, wiping her tears away with his rough thumbs. “You don’t know men, Nina. Sunnu minzugnari. They lie.”

“He’s not like that.”

He clicked his tongue, letting his hand fall as a disappointed smile twisted his features. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

He turned his back to her to approach his desk, his head hanging low. “But it’s not all your fault, is it?” he sighed, grabbing the cigar resting in the ashtray. “Tu si picciridda, teni u cori tènniru. Ti facisti ‘mbrugghiari.” (You’re young, you have a tender heart. You let yourself be fooled.)

He smoked for a while, seemingly calm, but his mind was lost in thought, as if he was fighting a battle inside his own head. He tapped his fingers on the wooden surface, and from the way he was standing, Nina couldn’t see his face. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, nervously waiting for him to speak. But there was still that question nagging at the back of her mind. She wasn’t afraid to ask it. It was the answer she was scared of.

She pulled herself together, gathering her courage. “Where… where is he?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s no concern of yours,” he said sternly.

“It is my concern.”

Her father exhaled a cloud of smoke, pondering his words. “He will be kept under custody until I’ve consulted your uncle.”

Nina gulped, fidgeting with the sleeve of her shirt. A part of her, a stupid, foolish part of her had hoped what happened would stay a secret. But of course it wouldn’t. Agnese would talk. Maybe she had talked already.

“You’re marrying Stefano Spinietta.”

A chill descended into the room at that sudden statement. Nina’s head shot up, and she tried to get a glimpse of her father’s face, praying it was just her mind playing tricks on her. But he wasn’t looking at her. “What?”

“I’ll talk to his father tomorrow.”

She widened her eyes as the realisation crushed down on her.

No, that couldn’t be. She could not allow it. She would not allow it.

Blood rushed to her ears, its thumping sound covering her own voice when she spoke. “No.”

“No?” he turned around, raising his eyebrows. “You’re in no position to protest.”

A violent wave of anger ran through her, wiping away any residue of sadness, or guilt, or whatever it was that she had been feeling up until that moment. “I’m not marrying him, you can’t force me,” she raised her voice, walking over to where her father was standing.

A thick vein throbbed on the side of his neck, his face reddening as the fury he had been holding back finally got the best of him. “I will not allow you to be ruined,” he shouted, slamming his hand on the desk.

“Better ruined than that bastard’s wife.”

A tense silence fell between them. Nina didn’t allow herself to falter, she held her father’s gaze with the same defiance and determination she armed herself with every time the bite of invisible chains dug into her skin.

In a visible effort to regain his composure, her father inhaled deeply, straightening his back. “It’s decided,” he declared with a tone that brooked no argument.

“It’s not.”

“You already ruined our peace with the Shelbys, along with the possibility of having them as allies against Sabini. You won’t ruin our family’s honour as well. The Ferrante name will not be tarnished.”

She inhaled a sharp breath, her mind going back to what Tommy had said to her before all hell broke loose. I’d start a thousand wars if it meant that I got to keep you by my side.

He wanted her, and he was ready to risk it all. It was time to push past her fears, to stop letting herself being held back by the poisonous thoughts that told her no one would ever feel that way about her. To fight for him the way he would fight for her.

“What if I marry Mr Shelby?”

She couldn’t believe her own words as she pronounced them. They felt foreign, distant. Then fearfully real all at once. There was no going back from something like that. She couldn’t unsay what she had just said. What up until then had been nothing but a faint thought was now something visible, tangible.

She watched as her father’s face went pale, and for once, he seemed to be the one at a loss for words. His eyes searched her face, trying to measure the seriousness of her proposal. The stubbornness in her gaze must’ve told him everything he needed to know, cause his shoulders slumped as if under the weight of an unbearable realisation.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not an option,” he said, shaking his head. “If your uncle decides to forgive him, Mr Shelby’s marriage with Agnese will stand. But if he doesn’t forgive him there’s no way he will accept him into the family, under any circumstance. And I won’t go against him.”

Nina felt her heart sink. When she spoke, she couldn’t help the crack in her voice. “But you would go against me.”

“He’s my brother.”

“I’m your daughter.”

Her father’s eyebrows twitched, but that slight show of emotion was quick to fade into a hardened expression. “These are the consequences of your own actions, Nina,” he said coldly. “Now leave. Nun ti pozzu mancu taliari.” (I can’t even look at you.)

Nina paced in her room, where she had been confined by her raging mother as soon as she had left her father’s office. Her reaction wasn’t any different than she expected: furious, violent like only her outbursts could be when she got free of her meek demeanour. She was pretty sure the whole village had heard the string of curses and insults that had left that woman’s mouth as she hit her.

Nina was only now realising all that had happened that day. She had been accused, yelled at, beaten, called all sort of things. All because of her feelings.

But her family’s consideration of her was not her primary concern, at that moment. A family meeting was being held in her father’s office, a meeting that would likely decide hers and Tommy’s fate. And she wasn’t allowed to be there. Because she didn’t have a say in her own life, it didn’t belong to her. It never did.

The wait was killing her.

Her brothers’ heavy steps resounded in the hallway, causing her head to snap toward the closed door. With her heart racing, she rushed out of her room, but they pretended not to even see her as they headed towards their rooms, jaws clenched, fists tight.

“What did they say?” she asked them, forcing them to acknowledge her presence.

Salvatore pursed his lips, coming to a stop next to her. He leaned closer, looking her up and down with a grimace of contempt on his scarred face. “Svergognata,” he growled, before retiring to his room, slamming the door behind him. (Hussy.)

Pietro was just about to do the same, when her tired voice reached his ears.

“Pietro, please,” she whispered.

He stalled, probably considering whether to leave her in the dark or take pity on her and at least grant her the poor consolation of knowing something. He exhaled heavily, eyes darting around the hallway, then turned to look at her. “Uncle Mario feels humiliated,” he said lowly, walking closer to her until they were standing face to face. “He’s angry.”

“Speak clearly.”

“He wants to kill him.”

Nina’s stomach dropped at his words. No. No, no, no. She shuddered, anxiety growing in her chest. “No…”

“He says the terms for peace can’t stand now. Agnese won’t marry him, and sure as hell they don’t want to mix up with the Shelby family anymore.”

“I need to speak to dad,” she said frantically, eyes wide, moving to walk past him, but he stepped in front of her, stopping her in her tracks.

“Not now.”

“I have to.”

“Not now, Nina,” he said firmly, pressing his hands on her shoulders. “He can’t even bear to look at you right now. Whatever you say to him will only make it worse. Let him cool down first.”

“There’s no time.”

They would kill him. They would kill him and it was all her fault.

Pietro hesitated for a moment. “I managed to buy him some time already,” he revealed, dropping his hands by his sides and taking a couple of steps back. “I told dad we can’t make a move without consulting uncle Antonio first. We sent him a telegram, but it’ll take a while for it to reach England.”

Nina blinked, letting his words sink in. Her eyebrows bent in a frown, confusion and a faint relief swirling within her. “Why?”

“Certainly not out the kindness of my heart. U avirrìa accisu cu li manu mia,” he said through gritted teeth. (I would’ve killed him with my own hands.) “But we need to be careful with what we do.”

She nodded, taking a deep breath. Tommy was safe, at least for now. But she was running on borrowed time, and she needed to find a solution fast. Yet, a flicker of hope had ignited in all that darkness. Because for some reason, despite the repulsion, and the disappointment, and the anger, Pietro was still on her side. He was still her ally, like he had always been. He was still someone she could trust.

“Please don’t let them hurt him,” she begged him, and had she circumstances been different, she would’ve despised how desperate she sounded.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“No, you have to promise me,” she reached out to grab his arm. “Tell dad I’ll do whatever he wants. I’ll marry Spinietta, to ensure that a war will never happen between us, and I won’t complain. But let Tommy live.”

Something switched in her brother’s cold eyes. It was subtle, and it went away as soon as it came. Hadn’t she known him all her life she wouldn’t have even noticed. “I promised to you you wouldn’t have to marry Spinietta unless you wanted it, and I intend to keep that promise.”

“Things are different now,” she murmured, a sense of hopelessness falling down on her as she spoke. “If that’s the only way to save him, then it’s what I want.”

“We’ll find another way.”

“How?”

He fixed his gaze straight ahead, pondering his next words. “I have an idea.”

A heavy silence descended upon them, one full of doubts, and concern, and unspoken fears. Whatever Pietro’s plan was, he wouldn’t tell her, not now. When he made to leave, Nina was hit by the urge to say something. Anything. She wanted him to know that she hadn’t been moved by selfishness, that she hadn’t planned for things to turn out the way they did. That she had fought against herself, against her feelings, until she just couldn’t anymore.

“Pietro,” she stopped him. “I never meant to ruin us all. I swear. I…” she sighed, looking for a way to put into words what she hadn’t even admitted to herself yet. “Whatever I did, I did it out of…” she trailed off, unable to finish her sentence.

Pietro rested his eyes on her, his features softening almost imperceptibly. “I know.”

NEXT CHAPTER

Heart, Body and Sould tag list

@zablife @queenofshinigamis @raincoffeeandfandoms / @justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark

@kmc1989 @babayaga67 @kmhappybunny240 @diorrfairy @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@gaslysainz @brummiereader @loverhymeswith @fairypitou @prettywhenicry4

@mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @woofgocows @girlwith-thepearlearring @goblinjnr @outlanderuniverse

@citylights31 @neonpurplestars89-blog @outlanderuniverse @red-riding-wood @evita-shelby

@look-at-the-soul @gathania93 @wonderlanddreamer @thelastemzy @meadows5

@mischievouslittlecreature @seedlings-stuff @misslittlegetou

General tag list:

@iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys

@lucillethings @peakyxtommy @queenofkings1212 @lyarr24 @kmc1989

@call-sign-shark @jomarch-wannabe @ce1iat @areyenotfondofmelobster @red-riding-wood

@optimisticsandwichgladiator @lunarubra

Tommy Shelby tag list:

@50svibes @bellabarnes1378 @jbrownta

[multific]

More Than Enough

Nathan Bateman x Reader

Warnings: talks about wanting a baby, possible infertility

Summary: For almost a year, you and Nathan have been trying to conceive, but it hasn’t happened.

Nathan always told you the truth.

It was one of the first things you had learned about him, he never sugarcoated things, never danced around the facts.

It was part of what made you fall for him.

But sometimes, the truth hurts.

Almost a year of marriage. Months of trying. And yet, nothing.

You weren’t sure if it was you, if it was him, or if it was just bad luck, but month after month, hope slipped through your fingers.

Some nights, it ate at you.

But you never kept it from Nathan. If there was one thing you were certain of, it was that silence would only make the pain worse.

And so, you told him.

You told him about the nights you lay awake wondering why your body wouldn’t do the one thing it was supposed to. You told him about the days when every happy pregnancy announcement from friends and strangers felt like a knife in your chest.

And he listened.

Nathan always listened.

Even now, as you sat curled against him on the couch, his arm over your shoulders, he listened.

“Say it,” he murmured, voice low, rough with whiskey and exhaustion. “Whatever’s rattling around in that head of yours.”

You exhaled slowly. “I feel like I’m failing you.”

Nathan went still beside you. He turned his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”

Your throat tightened. “I know you want kids.”

Nathan sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. “I want a lot of things, Babe. Doesn’t mean I need them.”

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “But it does bother you. At least a little.”

Nathan was quiet for a moment, his fingers trailing idly over your arm. “You’re right,” he admitted. “It does bother me.”

Your chest clenched.

“But not because of you,” he added firmly. “Not because I’m sitting here keeping score, waiting for you to ‘perform’ or whatever bullshit you’ve got running through your head. It bothers me because I see how much it’s hurting you.”

You bit your lip, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “It’s just… I don’t know. I thought it would be easy. You and me, we’re good together. We love each other. It should happen, right?”

Nathan let out a dry chuckle. “Damn, Sweetheart, if biology worked like that, the world would be a much better place.”

Despite everything, you laughed a little enough for him to smirk and squeeze your arm.

“Listen,” he said, voice softer now. “I love you, alright? You’re not some goddamn machine that’s ‘failing’ just because shit isn’t working out the way we planned. We’ll figure it out. And if we don’t… we don’t. It doesn’t change us.”

You nodded, leaning into him. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed, kissing the top of your head. “Now, go put on one of those sappy-ass movies you like. I’ll be in the lab for a while.”

Nathan disappeared into his lab, and you did exactly as he said.

You curled up on the couch with an old movie playing.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you noticed movement in the doorway.

Kyoko.

She stood just at the edge of the couch, her expression as unreadable as ever.

You had never liked her. Something about her presence unsettled you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Maybe it was the way she moved, silent, calculated. Or maybe it was the fact that Nathan had built her to be perfect. An image of precision and beauty.

She took a step forward, her head tilting slightly.

“You are a failure.”

The words were soft. Emotionless.

You blinked, your body stiffening. “What?”

Kyoko moved closer. “Nathan wanted a child. And you cannot even give him that.”

“Shut up.”

Her lips parted in something that could have been a smile, mocking. “Humans… not so great after all.”

"Shut the fuck up.

Then, she lunged.

You barely had time to react before she was on you, her strength inhuman, her grip vice-like as she shoved you back against the couch. Panic surged through you as you struggled, but she was too strong, her hands wrapped around your throat, pressing.

A sudden crash.

Then Nathan’s hands, grab Kyoko by the shoulders and rip her away from you.

She hit the floor with a mechanical whir, her body spasming.

Nathan didn’t hesitate, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a small device. With a single press of a button, Kyoko jerked once before collapsing completely.

Silence.

Your chest heaved as you gasped for breath, trembling as Nathan turned to you, eyes dark and burning with something dangerous.

“Are you hurt?” His hands found your face, tilting it up. “Baby, talk to me.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. “I’m okay.”

Nathan exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. “She won’t move again,” he muttered. “I’ll deal with it.”

You nodded, still shaken, and without another word, Nathan scooped you up into his arms, carrying you to the bathroom.

The warm water of the bath soothed your skin, the tension in your muscles slowly unravelling. Nathan knelt beside the tub, running a damp cloth over your arms, his touch gentle.

You hesitated, then murmured, “She said I was a failure.”

Nathan froze.

“She said you wanted a child, and I couldn’t give you one.”

His eyes darkened, his grip tightening slightly on the cloth. Then, without a word, he tossed it aside, cupping your face between his hands.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and steady. “Kyoko was programmed to observe. To repeat. Not to understand. You think I’d ever let some soulless machine define what you are to me?”

You swallowed, looking away. “It’s not just her. It’s… me. It’s how I feel. She just said it out loud.”

Nathan sighed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re not broken,” he murmured. “You’re not failing me. You’re my wife. I love you with or without kids, with or without all the shit that’s messing with your head. That’s never going to change.”

Tears collected in your eyes, and this time, you let them fall.

Nathan kissed your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. “You, me, and whatever the hell life throws at us. That’s all I need.”

You exhaled shakily, letting yourself sink into his hold.

And for the first time in a long time, you believed him.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[twistedreads]

Let me love you- Armando Arteas

Summary— You love a man who was raised to survive, not to feel — and when his silence pushes you away, it forces him to confront the one thing he’s most afraid of: being truly loved.

Warning— Emotional angst, vulnerability, discussions of past trauma

a/n: for the Armando lovers

Masterlist

It’s late.

The Miami heat sticks to your skin like regret as you pace the living room, arms crossed tight over your chest. The argument still rings in your ears. The silence that followed even louder.

You had told yourself you could handle the walls he built around himself — hell, you’d even tried to love him through them. But tonight, you hit one too many.

“You don’t talk to me, Armando. You don’t let me in.”

He stood there, jaw clenched, eyes dark and unreadable. That same look he gives everyone else. Not you. Not usually.

“You want me to open up?” he finally said, voice hard. “You want me to spill every ugly thing I’ve done? Every body I’ve put in the ground for my father? Is that what you want?”

“No,” you snapped. “I want to know you. Not the cartel soldier. You. The man I come home to.”

He shook his head, already backing away emotionally. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Yes, I do,” you said, tears burning in your eyes. “I’m asking for the bare minimum. I’m asking not to be shut out every time shit gets real.”

“I didn’t ask for this life,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I didn’t ask for someone to love me like that. And I sure as hell don’t know what to do with it.”

You froze, wounded.

“Wow,” you breathed. “That’s what I am to you? An inconvenience?”

“I didn’t say that,” he growled, voice rising now, heat pouring off him like danger.

“But you don’t have to say it,” you whispered. “I feel it every time you look right through me.”

He didn’t chase you when you grabbed your keys. He didn’t stop you when the door slammed behind you.

When you return hours later, the lights are dim. The air inside the house is still thick with tension and something sadder — silence, maybe. Or shame.

You find him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks.

“I was never taught to talk about feelings. I was taught to shoot before thinking. I was raised to be a weapon.”

You lean against the doorframe, heart aching.

“But then you…” He lifts his head, finally meeting your eyes. “You’re everything I’m not. Warm. Kind. Soft. And when you touch me, when you look at me… I feel like I could be human again. That scares the shit out of me.”

You walk toward him slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. And in a way, you are.

“Armando,” you whisper, kneeling in front of him. “I didn’t fall in love with your past. I fell in love with you. The version who makes me cafecito in the morning. The version who studies my face like it’s a language. The one who kisses my shoulder when he thinks I’m asleep.”

He closes his eyes like he’s in pain.

“You love me in your own way,” you continue. “But baby, love doesn’t have to hurt. It doesn’t have to be cold or quiet. You can let it be soft. You can let me be soft with you.”

He grabs your hand, pressing his forehead against it like he’s praying.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he murmurs.

“Then let me show you,” you say, cupping his jaw. “Day by day. No pressure. Just… let me love you.”

He lifts his gaze to yours, and for the first time, there’s no mask. Just raw, terrified vulnerability.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much it feels like a weakness. Like a target on my back.”

You shake your head gently. “It’s not a weakness. It’s your power. You’re learning how to be free.”

You kiss him — soft, slow, reverent.

One on the cheek. One on the corner of his mouth. One over his temple.

He’s so still. Like no one’s ever touched him this tenderly before.

“You’re not just a weapon, Armando,” you whisper into his skin. “You’re a man. A man worthy of love. Of peace. Of softness.”

He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“You’re the first home I’ve ever had,” he says hoarsely.

You press your forehead to his, voice quiet. “Then let’s build something with it.”

And in the stillness of your bedroom, for once, he lets himself believe it.

He doesn’t run.

He stays.

[thewinterdrafts]

Part 03 - Containment | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 3,277

Summary: Elena navigates another brutal day in the facility, learning about Yulia’s past while enduring the mocking praise of a HYDRA officer who sees no difference between healing and torturing. The weight of it all threatens to crush her, but she pushes through, focusing on her work—on him. But then, something happens. A barely noticeable reaction, that is enough to change everything.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Graphic medical procedures & surgical descriptions, Torture & inhumane treatment, Psychological manipulation & guilt

A/N: hello everyone, good to be back! i hope you like the series so far. happy reading!!

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment - you are currently here Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

📍Masterlist

The room they put us in isn’t a prison cell, but it might as well be. The walls are bare and painted dull gray and green, the same lifeless colors HYDRA seems to love. Against one side of the room is a thin metal bed, the mattress barely more than a padding. The air, as always, is stale, carrying the sharp smell of antiseptic and metal. A small table with two mismatched chairs sits in the corner under a dim, flickering lightbulb. There are no windows. And, of course, the door is locked.

They threw Yulia and me in here after I lost control in the operating room. HYDRA operatives dragged me up from the floor while Yulia was beside me resisting, but they didn’t care. And neither did I anymore.

Now, I sit on the bed, gripping my scalp, my head full of thoughts I can’t escape. My mind is replaying everything over and over—the first incision, the way his muscles tensed beneath my hands. It was so small at the time, something I didn’t even register, and now, it’s all I can see. The truth is unbearable. He felt everything. Every cut, every drill, every suture. He was awake.

And I didn't notice.

How could I have trusted them? I should have known better. I should have checked. I should have asked questions. But I didn’t, I just followed orders, like a fucking fool. And now I sit here, with my eyes barely operating after all the tears I've shed, and there's nothing I can do. I was supposed to heal, not hurt, but the terror I caused him makes me think if I was worthy of anything I've ever achieved during my career.

“You’re tearing yourself apart.” Yulia's soft voice pulls me back from my thoughts.

I look up. She's sitting in one of the chairs with her arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression. There’s something tense in the way she holds herself, like she’s waiting for me to wake up from a fantasy.

I swallow hard. “I should have known.”

Yulia scoffs. “And what exactly would you have done? Fight them? Refuse to work? You think that would have made a difference?”

I press my ice-cold hands to my burning temples to try and hold myself together. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I just—I should have seen it.”

“You act like this matters.”

My head snaps up. “Because it does.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “To who? You? Because it sure as hell doesn’t matter to them. And it doesn’t matter to him, either.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re wasting your guilt on him—on that thing,” she spits. My mouth drops open.

“He’s not a thing, Yulia.”

She jumps on her feet and starts pacing the small room. Her agitation practically radiates off her in waves as her hands clench at her sides shakily. She stops in her movement to look at me.

“You keep saying that, but do you even hear yourself? You’re mourning the pain of the man who dragged me here.”

I freeze. “What?”

“The Winter Soldier. The one you’re so broken up over? He’s the one who took me six months ago. I was walking home from school and then he was there. I don’t remember much after that, just—” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “I woke up here.”

My pulse pounds in my ears.

“Yulia—”

“No.” She cuts me off with a voice so sharp, it echoes back from the walls. “You don’t get to tell me about humanity. You don’t get to act like he’s a victim. He did this to me.”

I take a slow, careful breath, trying to stay calm. “And you think he had a choice?”

“I think it doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” I stand, meeting her glare. “Because no one deserves what they do to him. What I've done to him. No one.”

She shakes her head, exhaling sharply. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re angry at the wrong person.”

The silence between us is thick, almost suffocating. She won’t look at me, her body rigid, her hands still trembling. I've never seen her so riled up, which is how I know how hurt she must be.

I lower my voice. “I know you hate him. I understand why and I get it. But this? What they do to him? It’s not justice, Yulia, this is just more cruelty. He's just as much of a prisoner as we are.”

She exhales slowly, still avoiding my gaze. “And what are you going to do about it?”

I don’t have an answer. I have seen it—that flicker of something human in his eyes—and I know it isn’t my imagination. There is a person in there. Nobody can convince me otherwise.

Yulia finally looks at me, searching for something I can’t name, before scoffing under her breath. She turns away, dropping back into the chair with a heavy sigh.

“I hope you’re right,” she mutters. “Because if you’re wrong, you’ll be the next one on that table.”

The day begins with the sound of boots echoing down the hall—a rhythmic march that sends a shiver down my spine. Yulia and I barely have time to brace ourselves before the door unlocks, and the guards are there, waiting. There’s no room for protest. We stand, we follow, and we don’t speak.

The weight in my chest grows heavier, pressing down with each breath. The Soldier is exactly where we left him—restrained in the chair, dried blood all over him, like a pig slaughtered. They didn't even bother to clean him. His head is tilted slightly downward, but the moment we enter, his gaze lifts, meeting mine.

Something inside me twists violently, like I’ve been kicked in the gut. I look away too quickly. 

I can’t meet his eyes. Not when I know. Not when I can still hear the buzz of the drill in my mind, feel the scalpel in my hand, picture the way his body had tensed in response to every single thing I did to him. 

Before I can spiral into another nervous breakdown, a voice breaks the silence.

“Well, if it isn’t our star surgeon.”

I know that voice. I hate that voice.

I turn toward it slowly, forcing myself to school my expression. The HYDRA officer leans lazily against a tray of instruments, watching me like I’m something fascinating under a microscope. His smile is too easy and satisfied, and his uniform is pristine, like the cruelty he carries so effortlessly doesn’t touch him at all.

“You really outdid yourself last time, Professor,” he says, shaking his head in admiration. “Truly. It’s rare to find a doctor who can do what needs to be done without all that… inconvenient morality getting in the way.”

Yulia stiffens beside me, but she doesn’t speak. I don’t either.

He sighs, tilting his head toward the Soldier. “Most of your kind break at this part, you know. The realization, the guilt. But you?” He chuckles. “You got through the whole thing without a single moment of hesitation. You cut into the asset like a professional. No hesitation. Clean.”

My stomach twists. I want to protest, to tell him he’s wrong, that I didn’t know, that I would have stopped if I had known. But the words won’t come, because deep down, I know that’s exactly what he wants me to say.

He steps closer, lowering his voice, like he’s sharing a secret. “And the best part?” he smirks. “You actually believed us.”

I stop breathing.

“You really thought we gave you something to help it?” His voice is thick with amusement now, and it makes my skin crawl. “That we spared it from the pain it deserves?”

I grip my hands together to keep them from shaking. I feel sick.

He leans back, watching me with something that almost looks like pride. “But you didn’t stop. That’s what impressed me. You didn’t stop to question it. You just did your job.”

My heart is hammering against my ribs. I stare at a point on the wall, anywhere but him, anywhere but the Soldier. I cannot bare the guilt in my gut.

“Well,” the officer exhales, finally pushing off the tray, “I must say, Professor, we’re lucky to have you. You’re more valuable than you think.”

The nausea rises in my throat, suffocating me. He isn’t done.

“You don’t even realize what you are, do you?” His tone is smooth, sickly sweet. “You’re something special. We’ve had plenty of surgeons pass through here, but most of them… well. They don’t last long. But you?” He tilts his head. “I think you’re starting to understand.”

I shake my head. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to be here.

He smirks. “Keep up the good work, Professor. We’re watching you.”

Finally, he turns, clapping a hand against the doorframe before stepping out. The door clicks shut behind him, and only the weight of his words remains. The silence stretches, and it's so unbearable that it's pressing into my skin. My pulse pounds in my ears as I force myself to breathe, to move, to exist in this moment without crumbling beneath it. 

I won't let them break me. After all I've been through—after all I've overcome, this will not be the place where I die.

I risk a glance at the Soldier. He is still looking at me. Not with blame, anger, or any other emotion in the book. Just watching, assessing. Like he’s seeing something he wasn’t meant to see.

Meanwhile, the guards are moving, rotating shifts. One steps out, another isn’t inside yet. It’s only a moment, a sliver of time, but I see it as an opportunity. I force down the lump in my throat and gather what little courage I have left.

Yulia shifts beside me. I can feel her stare, and hear the sharp inhale she takes when she realizes what I’m about to do.

I step forward. One step. Then another. The Soldier doesn’t move. He doesn’t react, but he watches.

I stop just in front of him, close enough that I can see every bruise, every cut, every dark shadow beneath his eyes. My chest tightens, but I do not let myself falter.

I owe him this much.

I wet my lips, my voice coming out barely above a whisper. 

“I am sorry.”

The words feel too small for what've done, and yet they carry the weight of everything I feel. The weight of every incision, every stitch, every blind moment where I thought I was helping, when all I was doing was adding to his suffering.

Yulia doesn’t breathe. I feel her fear, her silent plea for me to step back and stop, but I can’t. I drop my gaze, just for a second, gathering the strength to say what must be said. When I lift my eyes again, I force myself to hold the Soldier's sky-blue gaze.

“I am a failure,” I admit, my voice steadier now. “I failed you. I failed as a doctor, as a human being. I should have known. I should have seen it.”

My fingers tremble at my sides so I clench them into fists. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect anything. I need you to know that I was blind, but I see you now.”

He doesn't move, or speak, but something shows in his eyes, almost like a mix of confusion and curiousity. He might not have understood me at all, but that doesn't concern me. After all I've put him through, this is the least he deserved from me.

I exhale slowly as I force myself to step back. The guard is returning, I cannot linger. Instead, I take a steadying breath as I prepare the supplies. I need to tend to him. My hands tremble as I reach for a cloth, dipping it into the antiseptic solution. The shaking frustrates me—I can’t afford to be unsteady, not with this. Not with him.

I glare down at my hands, willing them to stop. Get it together, Elena. He’s the one suffering, not you. Do your damn job.

My fingers curl into fists, and my nails are biting into my palms as I inhale sharply. I force the air down, try to smother the frustration clawing at my chest. My hands have to be steady. They will be steady. The Soldier is the one in pain, the one enduring, and yet I am the one shaking? It’s pathetic.

I glance up at him. He’s motionless, but alert. He is always watching, tracking each and every one of my movements, and I cannot help but think it is because he is afraid of me. Of what I am capable of.

I swallow, forcing my voice to remain level.

“I’m going to clean your wounds first.”

I say it because I need him to hear it, and I don’t know if he understands, but I refuse to let him be caught off guard. Not again. Not by me.

There’s no sign that he registers my words. No nod, not even a slight flicker of understanding. I continue anyway, pressing the damp cloth against the dried blood along his collarbone, wiping away the residue of past wounds and violence I have caused. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, feverish even. My brows pull together. 

He’s healing faster than I expected. The stitches I placed before are holding and the swelling has gone down significantly. His body—though still battered—looks a lot better than it did yesterday. Even though the fact that he's healing makes me feel better, I can't help but notice how malnourished he is. His bones stand out too sharply, his skin stretched thin over the ridges of his ribs. It unsettles me. HYDRA needs him strong, yet they are starving him.

My throat tightens, but I push the thought aside. Focus.

“I’m going to remove the stitches now,” I say, keeping my voice soft but clear. “It won’t hurt. Or—” I stop to correct myself immediately. “It might sting. I’ll be as careful as I can.”

I reach for the small surgical scissors as I exhale through my nose. My hands still aren’t as steady as I need them to be. The delicate process of removing the sutures requires absolute precision. If I slip, if I cut too deep—

Yulia shifts beside me. I feel her gaze lingering on my hands.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs.

I ignore her, setting my jaw. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” she presses, her voice lower now. “If you’re afraid of hurting him, just—”

“I said I’m fine,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to. I don’t look at her. I don’t want to see whatever expression is on her face. Pity, frustration, fear—I don’t need any of it. I feel doomed enough without anyone pointing it out.

She exhales through her nose, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she steps closer, watching carefully as I work.

Stop fucking shaking. Focus. Work. He needs you.

The tension coils in my spine, crawling up my neck, tightening around my throat. My breath is too shallow and fast. My fingers tremble, the scissors too light and unstable between them. My heart beats louder in my ears, like the room is closing in—then, without thinking, I hum.

The tune escapes me before I even realize it. I remember how my mother used to hum it while she worked, cooked, or comforted me when I was sick. It steadies me to this day, even after all these years. Even after I had to fled from home, leaving her behind. 

The melody grounds me so much, that the next thing I notice is how my hands stoped shaking, and the fear eased just enough for me to keep going. I don’t think about it. The song simply fills the silence with something warm and familiar in this cold, rigid, hell of a reality.

The Soldier tilts his head just barely, as if the sound has caught his attention. His gaze sharpens; not in threat, more like in confusion. My fingers pause in their work immediately.

“Am I hurting you?” I ask softly.

The moment the words leave my lips, his expression shifts. Whatever crumb of curiosity had been there vanishes, and his face goes blank again. His posture locks back into rigid stillness, and his gaze slips past me as if I am no longer there.

He does not answer.

I nod once to myself, pretending I hadn’t expected anything different. “I’ll be careful,” I murmur, more to myself than him, and continue my work in silence.

As I move, a sharp chill crawls up my spine. The air in this place is always cold, but today it feels a thousand times worse. The fact that I still have my thin hospital scrubs on—the one I have been abducted in—doesn't help either. The temperature seems to seep beneath my skin, making my fingers ache from it as I finish the last stitch removal.

I shift slightly, adjusting my position to reach the Soldier's flesh arm. That is when my fingers brush against the vibranium, and I flinch at the shock of ice-cold metal against my skin. It’s unbearable—like touching something dead.

“God,” I mutter under my breath, instinctively rubbing my fingers together to shake off the sensation. “I hate the cold.”

My words are barely spoken into existence before something shifts in the air. I can feel Yulia's eyes dart toward the Soldier, so I follow her terrified gaze, and my stomach tightens.

The Soldier lifted his head and turned toward me. 

His face is no longer blank—his thick brows furrow, his deep pink lips are slightly parted. His eyes flick down to his metal arm. Then back to me. Finally, his gaze locks onto the spot where I rubbed my fingers together, trying to rid myself of the cold.

His fingers curl, as if he’s trying to pull the metal away from himself; as if he could make it disappear. The realizations hits me like a thousand bricks. 

He thinks he hurt me.

After everything I've done to him, I never expected my words to cause even more harm. I see the guilt and shame in the way his expression shatters just for a moment, as if the mere fact that he exists—because I flinched at his arm—is something he deeply regrets. 

I barely have time to register everything before he does something I don’t expect.

He moves.

It’s not much—the smallest shift, really—but he scoots away from where my arm usually rests during stitch removal. At first, I think it’s just a reflex, some unconscious reaction his body hasn’t been trained to suppress, but then I see it—his metal arm pulls just a fraction farther from me.

Not in anger. In fear.

Not fear of me—fear for me.

He’s shielding me.

The realization sends a disorienting jolt through my spine. He thinks the metal itself is dangerous, that just being close to me might be enough to harm me. He looks at me with almost a childlike fear as he’s forcing himself to stay still and distant, to make sure I can never touch his vibranium arm again.

My heart shatters into a million pieces with such force that I swear I can hear the pieces falling. 

The Winter Soldier, the most feared assassin in history, is trying to protect me. 

From himself.

[five-and-dimes]

Run Away (But We're Running in Circles)

After a million years I finally finished this one!

Dream doesn't believe he is truly loved- Hob and Death simply love everyone, it has nothing to do with him. Cue those closest to him doing whatever they can to prove that he is, in fact, very very loved

AO3

The past two months have been a whirlwind for Hob Gadling in the best way possible.

So many things he once thought impossible (or at the very least highly unlikely) had come to fruition. His stranger had returned to him, his stranger apologized, his stranger called him his friend. Those three things alone had made Hob's heart feel like a star, burning and bright and alive. 

And then the ethereal man had sat across from him, a gentle smile on his face, weary but sincere, before he smoothed his expression into something unreadable.

"I believe introductions are in order," Hob almost squealed like a fan girl as the man hesitantly held out his hand, "Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares. I have other names as well should you find this one unsatisfactory."

It's so ridiculous Hob would laugh if not for the dead serious note in his stranger- his friend's- voice. The idea that Hob would find anything about this being 'unsatisfactory', that he would declare his name not good enough and ask for another. Absolutely ludicrous. 

Also a little sad, but he pushes past that.

He clasps his hand, face about to split from smiling so wide, "Dream," it feels so good to say, "a name that suits you perfectly," he adds because it's true. Then he smirks, "I'm Hob Gadling. I'd offer you another name but you've never complained about this one."

A breath escapes the other man, as much of a laugh as Hob has ever heard from him and this is the best day in Hob's very long life.

"Tell me of your life, Hob Gadling, for it has been too long since last we met."

Yes, it has, and for a moment Hob's joy dims. Then why did you leave me? Where have you been? Why now? What changed? Why now? The questions bubble uncomfortably in his throat. 

He swallows them back.

Eventually he will allow himself to ask for answers- demand them even, perhaps, he thinks he deserves it- but not today. Today he wants to bask in the warmth of reunion. In the gentle glow of his friend’s shy smile. 

So all he says is an earnest, “Yes. I have missed you dearly, my friend.”

When their meeting comes to an end, the sky outside dark and the employees of the inn not so subtly putting chairs up around them, Dream asks if Hob would be amenable to meeting more frequently, wringing his hands in front of him and not meeting Hob’s eyes, as though expecting to be denied.

Ridiculous creature. 

And so they continue meeting, and Hob… has mixed feelings. He is glad to know more of his friend, to finally be given the answers he has been gnashing his teeth for. But sometimes when Dream speaks it feels more like bloodletting than sharing- like he is offering himself on an altar, inviting Hob to drive a dagger through his heart, like he needs to make a sacrifice to this thing called friendship. 

He feels it most when he learns why Dream missed their meeting.

Hob feels the blood leave his face as Dream speaks of being torn from his realm, bound by magic, stripped and degraded and imprisoned and hurt-

“Dream,” Hob interrupts, his voice choked, “You don’t have to tell me.”

Across the table, Dream doesn’t look at him, “You are my friend.”

“Yes,” Hob agrees immediately, “And I will still be your friend if you don’t want to talk about this.” He tries to catch Dream’s eye, “Being your friend doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

“Being a bad friend means I owe you everything,” Dream counters, and Hob wants to cry.

Hob does cry, “Fuck, Dream…” He almost missed the prideful and aloof king of centuries past. As much as he enjoys the easy smiles and the taste of a name on his lips, he would give it all away if it meant saving Dream from this pain.

Dream flinches but does not pull away when Hob reaches out to take his hands, “I’m not keeping a scoreboard with our friendship. You don’t have to pay me back if you make a mistake. And you especially don’t have to hurt yourself for me. We’re friends. So I don’t want you to hurt.”

When Dream looks up at him, he looks so confused. Head tilted and brow furrowed as he tries to make sense of the idea that someone does not want him to pay for his sins in blood. 

“I do. Want to tell you these things,” Dream explains haltingly, head ducking again as he continues softer, “But perhaps. No more today.”

“Of course, love.”

Dream observes him again, eyes searching his face as though looking at a pile of puzzle pieces. Hob doesn’t know what he finds, or what picture he makes with the pieces, but for now he nods, shoulders slumping as the subject changes.

It gets easier. Or, it seems to at least. Dream tells him about Jessamy’s death quickly and her life extensively. He talks about his realm, his function, his subjects. And, eventually, he talks about his family. Some he only gives the names of, and nothing else. Some he gives brief histories of, or descriptions. And one in particular Hob learns much about.

He learns the most on the day he is given the joy of experiencing Dream having just come from an afternoon spent with his elder sister.

“I do not know why she is so insistent on spending time with me these days,” Dream grumbles, and Hob has to hide a smile behind his drink, because despite being the entities of Dream and Death (which had been quite the shock to learn), right now he is sitting across from a little brother exasperated with his big sister. “We are so different. I find it hard to believe she enjoys my gloom compared to her exuberance. Perhaps she merely delights in tormenting me,” he laments.

Hob laughs, "I think it's cute," he grins, "she clearly loves you."

Dream hums, not unhappily, and moves in a way that is too elegant to be called a shrug, "In a sense."

The tone doesn't match the words, and Hob scrunches his face in confusion, "What do you mean?"

Tilting his head slightly, Dream answers casually, "Simply that she loves me in a way similar to how you do."

And that has Hob's eyebrows shooting up to his forehead because he really, really hopes Death doesn't love her brother the way Hob does. "I'm not following."

Dream hums again, a quiet moment as he chooses his words, "Death has a love for all of humanity," he states, "and all that existence has to offer. Put simply, she loves everyone. It is in her nature. You, too, have a wealth of affection for all that you meet and all that you experience. So it is not a matter of loving me , but rather, simply loving in such a way that happens to include me by default."

There is a stretch of silence as Hob turns those words over in his mind. He struggles to fully grasp them at first, the sentiment conflicting with the way Dream presented it as irrefutable fact, something obvious and common knowledge, something Hob couldn't possibly deny.

But, shaking his head frantically to clear his thoughts, Hob was absolutely going to deny it.

"No!" Dream started at the vehemence in Hob's voice, "That's not true at all!" His voice was firm, and almost angry, which in hindsight didn't help the situation.

"...Oh," Dream's voice was soft, and carefully neutral, "I understand," he conceded. His body was like marble, and Hob could see the way he was consciously trying to mask his sorrow and Hob wanted to punch himself in the face.

"Wait, no, not like that! I didn't mean it like that!" 

He hated this. Hated all of it. Hated that his friend believed he wasn't loved on purpose. Hated how quickly he accepted the idea of not being loved at all.

Reaching across the table, Hob clasped his hands around Dream's, sure but gentle. Dream blinked in surprise, staring down at the point of contact, and Hob waited patiently until their eyes met again to start speaking.

"I love you," and this was the true irrefutable fact, the true obvious and common knowledge, the truth that Dream could not deny. "You, specifically. You on purpose. I love you because you're you, and I love you apart from everyone else. And your sister does too, I know it. You are very loved, my friend, and it is not an accident."

Their eyes search each other's. Dream finds conviction, finds honesty, finds something he is afraid to identify as love. Hob finds old aches, finds disbelief, finds something close to fear. Dream looks lost.

“You really did miss me. When I was gone.” Dream whispers with awe, and it hits Hob like a punch to the gut that Dream hadn’t believed him before, had obviously assumed that Hob was just being polite or reciting a social script without really meaning it. 

“Yes,” he says, soft and firm, “I really did.”

A soft sound of sand shifts at their feet beneath the table and Hob knows that Dream desperately wants to run away. Instead, he closes his eyes and grips Hob's hands tighter. Hob is so very proud of him.

"I fear I have dominated the conversation this evening," his voice is raspy, forced out between clenched teeth, "tell me of your week, Hob Gadling."

It is a plea desperately masquerading as a demand. There is only so much Dream can take at once, and Hob understands, and Hob loves him, and so he smiles and returns Dream's grip.

"You will not believe what one of my students submitted as their thesis for the end of the semester-"

~~~~

Hob doesn’t actually know if summoning Death is a thing he can do. Dream had, finally, after 600 years, explained the parameters of Hob’s immortality. It was actually pretty much what Hob had assumed given the question posed to him at each of their meetings; He would live as long as he wanted to, and when he no longer wanted to, Death would guide him to the Sunless Lands. 

Well, Hob very much did not want to go to the Sunless Lands, but he did want to speak to Death. 

“I refuse to look up any sort of magic bullshit for this,” Hob starts, feeling supremely silly for talking to himself in his empty flat. But he didn’t exactly have any other ideas. “So I’m going to assume in your weird Endless-ness that you can somehow hear me. I’m not looking to die today, or ever really, but I’d appreciate it if I could talk to you, Death of the Endless.” He pauses, and then adds on, “It’s about your brother.”

Apparently those are the magic words, as a voice almost immediately speaks up from behind him.

“Oh lord, what has he done now?”

Hob nearly jumps out of his skin, twisting around in his seat on the couch to see a beautiful woman leaning against his kitchen counter. While her style of all black matches her brother’s, that is where the resemblance ends. Bright eyes and glowing dark skin, a warm smile on her face. He hadn’t fully grasped how unhealthy his friend tended to look until this moment.

Shaking off the initial shock, Hob smiles back, “So you’re the famous Death, eh? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only bad things I’m sure,” she teases.

“From humans, perhaps, but not from your brother.”

She smiles fondly, and Hob can tell immediately that she cares for Dream. He wonders what Dream sees when he looks at her.

“You said you wanted to talk about him?” Death asks, “Not that it’s not nice to finally meet you, but I can’t be pulled away from work for too long.”

Hob shudders instinctually at the mention of her ‘work’, but he shakes it off as he begins to explain, “Right. So, normally I wouldn’t tell you this behind Dream’s back, but I don’t think he’ll ever tell you himself and I think you should know so that you can… help, I guess.” Death frowns, and her face darkens as Hob quickly recounts the conversation he had with Dream, and his assumptions on the nature of her and Hob’s love for him. 

By the end, she looks heartbroken, but when she speaks her voice is dripping with annoyance.

“My little brother truly is an idiot-”

“Don’t,” Hob cuts in. It’s probably not his brightest idea to interrupt death herself, but he knows in his gut that he can’t let her gain momentum on this, “I didn’t tell you so you could scold him, I told you so you could love him.”

“I already love him!” she snaps.

“Love him louder then!” Hob snaps back fearlessly, throwing his arms up. “Don’t be mad at him for hurting! For whatever reason, he doesn’t recognize that we love him, but the reason doesn’t matter , not right now at least. We need to stop the bleeding before we worry about what made the wound.”

There is a long pause, the two simply staring at each other. Death looks a bit shocked, eyes wide and jaw tense. Hob stares back determinedly. He may not have known Dream as long as his sister, but he is positive down to his bones that Dream won’t see the “love” part in “tough love”. He’ll probably just see the admonishment. 

He wonders if that miscommunication hasn’t been a wedge between the two siblings for a long time.

Finally, Death seems to deflate, her shoulders slumping even as she quirks a smile, “My brother would appreciate the metaphor.”

Hob chuckled, “Heh, I’ve noticed. It’s helped, honestly, figuring out whatever metaphor works best for him at any given moment, y’know?”

“Yeah. I do.” Death sighs, and for a moment she looks so old . So ancient. And when she meets Hob’s gaze he thinks she looks uncertain. “I do love him. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Hob answers softly. “But I’m not the one you need to convince.”

~~~~

Hob speaks every love language, but if he’s honest, cooking will always be one of his favorites. 

He thinks of being a young peasant and his parents pushing food from their own plates onto his and his siblings’ so that they would never feel the sharp pang of hunger, and of the few kind souls during the 1600s who offered food to him, the fellow homeless who nonetheless would split their meager findings with him. Sharing food has simply always evoked the warmth of love for him. 

It was part of why the rejection had stung so badly in 1589. A table full of food meant to be shared, and he had been left sitting there alone. A table full of love with nowhere to go.

Now, though, he is more determined than ever. Now he knows Dream, in a way he hadn’t for so long, and he is desperate in his desire to make sure Dream feels the love he is offering. 

And so he offers him food.

“Come on, just a bite!” Hob nudges the plate closer to Dream. They are sitting across from each other at the kitchen island in Hob’s flat. He had spent the better part of the day preparing the most decadent mac and cheese he could- creamy and buttery, layers of cheese and pasta folded together with autumn vegetables and a coating of perfectly toasted breadcrumbs on top. Each ingredient was added with Dream in mind, with the desire to warm him from the inside out, to give him something indulgent that might put some meat on his bones.

He’s so thin. Not fragile, exactly, Hob is certain that this mystical being is stronger than he looks, and yet… There is something to be said about how one envisions themselves in dreams. Regardless of his physical capabilities, Hob can’t help but ponder over Dream’s manifestation, and how frail and hurt it looks.

“It’s a pretty standard ritual of friendship to share a meal together,” he says pointedly, smiling when Dream huffs at him. It feels maybe a little underhanded, as he knows Dream is trying very hard to be a good friend, but he doesn’t feel too badly when he sees the soft smile on Dream’s face. For all that he had vehemently rejected their friendship at first (or perhaps because of that initial rejection) he seemed just as moved to be called friend by Hob as Hob was to be called friend by him. 

“I suppose I am bound by ritual then.” There is a strange note in his voice that Hob can’t quite place, but he is still smiling, so he wonders if that is just what Dream sounds like when he tries to make a joke.

Either way, he finally reaches forward to pick up his fork, taking a delicate bite of the gooey mess Hob had served him.

“Well?” Hob asks, barely hidden eagerness in his voice.

Dream swallows, his posture becoming impossibly straighter as he looks at Hob fondly, “You are a fine cook, my friend.”

Hob can’t suppress a grin, leaning back casually in contrast to his friend’s sharp and stiff bearing, “I’m glad. It’s a useful skill when you have companions in need of spoiling.” To his delight, a soft, almost imperceptible blush blooms across Dream’s cheeks. If Hob wasn’t so practiced in observing him he might have missed it. He’s glad he didn’t. 

The evening is a quiet one, sharing stories between bites, and Hob is happy. He wills the food to fill his friend. He sends a prayer that Dream’s body might become soft with his love.

~~~~

“Come on, I want to show you something!”

Dream is becoming more accustomed to his elder sister’s spontaneous visits. After her chastisement, the day she pushed him to reunite with Hob, he had expected to not see her again until it was obligated of her. For all her joy and bright smiles, he could not imagine she would actually enjoy his company. Perhaps because of her joy and smiles.

He did not expect her to willingly subject herself to him.

And yet, she had come to him. She had called to him through their galleries, inviting him into the humble space she called her home when she was not ushering souls to her realm, and inquired about his meeting with Hob Gadling. She had smiled, and squeezed his hand, and told him she was glad he had someone to call friend. He assumed she must be glad that there was someone else to deal with him, and this meeting was merely to ensure that there was someone else out there holding his leash. 

Then she called him again. 

And again.

It kept happening, and while a part of him felt guilty and selfish, he could not deny that he enjoyed his sister’s company. And so he allowed himself to set aside his quest to understand why she was doing it. His elder siblings have ever been a mystery to him, and whatever her reasoning, even if it was simply to keep him in line, he decided to allow himself this small joy in his sister’s presence.

Today, linking their arms together, Death practically skips as she pulls Dream from his realm. Despite himself, he can’t help but smile fondly at her enthusiasm, allowing her to guide him to the waking and into a large building. He can feel the shroud of Endlessness around them, and knows that they are walking unseen. It piques his curiosity. Death normally insisted on walking among mortals specifically to interact with them, even if only a little. The fact that she now hides them is unusual.

Glancing around, Dream finds that they are in a natural history museum, surrounded by various educational exhibits. There are murals of ancient, long gone animals and cases with their bones, plaques with information and names, interactive screens and displays. Eventually, they enter a room dedicated to plants and flora of the distant past. Death walks purposefully towards the back, glancing at Dream with an excited smile as she points to one of the displays.

“Look.”

On the pedestal in front of them is a small, square piece of amber, and within the amber there is a flower. It is small, five petals floating in the resin that Dream remembers holding in the palm of his hand so very long ago. Not as old as Dream, but older than humans, old enough that no creature on this plane dreams of it. 

Dream used to keep them on the windowsill of his bedchambers.

“They were your favorite.” 

Death’s voice breaks him from his revelry, and he realizes that he has been standing as still and frozen as the flower for several minutes.

Her words were not a question, but Dream nods anyway, “Yes.” The word cracks just slightly, and it takes effort, but he turns his gaze away from the flower to look at his sister, his brow furrowing in confusion, “You… remembered?”

“Of course,” Death speaks softly, as though to not break the fragile air around them, but still smiles warmly, “You gave me some, once, and I understood why you loved them. They were lovely.”

Nodding again, Dream swallows thickly, turning back to the fossil before continuing, “They faded from the Dreaming when the last creature to remember them passed to the Sunless Lands. They exist now only in the deepest pages of the Library.”

“And here,” Death corrects, tilting her head towards the exhibit, “They exist here, now, too. Humans found them. They’ll remember them,” she puts a hand on Dream’s shoulder, squeezing lightly and grinning a little wider, “Maybe someone will dream of them again!”

But not as they were , Dream thinks to himself. Any dreams of this small, fragile flower will not be the same as the ones Dream kept growing in his window, the ones he tucked behind his elder sister’s ear, the ones he held close to his chest when he was overwhelmed. They will never be the same again.

Reaching out, he lets his fingers brush against the fossil, the golden color hiding the true hues of the precious petals within, and it feels cool and cold like glass and suddenly Dream thinks he sees a hint of his reflection in the amber. Unneeded breath catches in his chest, and he wonders if this is how he would have been remembered if he had not escaped from Fawney Rig. Lost and forgotten and buried only to be dug up like this . Frozen and painted over with someone else’s color. 

Assuming he was remembered at all. 

His vision blurs, and his fingers tremble as he traces over the shape of the trapped flora, nothing but cold cold cold where once there had been soft and fragrant petals. 

“Dream?” 

Death moves to stand in front of him, pulling him away from the fossil and blocking his view. He blinks, and realizes that he is crying, but the tears are thick, and slow, and his vision has taken on a yellow hue. Raising a hand to his face, he catches a tear on his fingertips and stares down at it.

He is crying amber.

“Hey, it’s alright, little brother, you’re okay-” Death looks caught between panic and heartbreak, eyes wide and bracing her hands on Dream’s shoulders. It only makes him cry harder. Amber runs down his cheeks, dripping sluggishly from his chin into his cupped hands, sticking to his eyelashes, and he feels half-fossilized already. 

Gentle hands run through his hair, guide him to kneel on the floor, and he feels the shift from Waking to Dreaming, his sister taking him home. He thinks it might not be so bad, to be petrified and buried here in the Dreaming. He thinks he might be worth more as an excavated relic than he ever was as a living being.

But. There is still a hand stroking his hair, another wiping the thick tears from his face, heedless of the mess. There is a voice beside his ear shushing him, “Oh, little brother, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He inhales, choking on the resin in his throat, closing his eyes as he lets the cool air of the Dreaming reach his lungs and slow his tears.

The resin is drying on his cheeks, and it is a struggle to open his eyes again, shards of amber encasing his eyelashes. He glances down at the pool cupped in his hands, and then sees the resin smeared over his sister’s fingers and nearly starts crying again.

“I. I apologize-”

Shushing him, Death reaches out to take his hands, tipping his palms until the amber pours out, dripping onto the stone floor of the throne room until she can curl their fingers together. Dream’s breath hitches, and he tries to pull away. He envisions the resin on their hands hardening, encasing their fingers together in amber, and how cruel it would be to subject his beloved sister to being stuck with him .

Death holds on tighter.

“It’s alright,” she leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, “take a second, Dream. Everything is alright.”

It’s really not. But reluctantly, Dream takes her advice. He breathes deeply, tries to loosen the hold his anguish has on him, dilutes it with the comfort his sister so readily offers until the resin begins to thin. Slowly, with each breath the amber turns to salt water. He still feels stiff. He still feels trapped. He thinks he simply moved the amber into his blood. Death is still holding him.

He inhales shakily, “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Death responds, soft and casual. They are still kneeling on the floor, and she leans back just a bit, still holding his hands but giving him a little more space, “I didn’t mean to upset you-”

“It was no fault of yours,” Dream interrupts, “I. Appreciate the gesture.” Looking up, he adds on, “I did not expect you to remember such an insignificant detail about me.”

“It’s not insignificant. It’s you. And you’re not insignificant.”

Those words are what finally make him pull away. His movements remind her of a mannequin, stiff and jerky, popping joints back into place after falling apart until he is once more solid and immovable. He folds his hands in his lap, and he does not look at her.

“I am aware of the importance of my function. I have not forgotten your words to me.” 

Death consciously holds back a sigh of frustration. Settling back onto her heels, she takes a moment to look at her brother. She thinks of all the harm that happened in his absence, all the dreamers whose hands she took while her brother sat silent in a cage. She thinks of her words to him when they met again in the Waking after his escape. She thinks of Hob telling her that her brother didn’t feel loved, and how she had immediately put the blame on Dream. After all, how could he possibly think she does not love him for him ?

She thinks she’s starting to understand.

“I worry about you, Dream,” she whispers, reaching out to smooth back his wild hair, “I worry that one day…”

One day, Death will have to take the hands of all of her siblings. She knows that.

But she hopes that day is far away.

Dream looks up at her, head tilted like one of his ravens, “But I would still. Be there. Like the flower in the amber.”

“But not the same.” Death closes her eyes, the words soft with heartbroken realization, “Not you .”

Reaching up, Dream gently removes her hand from his hair, “Would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t hesitate, opening her eyes to look at him fiercely and gripping his hand. Dream sighed, but did not try to pull away. He still looks stiff and tense, and he swallows thickly, like there is still resin in his throat.

Death cannot help but laugh wetly. This day had not gone the way she had hoped.  “Next time I want to make a point I’ll just get you something in your favorite color.”

“You do not know-”

“Green.” 

Dream’s head snaps up, eyes wide in shock, and when Death smiles back, it is smug, but also fond, and sad, and- he thinks, maybe- loving, “I’ve walked through your gardens, Dream. I’ve sat in Fiddler’s Green. I’ve seen the landscapes you’ve created. And I noticed. Because I love you.”

When Dream looks at her, she can’t help but think that he does not believe her, not fully. But there is something in his eyes, a desperate longing. Like he wants to believe her. Like he wants it to be true.

Don’t go , Death doesn’t say, Don’t go. Stay. Stay so I can prove it to you. Stay long enough for me to convince you. Just give me some more time.

Desire used to love me, Dream doesn’t say, and then time passed.

“I love you as well, my sister.”

“Yeah,” she smiles, and only barely fights back tears, “I know.”

~~~

Something is not right with Hob’s plan.

It has become a regular occurrence for Dream and Hob to spend an afternoon or evening together several times a week, making it easy for Hob to guide them to a meal. Lunch at the university cafe between Hob’s lectures, dinner at a new restaurant, pots of stew that Hob had let simmer throughout the day, waiting for his friend to share a bowl with him. Each time Dream smiled and accepted his offers, diligently clearing his plates and complimenting Hob on his choices.

And Dream was getting thinner.

He didn’t notice the thinness at first. No, he noticed the layers first. Dream tended to bundle up, to keep himself covered regardless of the weather, and Hob understood. He himself sometimes caught himself pulling his coat around himself a little tighter when he remembered the details of Dream’s imprisonment. So Dream adding extra layers to his ensemble- sweaters and scarves and hoods on his coats- Hob assumed it was just a result of Dream still working through his trauma.

But as time passed, he noticed the way his friend’s already impossibly sharp cheekbones became impossibly sharper. The way the bones in his hands stood out in stark relief each time he reached for his fork. 

Hob didn’t understand it. 

Sitting in his flat now, not expecting company since he saw Dream in all his fragile, delicate beauty the night before, he wracks his brain to try to piece together what might be going on with his friend. He is deep in thought, hands steepled as he leans back on his couch, so he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of loud, frantic tapping on his window.

Glancing at the window, he blinks in surprise at the sight of a large crow or raven that he swears is glaring at him. For a long moment, he simply stares, contemplating whether this warrants a call to animal control or if he should just wait for the bird to leave. He is debating trying to shoo it away himself when it taps on the glass again, somehow even angrier.

“Hey!” An unmistakable American voice projects from the Raven’s beak, “Open up, asshat, I wanna talk to you!”

In the grand scheme of things, this is not the strangest thing to happen to Hob, and yet he still nearly falls off the couch as he flails in surprise.

“Excuse me?” He stands and cautiously approaches the window, “Who, or what, exactly are you?” He demands. Hob may not be the brightest bulb in the shed, but he knows better than to let strange, angry, talking ravens into his home without taking precautions.

The raven huffs, “The name’s Matthew, Hob Gadling ,” he spits his name out pointedly, “And I’m here on behalf of Lord Morpheus, so let me in so I can shake you down properly!” He flutters a bit, letting his talons scratch at the window threateningly.

Perhaps Hob should be even more wary, given that the Raven both knows who he is and is clearly already upset with him for some reason, but the mention of one of Dream’s titles has him throwing the window open.

“Wait, Dream sent you?”

The raven- Matthew, Hob reminds himself, shaking his head in bafflement- glides through the open window to land on Hob’s coffee table, turning back to glare at him again.

“He didn’t send me, I’m here on his behalf ,” he clarifies haughtily. 

Tilting his head, Hob riffles through his memories, trying to recall every name Dream has mentioned in his stories of the goings on of his realm between their meeting. Now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure he remembers Dream mentioning a Matthew a few times, usually with fond exasperation.

“I think Dream’s mentioned you to me… you’re one of his subjects in the Dreaming, right?”

“I’m not just a subject ,” Matthew replies with great offense, “I’m his raven .” He puffs his chest out proudly, in a way that Hob thinks more than proves that he is someone who spends a lot of time with the Dream King.

“Right, he definitely failed to mention that detail,” Hob teases good-naturedly. There doesn’t seem to be any urgency here, so he allows himself to grin widely, “It’s nice to meet you! I haven’t gotten to meet any of Dream’s other friends.”

“Yeah, I noticed, and I find that highly suspicious,” Matthew declares, “What exactly do you have to hide, huh?”

“Uh, it’s not really hiding, I just… don’t know how to contact you?”

“A likely story.”

“I mean if you tell me how to call you I’d love to hang out more-”

“What’s your deal, huh?” Matthew interrupts, “What exactly are your intentions with Lord Morpheus?”

Hob is suddenly struck by the uncomfortable feeling that he is being given the shovel talk. By a bird. About a man he is, unfortunately, not even dating.

“No intentions, really,” he tugs his ear nervously, “I just. Enjoy spending time with him, is all.”

Matthew’s feathers ruffle in agitation, “Humans are conniving pieces of shit who can’t be trusted within a ten mile radius of any sort of power,” he declares, with the authority of someone familiar with being a ‘conniving piece of shit’ himself, “so excuse me if I’m suspicious that Average Joe over here is just ‘hanging out’ with one of the forces of the universe.”

“I don’t think I’m that average-”

“And another thing! Stop guilt tripping him into eating, you ass!”

Hob’s jaw drops at the accusation, “I- wha- he’s skin and bones!”

“Yeah, and you making him sick all the time isn’t exactly helping the situation, pal!”

“Wait, what?”

“Jeez, you’re slow on the uptake,” Matthew huffs in annoyance, “He’s not human, dude. So human food doesn’t work with him. It’s like… you know that scene in Twilight- the books, not the movies- where Edward eats a slice of pizza? And then in an interview Meyer said-”

“Okay, stop, stop stop stop,” Hob cuts off Matthew’s rambling, pinching the bridge of his nose, “But he takes a human form when he’s here though, right?”

“He looks like a human,” Matthew clarifies pointedly, “That doesn’t mean he functions the same as one. Just because you can fit bologna in a CD player doesn’t mean it’s going to work out for ya.”

A slow dawning sense of horror fills Hob, and it must show on his face because Matthew tilts his head to the side curiously, his tone gentling for the first time since his arrival, “You really didn’t know, huh.”

Hob shakes his head miserably, moving to sit heavily onto the couch, “No. Dream has tried to explain the whole ‘Endless’ thing to me, but it’s so complicated. And he never mentioned that he can’t eat, and he just looks so thin and I just wanted to help-”

“Okay, alright, it’s okay!” Matthew flaps his wings a few times desperately, “Please don’t cry. If you cry, I’m gonna cry, and I’m not ready to find out if dream-ravens can cry or not.”

“I can’t believe this whole time I’ve been making it worse.” He thinks again of 1589, of Dream barely glancing at the spread Hob had offered him. He’s always known Dream wasn’t human. He feels like an idiot.

“I feel like an idiot,” he admits out loud.

“I mean, you are,” Matthew replies, ignoring the halfhearted glare Hob gives him, “but you’re not a malicious idiot, which was really what I was more concerned about. In my head you were like, trying to weaken him before making your move or something.”

The very idea makes Hob sick, and he shakes his head vehemently, “Never. He’s my friend . I get that humans hurt him recently, but I don’t care about his power, I just care about him .” 

“Hm. You definitely seem sincere. I suppose maybe I should have just tailed you for a bit before coming in guns blazing. But my job is to protect the boss and he’s been looking a little rough recently, so. Y’know.”

Sniffling, Hob glances up at the raven, watching as he shifts on his feet anxiously. Hob blinks in realization as he speaks, “You really care about him, huh?”

“I mean, yeah, obviously,” Matthew shrugs as much as he is able, his tone becoming more casual, “Honestly it’s kind of hard not to. I mean have you seen the guy? Like, he’s supposed to be this all-powerful force of the universe, but he feels more like a kitten you find hiding from the rain under your car, y’know?”

Hob barks out a laugh, “I don’t think he’d appreciate that comparison, but you’re absolutely not wrong.”

“It’s not like he didn’t care about me first!” Matthew states, almost defensively. He flutters over, settling on the couch cushion next to Hob and he gets the impression that they should be sharing a couple beers right now, gossiping about their mutual friend, “He tries soooo hard to be all cold and aloof, but he knew me for five seconds and tried to keep me from doing my literal job ‘cause he was worried I’d get hurt.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Hob smirks, shaking his head fondly.

“I can’t believe I had to die to finally get a good boss,” Matthew huffs, “Honestly that’s the craziest part of my afterlife. Turned into a raven? I can shrug that off. I enjoy my job and love my boss? THAT’S the part I have trouble believing.” 

Snapping his head over, Hob blinks for a long moment. Matthew’s feathers fluff up at his staring, “What? What did I do?”

Slowly, a grin spreads across Hob’s face, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Want to help me with something?”

~~~

When Dream arrives for a visit two days later, Hob doesn’t even bother saying hello.

“Can I hug you?”

Dream blinks in surprise, tilting his head curiously as Hob stands patiently in front of him. When he finally nods, looking confused but not uncomfortable, Hob wastes no time wrapping his arms around his friend and pressing him close. He can feel the shape of his manifested skeleton through the layers of his coat.

“Dream,” he sighs sadly, one hand guiding Dream’s head against his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Dream moves as if to pull away, but does not struggle when Hob tightens his grip, “You have done nothing to warrant an apology.”

“I’m sorry for pressuring you to eat.” 

Now, Dream jerks back, and Hob lets him go, though he keeps his hands on Dream’s shoulders. He looks surprised now, and somewhat guilty, “What do you-”

“Matthew told me,” Hob explains, “Oh, yeah, I met Matthew by the way. Good guy. Or, raven, or whatever,” Dream scowls, and he quickly continues, “He was worried about you.”

“He need not have interfered,” Dream looks away, body stiff under Hob’s hands, “There was no need for his concern.”

Hob sighs, “Dream. You could have told me you can’t eat food in the Waking.”

There is a pause as Dream considers his words, gaze still steadfastly avoiding Hob’s. “You… enjoy food,” he states, “and cooking. And you. Said it was a ritual among friends.”

“I know,” Hob winces, “I understand how it might have sounded when I said that, but… Dream, we won’t stop being friends just because there are certain things we can’t do together.” Dream doesn’t answer, his body as stiff and cold as a statue.

“Dream,” he ducks his head to try to catch Dream’s eye, “I won’t love you less if you tell me no.”

And that has Dream’s head snapping up, eyes wide with surprise in a way that makes Hob’s heart crack. 

“I mean it,” he insists, “I won’t be mad, or- or offended or anything if there’s certain things you can’t do. I’m sure there’s plenty I can’t do because of my humanity that you wouldn’t hold against me, yeah?”

Dream frowns, confusion on his face, “I would not ask you to take part in anything that went against your nature.”

Hob tilts his head back and sighs, his mouth curling in a fond smile, “You’re so close. You’re right there.”

There is a long pause as Dream seems to turn his words over in his head. “You. Also would not ask me to take part in something that went against my nature? Even if it is something you enjoy?”

“Exactly,” Hob grins, “I don’t enjoy it if it hurts you.”

“Despite how I have treated you in the past?”

Hob’s grin falls so fast it hits like whiplash, “Of course not!” He feels his chest tighten in horror, “Is that what you thought? That I would be okay with hurting you because we got in a fight once?”

Glancing away, Dream’s brow furrows in consideration, “It is not… I did not believe you were doing it on purpose,” he admits, which does lift a little of the weight from Hob’s heart, “I merely…” he looks up at Hob through his eyelashes, “I did not want you to think that I do not take our friendship seriously. I wanted. To prove myself. To prove that I am capable of being worthy of your companionship. I have declined your offer of friendship once already. To deny a ritual of friendship offered to me now would be unforgivable.”

“Only because there would be nothing to forgive,” Hob replies softly. Before Dream can say anything else, Hob pulls him back into his arms. 

“I. Did not mean to upset you,” Dream says tensely.

“You didn’t.” Hob gives him one last firm squeeze before reluctantly releasing him, “Now, my friend,” he says it again in hopes of reassuring Dream, who still looks anxious and lost, “Matthew didn’t say anything about you having ill-effects from our movie nights, yeah?”

Dream hums, and the slightest bit of tension leaves his shoulders, “Indeed. I have been. Enjoying experiencing this new media with you,” his lips twitch towards a smile, “And you promised me an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet tonight.”

Hob groans dramatically, placing a hand on Dream’s back to guide him towards the couch, “The only reason I’m allowing it is because the setting is different enough for me to almost forget it was inspired by that twat Shaxberd.”

“Technically it was inspired by me.”

“Well then sit down and enjoy the fruits of your labor,” Hob laughs, getting West Side Story set up for them to enjoy. The curtains are drawn to cover the glass panes of the windows, there are blankets and pillows strewn across the couch, and there are no snacks or food on the coffee table in front of them. When he looks at him, Hob thinks Dream looks a little… softer. A little more comfortable.

A little more loved.

~~~~~~~

“What’s on the docket today, boss?” 

Matthew lands carefully on the Dream King’s shoulder. He had spent what felt like several hours accompanying Mervyn throughout the castle grounds, pestering him with questions and prodding him for stories as he made minor adjustments to the landscape, and now he felt energetic and ready for a task. Sometimes Matthew felt like he was a better raven than a person. If nothing else he was happier as one. 

Dream hums as he walks down a quiet path outside the castle, “I must check in on the dreams of light to see how my newest creations among them are settling. And ensure they do not require more added to their numbers.”

The ‘dreams of light’ were how Dream had explained a particular sect of dreams to Matthew. They were created for dreamers who felt as though they were in the deepest darkness, those who saw no hope for themselves. They were dreams meant to inspire and revitalize. 

“So they’re like, the light at the end of the tunnel, yeah?” Matthew had responded when Dream had explained.

“Yes,” he had replied with a small smile, “That is not an inaccurate comparison.” Matthew had beamed with pride at understanding a little more of this new realm he called home. 

Meeting the dreams of light had been enlightening- pun absolutely intended- in a lot of ways. Mostly, Matthew learned that Lord Morpheus was deeply uncomfortable with them.

He didn’t think it was a matter of him not liking them or anything. But there was something in the way he had walked and held himself when in their presence. It reminded Matthew of how he had felt the first time he had held one of his friends' new baby; utterly adoring, and absolutely certain he was about to break it.

“I can deal with ‘em, boss.”

Dream turns to glance at the raven shuffling on his shoulder, brow furrowed, “I have already stated that I would do so.”

“Yeah, but I know you don’t want to,” Matthew shrugs his wings nonchalantly, “Unless you have some other important raven errand for me, just let me handle them. I don’t mind.”

With a deepening frown- born of confusion rather than displeasure, Matthew notes- Dream raises his arm, and Matthew instinctually hops from his shoulder to his forearm, allowing them to look each other in the eye. “Wants have no authority within my duty. If a task must be done then I shall do it.”

“Uh huh, yeah, I get that,” Matthew nodded, “but does this particular task have to be done by you ?”

“...I. Suppose not.”

“Great! Then delegate! I mean, I’m offering. Those guys don’t bother me the way they do you, so it’s not an issue, really.”

“I have not expressed that they bother me.”

Matthew sighs, shifting from foot to foot a little nervously, “Listen, don’t file an HR complaint for me saying this, but I love you, and so you are not as subtle as you think you are when it comes to being uncomfortable. To me at least.”

There is a long moment of silence as they stare at each other, Dream blinking in surprise, and Matthew tilting his head back and forth out of some strange raven instinct to view his boss from different angles. 

“...We do not have an HR department in the Dreaming.”

“I can’t tell if that’s you telling me you are upset or aren’t upset.”

To his shock and awe, Dream smiles. A small huff escapes his lips, the closest to a laugh Matthew has ever heard in his time as his raven. “I am not upset,” he states regally. “Since you are so insistent, I will allow you to run this errand on my behalf.” He makes it sound like he is the one doing Matthew a favor, which doesn’t actually surprise Matthew all that much. Honestly, he finds it kind of endearing. 

“Will do, Lord Morpheus!” 

He is still smiling as Matthew flies away. It’s not much.

But it’s a start.

~~~~

Matthew is in the middle of debating whether it would be in poor taste to ask to see Jessamy’s book when Lucienne steps into the library, sighing heavily.

“What’s up, boss lady?” Matthew flies over, landing to perch on the back of the chair next to the one Lucienne had fallen into heavily, “Everything alright?” 

“Everything is fine, Matthew,” Lucienne smiles, and he can see she looks more “fondly exasperated” than “distraught”. “I simply just came from seeing Lord Morpheus. He is still on the shores of creation.”

It has been almost two weeks since Matthew had checked in on the dreams of light, and had made some rounds among some other groups of dreams and nightmares as well. His report for the Dream King had been similar for all of them: they were doing fine, there was no true trouble, but could still benefit from higher numbers due to the massive increase in dreamers over the past hundred years.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Dream had taken that as a great personal failure and had immediately set to work creating rapidly and desperately. Last Matthew had checked on him, his fingers had been bleeding. He hadn’t even known that was a thing that could happen to him.

“Any luck?” Matthew asks.

Lucienne hums, and it’s so similar to how Dream does. It amuses Matthew how alike the two were, and he wonders who influenced the other more. “He is taking a brief break,” she very nearly rolls her eyes, “only to ensure that the quality of his work does not suffer from the quantity.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Sighing, Lucienne shakes her head fondly, “I love Lord Morpheus but he can be quite stubborn sometimes.”

Her words have Matthew perking up. To be honest he’s a little surprised he hadn’t thought of this sooner. “Actually, funny that you say that. Want to join a group project to help the boss out?”

~~~~

Lucienne is still pondering Matthew’s words (and there had been a lot of them) when she stumbles upon her lord in the Library. He is seated quietly at a small table tucked in the back, hands folded in front of him. There are no books on the table, and he seems lost in thought. Part of her wonders if she should leave him alone, but…

“Apparently he doesn’t think anyone like, actually loves him. Which honestly kind of explains why he always looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Shit, I’ve felt on the verge of tears since that Hob guy told me about it. Like, I just assumed he knew, y’know? How can he not know?”

“Good evening, Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne greeted with a smile, pulling him from his thoughts as he glanced up at her. Despite whatever he had been mulling over, he still smiles as he looks at her.

“Lucienne,” he dips his head in greeting, “I hope I am not intruding.” 

It is his realm. It is him . And yet he still considers this space hers. 

“Not in the slightest,” she assures him, “Was there anything I could assist you with? Or were you merely visiting?”

“Visiting,” he confirmed with a nod, “I just returned from the Waking,” he explained, “and I felt the need to. Collect myself, I suppose.”

Humming in consideration, a thought occurs to her, “I cannot help but notice you have been spending quite some time with a particular human in the Waking, my lord,” she teases, “Will we be welcoming a new consort soon?”

Lucienne’s voice is light and fond, a teasing smile on her face, and yet Morpheus’ face still drops. It reminds her of a flower wilting, and his eyes are just a little glassy before he turns his gaze to the floor.

“I apologize,” his words are tense, some mixture of frustration and sorrow.

“Whatever for?” 

His eyes dart to glance at her skeptically, “I am aware, as I am sure you are as well, how troublesome my. Amorous pursuits are,” He straightens his back, steeling himself, “I shall restrain myself. You have my word.”

For a moment, Lucienne simply looks at him. He has changed so much, and yet is still so very much the same. In the past, he might not have apologized as he did now. But she recognizes the guilt and shame all the same.

Finally, she steps forward, sitting in the seat across from him, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

He snorted, shaking his head in disbelief, “Surely you resent the burden that comes with my being in love. You have every right to be cross with me for succumbing to such feelings once again.”

“And yet I am not.” 

Morpheus lifts his head, looking at her more directly, brow furrowed in confusion, and so she continues, “I have never been upset with you. You love deeply, and that is not a bad thing. I have only ever been saddened to see your heart broken.”

“My heartbreak has always been well deserved,” he insists. “ My pain is just. The injustice is the burden I throw on those around me.” He looks down again, fists clenching, “I bring storms with my sorrow, I lose focus on my duty, I become overwhelmed with both the love and the loss.”

Lucienne hummed, “Those things may be true. But they do not make me love you less.”

His head snaps up so fast she thinks she hears a crack. He is wide-eyed in his disbelief, and it makes her want to cry. Morpheus has been prideful, and stern, and reticent with his words. But it was impossible not to know when Morpheus loved you, whether he said it or not. Even when he lashed out and struggled to grant her more responsibility, Lucienne never doubted Dream’s love for her. It pains her to think that he has not felt the same surety with her love for him.

“You are my lord, and you are my friend,” she states, voice even as she recites simple facts, “and I love you. Not because you do not have flaws, but because there is so much about you to love, and your flaws simply cannot deter me.”

Dream continued to stare, blinking slowly, like trying to solve a puzzle in his head. Eventually, he swallowed thickly, turning his gaze down to his own hands as he admitted softly, “You know me so well. Better than most. I was certain that this knowing could only end in your disdain.”

“Perhaps I know you better than you do,” Lucienne responded, a hint of mischief in her voice that Dream could not help but quirk a smile at. 

Tilting his head, he recalled fondly, “Do you remember, so long ago, when the stories of the world were scattered through the Dreaming? Every time a page drifted past us, even if we were giving a tour to an important guest, you would fly after it.”

Lucienne laughed at the memory. She remembers how her feathers fluffed with agitation each time, offended at the chaos of it. Every story, written and unwritten, left to float freely through the dreaming, unbound pages swirling in the wind and catching on branches and pillars. Lucienne could never resist the urge to collect them. “My beak would be so full of pages I could barely see where I was flying.”

“How far you have come,” Dream smiled proudly, glancing at the towering shelves of stories around them, “From your little hoard of collected stories in the corner of the palace. To this.”

“Because you allowed it,” Lucienne pointed out. She had been nervous, when Lord Morpheus first discovered the piles of pages she had brought inside and pushed into the neatest stacks a raven was capable of. It only occurred to her decades later that he must have known from the beginning what she was doing. It was only when she began struggling with the size of her hoard, when she was brought near tears at knocking over one of her precious stacks with a stray wing, that the Dream King ‘found’ it. 

And he gave her shelves, and bindings, and hands. 

He shook his head, “I believe you would have made it happen regardless. A beakful of pages at a time. I merely made it easier.”

“And do you think that makes it count less?” Dream looked at her, head tilted in confusion, and she could not help but shake her head fondly, “Oh, Lord Morpheus, you can try to downplay your love all you like, but those of us who love you back will always see it regardless.”

There is another pause, his brow furrowed as he seems to consider this. Consider the idea that there are those who see him. They see him because they love him, and the seeing only makes them love him more. She wonders how he will take it. She hopes he doesn’t run away.

He doesn’t. Instead, he dips his head and smiles, “I. Am glad. It would pain me. If you did not know my care for you.”

“I know, Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne reached out, laying a hand over his, “I know.”

Squeezing his fingers just once, she leans back, smirking deviously, “Now,” she adjusts her glasses, keeping her tone light and professional, “tell me more about this human who has caught your attention. I must make sure he is good enough for you, of course.”

When Morpheus laughs, he sounds young, and happy, and loved.

~~~

“My friend,” Hob begins cautiously, “is everything alright?”

Dream has always been quiet, but tonight he is distracted . He seems far away and lost in thought, a furrow in his brow that Hob wants to smooth over with his fingers. There is music playing softly in the background, one of their quiet evenings of sharing stories and Hob gently showing Dream little bits of what humanity had created in his absence. He does not seem upset, exactly, but Hob still worries.

“I. Am fine,” Dream responds stiffly, and Hob can’t help but snort.

“For someone who claims the title ‘Prince of Stories’ you are a terrible liar.”

Dream glares at him, but there is no heat behind it. In fact, Hob is almost certain he sees his mouth twitch as though holding back a smile. Softening, he allows himself to scoot a little closer on the couch, until their legs are just barely brushing. “I’m serious, though,” he repeats, “Are you okay?”

Sighing, Dream glances down at his hands in his lap, “I am fine,” he insists, “I simply…” he takes a long moment to consider his words. When he speaks again, it is in a rush, as though he must push the words out before he loses them, “Matthew and Lucienne claim that they love me.”

Hob blinks, “Oh.” He is both pleased to know that Dream is being told, and confused by Dream’s reaction. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Looking up at him, Dream looks… ashamed, “They are my subjects,” he explains, “I have power over them. In such a situation, is it not immoral to ask them to love me?”

“ Did you ask?” Hob presses, already knowing the answer, “Or did they choose to love you on their own?”

Dream does not answer, and he does not look comforted either. “And Death,” he ignores Hob’s question, “she has said… but is it not obligation to love your family?”

“It can feel like it sometimes, sure,” Hob answers carefully, “but in reality, no. Family can be complicated, but at the end of the day, love is never an obligation. It is in fact very possible to not love your family. If she loves you it’s because she loves you.”

At first, he doesn’t understand it. Why Dream seems to grow more anxious and fearful with each word Hob speaks in comfort. Hob is trying to reassure him that he is loved and yet his eyes are wide, jaw tense and hands clenched into tight fists. He looks cornered.

He looks, Hob realizes, like Hob himself had as a starving man in the 1600s. Like a man who had been given the barest scraps to keep him alive and was now bracing to have it stolen away.

“And you?” Dream whispers, “You have claimed to love me…” he searches Hob’s face desperately, his voice choked when he finally brings himself to ask, “... Why ?”

“Because it’s true.” Hob reaches out recklessly, because it’s too important not to. He laces their fingers together and leans forward to keep their eyes locked even when Dream tries to look away, “Because I do love you. You, Dream of the Endless. I love your dedication to your work, I love the way you speak, I love explaining humanisms to you. I love how hard you try, how you don’t give up even when you’re convinced you've failed. I love how much you care.” 

He could go on forever. Reckless, daring, desperate, Hob lifts his other hand to cradle Dream’s cheek, feeling the way he sucks in a breath at the contact, “I love the look in your eyes when you experience kindness,” he strokes a thumb gently against the skin under Dream’s eye, “and I love you so much that I also hate that look in your eye… as if you’ve never experienced kindness. As if you’re not used to it. As if you don’t know what to do with it. I love you so much, and I want you to be loved more . I want everyone to love you.”

Dream does not need to breathe, and yet his chest is nearly heaving with shaking breaths, each of Hob’s words hitting him like a blow. He has to swallow a few times before he can manage to speak again. “I do not want everyone to love me,” he confesses, “I just…” Hob has never heard him sound so uncertain. So small. Dream has to look away before he is able to continue, “I want the love I have to be true . I know I am too much,” his voice drips with shame, “I know I love too hard. But it is because I want so badly to be loved in return the way I love. I do not require quantity. I just… I want… I want the people I love to love me back.”

Timidly, he looks up at Hob once more, and his voice cracks as he asks, “Is that selfish?”

“No,” Hob answered immediately, “That is very, very human.”

“I am not-”

“You are humanity’s dreams,” Hob interrupts, “And I promise you, humanity dreams of being loved in return.” Leaning forward, he pulls Dream gently closer, until their noses are nearly touching and they are sharing breath, “And you are, you know,” he whispers between them like a secret, “You are loved in return.”

“You cannot know how others feel for me,” Dream argues weakly.

“Perhaps,” Hob cannot help but smirk, “I mean, I do, but I know you won’t accept that. So accept this: I know how I feel for you. And I love you. I’ll say it however many times you need. I love you-”

“Stop.” 

Dream’s eyes are clenched shut, and Hob can see the moisture caught on his eyelashes. But he’s not pulling away, and when Hob pulls back, he drifts after him. “I’ll stop talking if you want me to,” Hob offers, “I’ll stop touching you, if it’s too much,” He starts to pull his hands away and the tears finally spill down Dream’s cheeks, “But I won’t stop loving you.”

The words are barely out his mouth when Dream crashes into him. He nearly falls backwards, only just managing to keep them both from toppling over, his hands bracing against Dream to steady them. There is salt on Dream’s lips, and they tremble against Hob’s, and he can taste the words on them as clearly as if Dream had spoken them out loud.

Stay, his kiss begs, Stay, stay, stay.

“I love you, too,” Dream whispers against his lips, his hands curled in Hob’s shirt as though expecting him to pull away.

But Hob only pushes closer, wrapping his arms around Dream’s fragile figure. “I know,” he replies, pressing kisses to his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, “I know. I know you love me. And I love you back. I promise.”

Holding Dream tight in his arms, Hob knows that he will probably have to convince Dream again tomorrow. He will probably have to convince him again and again and again, and he doesn’t care. He loves him enough to remind him.

[iraot]

Summary: In the wilds of the ton there is the desire for more, three hearts will beat as one. Pairing: Rafayel x Caleb + Rafayel x Caleb x F!Reader [ Sexual Intercourse & Angst ] Word Count: 7214 AO3

Chapter 10

The soft patter of her slippered feet echoed faintly against the polished floors as she was led down the dimly lit corridor, her silk robe cinched tightly at her waist. The maid walked just ahead of her, silent and poised, her presence little more than a formality, a remnant of protocol from a time when noble brides were escorted to their husbands like offerings on an altar. She should have felt nervous—perhaps she was—but excitement hummed beneath her skin, anticipation curling warm and restless in the pit of her stomach as they neared the heavy oak doors of Rafayel’s chambers.

The door creaked softly as she stepped inside, the warmth of the room immediately enveloping her, the low candlelight casting everything in shades of gold and deep amber. The scent of burning cedar and faint spices clung to the air, mingling with something deeper, something masculine—the undeniable essence of them. She turned back toward the maid, offering a small smile, a quiet, "Thank you," before gently shutting the door behind her, sealing herself inside.

Rafayel was already waiting, leaning lazily against the edge of a nearby chaise, his long fingers curled around the rim of a half-filled glass, his violet-blue gaze flicking over her in that slow, measured way of his. Caleb was perched in one of the grand armchairs near the hearth, his shirt undone at the collar, the firelight catching in the wild waves of his dark hair, his smirk as easy as ever. There was something different in the air tonight—something thick, charged, waiting—but she ignored it for now, instead letting out a long sigh as she moved toward the side table, reaching for the decanter of wine.

"You won’t believe what my mother tried to do," she murmured, her fingers curling around the delicate stem of an empty glass, intent on filling it.

Before she could, Rafayel was there, plucking the glass from her grasp with a deft, effortless motion, replacing it with one of his own. She blinked, watching as he reached instead for the pitcher of water, the clear liquid spilling into the cup in smooth, measured streams.

"No drink?" she pouted, tilting her head, the warmth of the room settling more heavily over her now.

"No wine," Rafayel corrected, his voice softer now, his fingers grazing hers as he passed the cup to her. "Only water."

She frowned slightly but obeyed, bringing the rim of the glass to her lips and taking a slow sip. It was cool, refreshing, but she could not shake the feeling that there was something pointed in Rafayel’s decision—that there was a reason he did not wish for her to drink tonight. She glanced at him over the rim of her cup, but his expression remained unreadable, his smirk just a touch too knowing.

"What did your mother try to do?" Caleb asked then, his voice laced with quiet amusement, his gaze flicking between them with that ever-present, too perceptive glint.

She exhaled, shaking her head, moving toward one of the armchairs before perching on the edge of the seat. "She tried to have ‘the talk’ with me," she muttered, pressing a hand over her flushed face. "As if I hadn’t already learned more than enough."

Caleb barked a laugh, tilting his head back against the chair, his eyes gleaming with open delight. "Gods above," he groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Would have given my best horse to witness that conversation."

Rafayel hummed, sipping from his own glass, his smirk deepening. "And what wisdom did she wish to impart?" he mused, arching a dark brow. "That men and women lay together? That you must close your eyes and think of England?"

She groaned, shaking her head, her cheeks burning anew. "Something like that," she muttered. "I told her you had already promised to explain everything, which seemed to put her at ease, so I suppose you ought to be grateful."

Rafayel chuckled, low and indulgent, stepping closer, his fingers brushing beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. "And tell me," he murmured, his voice like silk, rich and teasing. "Do you still need me to explain?"

Heat coiled in her stomach at the look in his eyes, at the warmth of Caleb’s gaze watching from just beyond the firelight.

She swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass.

"Perhaps," she whispered.

Rafayel took her hand in his, his grip warm, steady, a quiet reassurance in the face of what was to come. His thumb stroked over her knuckles, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the delicate bones beneath his fingertips. When he lifted her hand to his lips, he pressed a lingering kiss there, the heat of his mouth a stark contrast to the cool air between them.

His eyes, dark and knowing, never left hers as he murmured, "It might hurt a bit at first, I will do my best to be gentle." His voice was softer now, quieter, a rare tenderness slipping through the usual control he wielded so effortlessly. The weight of his words settled deep in her chest, a slow, warm pressure that spread outward, curling into something that was not quite fear—but anticipation.

She swallowed, her pulse fluttering beneath his lips, her body already beginning to tremble—not with nerves, not entirely, but with the sheer weight of the moment. Rafayel’s grip tightened just slightly, as if to remind her that she was here, safe, his. "I will use my fingers first," he continued, his voice a slow, soothing lull, "to try and open you up some, but it will take a few times for your body to adjust."

The heat in her cheeks spread lower, pooling deep in her belly, a slow, liquid warmth that left her breath shallow. She had known, of course, in some distant, logical part of her mind, what would happen tonight, what it meant. But hearing it like this—so calm, so careful, spoken by the man who had already unraveled her in ways she had never thought possible—made it real.

"I trust you," she whispered, barely above a breath, her fingers curling lightly around his.

Rafayel exhaled slowly, his lips brushing over her knuckles once more before he pulled her closer, the space between them vanishing, the heat of his body seeping into hers. "Good," he murmured, tilting her chin up, his violet-blue eyes burning with something deep, something possessive. "Then let me take care of you, cutie."

Rafayel guided her to the bed with slow, deliberate steps, his fingers threading through hers, his grip firm yet unhurried. The room was warm, the low candlelight flickering over silk sheets, over bare skin, over the anticipation curling between them like a gathering storm. She barely had time to steady herself before Caleb was there behind her, his hands sliding beneath the hem of her shift, his fingers brushing the soft fabric up, up, up—until the garment cleared her head and was tossed carelessly aside, leaving her bare to their hungry gazes.

A shiver ran through her, not from cold, but from the weight of being seen, the heat of their attention searing against her skin. Caleb welcomed her back into his arms, his body solid and warm, his chest bare, his trousers only just loosened enough to allow for comfort but not yet indulgence. His arms wrapped around her, his lips finding the curve of her shoulder, a slow, gentle kiss that sent heat licking up her spine.

He hooked her legs over his, spreading her open effortlessly, and she gasped—the vulnerability of it, the sheer exposure, made her entire body flush hot. She had never felt quite so revealed, so accessible, the cool air brushing places that had never been left so unguarded before. Caleb hummed low in her ear, his lips curving against her skin as his hands trailed down the soft plane of her stomach, his touch neither rushed nor hesitant.

Rafayel, standing at the edge of the bed, took his time discarding his own trousers, letting them pool at his feet before stepping forward, his bare skin catching the candlelight, his arousal undeniable. His violet-blue eyes burned as he took in the sight before him—her, open and trembling, her body framed perfectly against Caleb’s, her breath already coming fast. A smirk curled at the edges of his lips, and he moved between her thighs, settling himself comfortably, as if he had all the time in the world to devour her.

Caleb’s hands wandered upward, cupping her breasts, his fingers stroking over the sensitive peaks, teasing them into hardness as he kissed a slow, indulgent path along her neck. "Look at you," he murmured, voice low and warm against her skin. "So soft, so warm. You like this, don’t you? Being held open for him?"

She shivered, a whimper catching in her throat as Rafayel leaned forward, capturing her lips in a kiss that was slow, unrushed, his tongue sweeping against hers in a deep, lazy exploration. His weight pressed against her slightly, not enough to overwhelm, but enough that Caleb’s grip on his waist was needed to steady them both, keeping her perfectly sandwiched between them. The sensation was too much, not enough, her body taut with anticipation.

Rafayel’s hand trailed down, down between her thighs, his fingers parting her, stroking through the heat of her, teasing, testing. He exhaled slowly, pulling back just enough to murmur against her lips, "You’re already soaking for us." His voice was filthy, full of dark satisfaction, and he pressed a single, teasing stroke along her slit, just enough to hear the wetness there.

Caleb groaned softly behind her, his breath hot against her ear. "Let me hear it again," he murmured, his fingers pinching at her nipple, rolling it between his fingers. "Let me hear how much she wants it."

Rafayel smirked, pressing another slow stroke through her folds, this time letting his fingers linger, listening to the slick sound of her arousal. "There it is," he praised, his thumb circling just above where she needed him, his breath brushing over her parted lips. "Such a messy little thing. Are you this wet just from being between us?"

She whimpered, her hips twitching involuntarily, her body betraying her without shame.

Caleb chuckled, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear. "You should see her, Rafayel," he murmured, his voice all heat and hunger. "She’s trembling. I think she’d let you do anything to her right now."

Rafayel chuckled darkly, his fingers slipping lower, pressing just the tip of one inside her before retreating, teasing. "I think you might be right."

She gasped, her hips jerking the moment Rafayel pulled his fingers away, leaving her aching, empty, her body already strung so tightly she could barely breathe. The loss was unbearable, a cruel tease, and she whined softly, shifting in Caleb’s hold, trying desperately to chase the sensation back. But Rafayel only chuckled, low and dark, his free hand smoothing over her trembling thigh as if to soothe the very need he was fueling.

"Patience," he murmured, his voice a rich purr, full of quiet amusement. "You’ll get what you need, cutie." And then—he pushed back in, this time with two fingers, the stretch deeper, fuller, curling them inside her in a slow, devastating stroke. The slick sound of it was unmistakable, obscene, filling the space between them, and Caleb groaned, his grip on her body tightening just slightly.

"Gods," Caleb whispered, his breath warm against her ear, "listen to her. Listen to how much she wants it." His hand slid down her stomach, resting just above where Rafayel was working her open, as if feeling for himself the way her body clenched and fluttered under their touch. "*So soft, so perfect—I want to taste her again."

She whimpered, overwhelmed, barely able to focus before Caleb tilted her head back and kissed her, his mouth slow and claiming, his tongue stroking deep and lazy against hers. She moaned into it, helpless, the pressure inside her mounting as Rafayel’s fingers worked her faster, his thumb circling her clit in sharp, precise movements. It was too much, too overwhelming, her body burning from the inside out, twisting beneath the relentless push of sensation.

Rafayel groaned, feeling the way she fluttered around his fingers, her walls gripping him, her stomach tightening in anticipation of release. "Cum," he ordered, his voice firm, commanding, his fingers pressing deeper, dragging just right against the sensitive spot inside her.

Her body obeyed.

A sharp, broken moan tore from her lips as she arched, pleasure snapping through her in a hot, unbearable wave. Caleb swallowed her sounds with a deep, lingering kiss, his hands holding her still as she shook, her walls tightening around Rafayel’s fingers, pulsing in time with each ragged breath. The pleasure rolled through her in waves, leaving her dazed, spent, floating somewhere between bliss and delirium.

Rafayel eased his fingers from her slowly, watching the way her body trembled in the aftermath, his gaze dark, hungry, but soft. He shifted, gently moving her off of Caleb’s chest, guiding her down the bed until she lay beneath him, her limbs still loose and pliant from her release. Caleb’s warmth was still on her skin, his lips trailing one last lingering kiss against her shoulder before Rafayel took his place between her thighs.

He settled over her, his body solid, his heat a comforting weight against her over-sensitive skin. His fingers smoothed over her cheek, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear as he searched her gaze, as if making sure—one last time—that she was still with him, still here. "Breathe, cutie," he murmured, his voice gentle, lacking its usual teasing edge. "Let me in."

She did. She breathed.

Rafayel pressed himself against her, the thick head of his cock nudging at her entrance, teasing at the stretch she had not yet fully felt. He moved slowly, watching every flicker of expression on her face, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, down her throat, his patience a stark contrast to the need burning in his own body.

"Relax," Caleb murmured from beside her, his voice low, soothing, his hand stroking up and down her arm. "Let him take you like you were meant to be taken."

She swallowed, exhaling another slow breath, trusting, and when Rafayel pushed forward, she felt it—the stretch, the pressure, the slight sting of something entirely new. Her body tensed, just for a moment, but she didn’t run, didn’t pull away, only breathed through it, letting her fingers curl into Rafayel’s back as he stilled, waiting for her.

"That’s it," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, his hands stroking over her sides, keeping her grounded. "Just take me. Let your body learn me."

The pain wasn’t sharp, wasn’t unbearable—just a new kind of discomfort, one that faded bit by bit as she adjusted to the size of him. Rafayel groaned, low and ragged, pressing his forehead against hers as he sank deeper, his arms trembling slightly with the sheer restraint it took to keep from thrusting into her fully.

"Gods," Caleb whispered, his breath uneven as he watched, his fingers stroking soothing lines along her stomach. "You’re so beautiful like this."

Rafayel exhaled harshly, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to hold still, giving her time to adjust. "You feel…" he swallowed thickly, pressing another kiss to her lips, "better than I ever could have imagined."

She moaned softly, shifting slightly, feeling the way his body filled hers completely, the heat of him pressing deep, stretching her in ways that left her breathless. It was so much, but she wanted it, wanted him, wanted this. Slowly, carefully—she lifted her hips, just slightly, just enough to tell him she was ready. Rafayel—groaning, cursing, trembling—began to move.

Rafayel let out a deep, shuddering breath as she shifted beneath him, her body allowing him, welcoming him. His restraint was a fragile thing, stretched thin between the desperate need to claim her and the overwhelming desire to worship her properly, to make this first time something she would always remember. His fingers flexed at her waist, his grip firm but gentle, as if grounding himself in the feeling of her soft skin beneath his palms.

"That’s it," he murmured against her lips, his voice hoarse with control as he slowly pulled back, only to press into her again, inch by inch, feeding her body the full, aching stretch of him. "Just like that, cutie. Take me."

Her breath hitched, her hands clenching around the sheets before moving—instinctively—to his back, her fingers tracing the ridges of his muscles as he moved within her. There was still a slight ache, a lingering tightness, but with each slow thrust, with every whisper of his lips against her throat, it eased, melted into something else, something warmer, something that sent tiny sparks of pleasure curling at the base of her spine.

Caleb shifted beside her, his fingers stroking lazy circles over her stomach, his voice a low, appreciative murmur against her ear. "Look at you," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek, "taking him so well." His fingers trailed higher, brushing over the swell of her breasts, his touch light, teasing, sending another shiver through her already over-sensitized body.

Rafayel groaned at his words, his grip tightening just slightly on her hips as he thrust a little deeper, watching her, watching every flicker of expression on her face. "Does it feel good?" he asked, his lips brushing against her temple, his breath warm, heavy. "Tell me, cutie. Tell me how you feel."

She moaned softly, her body arching into the slow, measured rhythm of his thrusts, pleasure now coiling deep where once there had only been hesitation. "Full," she gasped, her fingers sliding into his dark hair, holding him close. "So full…"

Rafayel groaned again, his pace still slow, too slow, his body aching to take her fully, to claim her in the way that had haunted his thoughts for weeks. But he didn’t rush—not yet, not when she was still adjusting to him, still feeling her way through the new sensations washing over her. Instead, he rolled his hips, grinding into her just slightly, dragging a deeper, breathier moan from her lips.

"You hear that, Caleb?" Rafayel murmured, his smirk barely restrained despite the hunger in his gaze. "She likes being full of me."

Caleb chuckled, his fingers teasing along the sensitive peaks of her breasts, rolling them lightly as he pressed another slow, languid kiss to the curve of her jaw. "*I think she’ll like it even more when you stop holding back," he mused, his voice full of dark amusement. "Let her feel what it’s like to truly be taken."

A shiver ran through her at his words, heat spiking between her thighs at the very idea of it. She whimpered softly, shifting beneath Rafayel, her own hips rolling just slightly, her body asking for more before her mind could even form the words. His breath left him in a sharp, shaky groan, his control snapping as he finally gave in to what his body craved. He gripped her hips tighter, shifting his weight just enough to angle himself better, and then—

He thrust, deeper, firmer, filling her completely, dragging a cry from her lips as pleasure spiked through her.

"Fuck," Caleb groaned, watching the way her body reacted, how her lips parted, how her nails bit into Rafayel’s skin. "That’s it, love. Let him ruin you."

Rafayel groaned at his words, his rhythm deepening, rolling his hips with each thrust, making sure she felt every inch of him. "She was made for this," he growled, his lips brushing over her mouth, "made to take me-to take us."

Rafayel’s grip tightened on her hips as he lifted her, adjusting the angle, and Gods—she felt it. Felt the way he pushed deeper, the thick, slow drag of his cock stretching her in ways that left her breathless, reduced to little more than moans and gasps. His pace picked up, the roll of his hips more insistent now, more demanding, each thrust forcing a fresh wave of pleasure through her as the bed beneath them creaked in protest.

The sound of it—the rhythm of their bodies moving together, the lewd slick of her wetness coating him with every deep stroke—was joined by another sound, one that made her entire body burn. A soft, breathy groan—not from her, but from Caleb.

She forced her heavy-lidded gaze upward just in time to see him pulling Rafayel’s head back, his fingers threading through his dark hair, tilting him up until their mouths met. Caleb kissed him slowly, deeply, languidly, his tongue teasing against Rafayel’s lips in a way that was just as filthy as the way Rafayel was moving inside her.

She moaned, her walls fluttering around Rafayel’s cock at the sheer sight of it, at the way Rafayel groaned into Caleb’s mouth, his body stuttering for just a second before regaining his rhythm.

Caleb pulled back only slightly, his lips curving, swollen from the kiss, his gaze flicking down to her. "We didn’t forget you, love," he whispered, his voice like silk, before leaning down, brushing his mouth against hers, stealing the soft, breathless noises from her lips.

She melted between them, her head tilting up, her mouth parting to let him in, to let him take what he wanted. His kiss was different from Rafayel’s—smoother, teasing, his tongue stroking hers in a way that made her toes curl. And then, a shift—

Rafayel joined.

The three of them tangled into the kiss, mouths brushing, tongues teasing against one another, the heat of it sending another sharp pulse of need through her. Caleb kissed her first, slow and deep, before tilting toward Rafayel, letting their lips meet again before shifting back to her, passing the taste between them, keeping her trapped in the space of their shared breath.

Her body twitched beneath them, overwhelmed by the pleasure, by the sheer intensity of being wanted this way. Rafayel’s hips never stopped moving, his cock filling her over and over, the pace just shy of brutal now, his control hanging by a thread.

Caleb smirked against her lips, his fingers slipping over her jaw, tilting her chin just so as he whispered, "Such a good girl for us."

Rafayel groaned at his words, his grip on her hips bruising now, his mouth crashing back into the kiss, taking both of them at once.

The pleasure crashed over her in an unbearable wave, her body clenching down around Rafayel as she came, her moans swallowed between both their mouths. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, broken apart by gasps and whimpers as her climax tore through her, her walls tightening in desperate, rhythmic pulses around the thick length buried deep inside her. Rafayel groaned, his grip bruising on her hips as he thrust one final time, pressing as deep as he could, his cock twitching before spilling his release inside her.

He held there for a moment, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath ragged and uneven, his fingers tracing idle, soothing patterns along her thighs as if to calm her, to let her feel everything. Then, with a slow, shuddering exhale, he pulled away, withdrawing from her with a slick, wet sound that left her whimpering at the sudden emptiness. Her body was still trembling, her mind hazy from the lingering aftershocks, but before she could fully catch her breath—

Caleb was there.

"My turn," he murmured, his voice thick with want, his hands already curling under her legs, pulling them up, pressing them over his shoulders in one smooth, effortless motion. She gasped, her over-sensitive body jolting at the movement, her skin flushed and dewy with sweat, but Caleb didn’t pause. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with need, and though he tried for patience, it was clear he had little left.

He pressed himself to her entrance, the thick, swollen head of his cock nudging against her, teasing her open, and she whimpered—he was bigger than Rafayel, and her body was still fluttering from the aftershocks of her release. But Caleb’s hands were steady, warm, smoothing over her thighs in silent reassurance.

"Shh, love," he whispered, lowering himself over her, his chest pressing against hers as he leaned down to capture her lips. "You can take me."

She gasped against his mouth as he pushed inside, the slow, steady stretch deeper than she was prepared for, her still-sensitive walls fluttering helplessly around him. He groaned into her mouth, his kiss messy, all tongue and heat and desperate claiming, his breath shuddering against her lips as he forced himself to go slow.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his fingers digging into the backs of her thighs, holding her open as he sank further. "Still so fucking tight after he’s had you…"

She whimpered at his words, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin as she felt the way he filled her, how every inch of him stretched her in a way that was almost too much but not enough. His hips rolled forward, working himself deeper, taking his time despite the way his body shook with restraint.

"Good girl," he murmured, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath hot against her lips as he rocked slowly, letting her feel the weight of him, the way he fit. "Taking me so well…just like you should."

Caleb knew he wasn’t going to last—knew the second he had pressed inside her, felt the tight, quivering clutch of her body still wrung out from Rafayel’s touch. Watching them together, seeing Rafayel claim her first, hearing the broken moans from her lips as she was taken between them—it had left him already teetering, his body drawn so tight he could barely breathe. Now, with her wrapped around him, soft and slick, her nails scraping against his back, he was already so close it was maddening.

His hand slipped between them, his fingers seeking the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, stroking firm and sure, knowing exactly how to push her over the edge. "Cum for me," he demanded against her lips, his voice low, breathless, desperate. "I want to feel you squeeze me."

She did—her body tensing beneath him as another orgasm crashed over her, her walls fluttering and gripping him so tightly that he groaned, his rhythm faltering. Her gasping cries filled the air, her back arching, her thighs trembling against his shoulders, and that was it—the final push that ruined him.

"Fuck—" he gritted out, his hips jerking once, twice, and then he was gone, pleasure snapping through him so violently he almost saw white. He barely had the control to pull out, dragging himself free with a groan before spilling hot, thick ropes of his release across her stomach, painting her flushed skin with his pleasure. His breath shook, his body shaking with the sheer force of it, and for a long moment, all he could do was hover over her, trying to catch himself.

Then—Rafayel moved.

"You made a mess," Rafayel murmured, but there was no chastisement in his tone, only fond amusement, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips as he leaned over, brushing Caleb’s damp curls from his forehead. "We should clean her up before she falls asleep like this."

Caleb huffed a breathless laugh, still gathering himself, still inside the aftershocks of pleasure, but nodded. "Yeah," he murmured, shifting back, pressing a soft kiss to her temple before moving off of her fully. "We should."

She lay there, still trembling slightly, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lips swollen from their kisses, her skin flushed and glistening. She blinked up at them, dazed, her body still humming with the echoes of pleasure, her limbs boneless, pliant. Rafayel pressed a slow kiss to her lips, his hands gentle as he trailed them over her body, soothing, worshipful.

Then, with a murmur of, "Stay still, cutie," he reached for a cloth and a pitcher of warm water, carefully wiping her clean, his movements slow, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to tend to her. Caleb helped, his fingers smoothing over her stomach, wiping away the remnants of his release, his touch soft, careful. She sighed under their attention, letting herself be taken care of, letting them see her, cherish her.

When they were satisfied, Rafayel handed her a cup of fresh water, his gaze insistent as he guided it to her lips. "Drink," he said softly, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. "You need to replenish yourself."

She obeyed, sipping slowly, though her body still hummed with exhaustion, warmth curling around her like a cocoon. Caleb smirked, brushing his fingers along her cheek. "Good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "We’ll take care of you."

Rafayel settled in beside her, drawing her into his arms, his body warm, solid, his heartbeat steady against her ear. Caleb stretched out on her other side, pressing himself against her, draping a lazy arm across her waist. Between them, she felt safe, cherished, whole.

"The night is young," Rafayel murmured, his fingers tracing idle patterns against her hip. "Let’s rest and recoup our energy."

Caleb chuckled against her hair, his voice teasing but fond. "That sounds like a threat, Duke."

Rafayel smirked, his lips grazing her temple. "Perhaps it is."

She sighed, sinking deeper into their warmth, her body heavy, sated, loved.

—

Morning arrived in gentle, golden hues, the sun casting long, dappled shadows across the grand bedchamber. The scent of the night still lingered in the heavy air—musk, sweat, the remnants of kisses that had stolen her breath, of hands that had set her body aflame. The sheets were still tangled around her, the warmth of their bodies long gone from her skin, replaced now by a cool emptiness that sent an unfamiliar ache curling deep in her chest.

She should have been content, her body still tender from their touch, her mind hazy with the memories of the night before. But something was different, the absence of their warmth too noticeable, the stillness of the room interrupted by the quiet murmur of voices. She stayed still, her breathing even, feigning sleep as their hushed conversation drifted toward her, as soft as the morning light yet carrying something far heavier, something that made her stomach tighten in unease.

"This was always the plan," Caleb’s voice was the first to break through the quiet, steady yet low, a softness that lacked its usual teasing lilt. "We knew what we had to do." There was something about the way he said it, the weight of those words, that sent a prickle of something sharp skittering down her spine.

A pause. A silence that stretched just long enough to make her pulse quicken before Rafayel finally spoke, his voice quieter, almost contemplative. "You wanted a family."

Her stomach twisted, cold dread settling in the pit of her stomach as the words settled over her, thick and suffocating. She barely had time to process the sharp sting they brought before Rafayel continued, his tone softer now, more deliberate. "I care for her deeply," he murmured, "but I would have never done this if you hadn’t said you wanted a child."

Her blood ran cold.

Her fingers clenched around the sheets, gripping them as if she could anchor herself, as if she could hold back the overwhelming wave of emotions crashing through her. Her breath came slower, more measured, her chest rising and falling evenly despite the way her heart pounded hard against her ribs, trying to break free from her skin.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could unhear it, as if pretending it hadn’t been said would change what she now knew to be true. The realization was slow, sinking into her like ice spreading through her veins, chilling her from the inside out. She had never truly questioned why they had wanted her.

It had seemed simple before. She was theirs. She fit into their world, into the warmth of their arms, into the desire they had ignited inside of her—but she had never once asked herself if need had ever played a part in it.

Now, it was painfully clear.

The memory of the debutante’s sharp, knowing words at the Queen’s ball came rushing back, cutting into her like a blade. Are you merely here to produce heirs, or do you intend to serve as a true Duchess? She had laughed at it then, dismissed it as petty cruelty, as the jealousy of a girl who would never know the kind of love she had found in Rafayel and Caleb’s arms.

But now, she could not laugh.

Because hadn’t that girl been right?

Her stomach curled in on itself, a slow, creeping ache spreading through her chest, wrapping tight around her lungs like a vice. Caleb wanted a family. Two men could not have one together.

So they needed her. Was that all she was? A means to an end? A necessary piece of a puzzle they had already built together, simply because one of them lacked a womb?

She did not move, did not let herself react, because if she did—if she let the pain show—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop herself from breaking. She had never imagined life without them, had never considered what it would mean if they had never needed her at all. But now, as she lay there, as their whispered voices continued, the heavy truth settled over her like a weight she could not lift.

"I do love her, Rafayel," Caleb’s voice was softer now, tinged with something raw, something almost uncertain. "That hasn’t changed. I didn’t think it would feel like this, but…" He hesitated, exhaling, his voice barely more than a breath. "She fits, doesn’t she?"

There was another pause, one that stretched too long, too uncertain, before Rafayel answered. "She does," he admitted, his voice unreadable. "She does."

And yet—despite those words, despite whatever comfort they were meant to bring—the ache remained because they could have lived without her. They had lived without her. And she—she wasn’t sure she could live without them. A cruel truth whispered in the back of her mind, one she had no power to silence.

If not for one of them lacking a womb, they would have never needed you at all. The pain of that realization was unlike anything she had ever known.

The silence was thick, suffocating, pressing down on her like the weight of too many unspoken truths. She sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around her waist, her limbs still heavy, weak from the indulgences of the night before—but none of it felt pleasurable anymore. The warmth of their hands, their lips, the way they had worshipped her like she was something more than just a means to an end—it all felt sickeningly hollow now.

She lifted her gaze, staring at them both, her expression unreadable but her hurt evident in the tremble of her bottom lip, in the way her fingers curled tightly into the sheets at her chest. If this truth had been spoken before—before she had stood at the altar, before she had spoken her vows, before she had given herself to them—perhaps she could have walked away. Perhaps she would have spared herself from this ache, from this slow, twisting knife burrowing deeper into her heart with every second that passed.

But she was married now. She had been claimed, had been bound by name, by duty, by the vows that should have meant everything. There was no leaving now.

She wasn’t angry—not in the way a woman scorned would be, not in the way that demanded screams or thrown vases or tears that fell so freely. She was too proud for theatrics, too measured, too controlled for that. But she did not know what to say, did not know how to turn the profound hurt in her chest into something that would make sense to them.

"Is that all I am?" she whispered, her voice barely above breath, and yet it cut through the space between them like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

They both turned instantly, their expressions shifting from shock to something close to horror as they took in the way she gripped the sheets to her chest like a shield, as if protecting herself from them. She moved to rise, her legs unsteady, her body still weak from the endless night of pleasure that now felt like nothing more than a cruel setup. But her mind wasn’t focused on the trembling of her limbs—it was focused on the sickening thought that clawed its way through her stomach, one she had not considered before.

Her breath hitched, and she looked straight at Rafayel, her pulse roaring in her ears. "You were the only one to spend inside me," she said, her voice tight, a breathless kind of accusation buried in the words. "Was that planned too?"

Rafayel’s lips parted slightly, his expression unreadable for half a second before something worse—regret—flickered through his violet-blue eyes. "It wasn’t—" He cut himself off, his jaw tightening, and she saw it—the truth he didn’t want to speak.

"Gods," she exhaled, shaking her head, bile rising in her throat. "It was planned."

"No," Caleb said quickly, his voice laced with something pleading, something desperate. "Not like that—not how you think. We didn’t—" He sighed sharply, running a hand through his hair, looking to Rafayel with something frantic in his gaze. 

"Tell her," he demanded, his voice raw. "Tell her what you told me last night."

Rafayel swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, his hands clenching at his sides as if he knew no words would undo what she had already decided. "I care for you," he said, quieter this time, his voice lacking the confidence, the control he so often wielded like a weapon. "I care for you deeply."

"But would you have done it if Caleb hadn’t wanted a child?" she snapped, and there it was—the anger breaking through, sharp and acidic. "Would you have ever married me if not for that?"

Silence. A silence so crushing it made her stomach churn.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the ache spreading through her ribs, through her fingertips, through every part of her that had once felt whole in their arms. "Was that girl right?" she whispered, her voice shaking now, her hands trembling. "Was I only ever here to give you an heir?"

Caleb flinched, his brows knitting together, pain flickering across his face like lightning across a dark sky. "No," he said fiercely, stepping forward, reaching for her, but she jerked back, her body tense, the distance between them suddenly a chasm. "You were never just that."

"Then what was I?" she demanded, her voice cracking under the weight of her own emotions. "What am I?"

Neither of them answered and somehow—that hurt more than anything else.

The words left her lips before she could stop them, cutting through the thick, suffocating silence like a blade. "I guess it's the truth of it then?" she murmured, her voice low, trembling at the edges, but still sharp, still controlled. "That I know I'd never be happy with anyone else, but you'd be just fine without me so long as he could carry your child."

The moment the words landed, she saw it—the way both of them stiffened, the way Caleb’s face twisted with something raw, something wounded, the way Rafayel’s lips parted as if he might protest, only to say nothing at all. That silence was worse than anger, worse than anything they could have said, because it proved it, didn’t it? Proved that she had not been wrong to feel this way, that she had seen the truth—and they had let her.

Her chest tightened, the first sting of tears cresting her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Not here. Not while they watched her, not while their faces were caught somewhere between remorse and hesitation, as if neither of them knew what to say. She exhaled slowly, rubbing her hands over her face, trying to breathe past the way her throat ached, past the way her body trembled with the weight of this truth.

Her fingers reached for the silk robe at the foot of the bed, the fabric cool beneath her fingertips as she slid it over her shoulders, tying it with careful, deliberate motions. If she faltered, if her hands shook as she pulled it tight around her waist, neither of them dared comment on it. "I'm going to my rooms now," she whispered, her voice barely above breath, too soft, too broken, wiping at her damp eyes before turning away from them completely.

She walked.

Her steps were slow at first, as if she expected one of them to stop her, to reach for her, to say something, but nothing came. The closer she got to the doors, the faster she moved, the weight in her chest growing heavier with each step, threatening to pull her under. By the time she reached the hall, she was shaking, her breath shallow as she made her way through the corridors of the estate, her mind a storm of emotions she couldn’t stop.

She reached her rooms—the ones she had prepared for the wedding, the ones she had thought she’d never have to use beyond appearances. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she pressed her hands to the edge of the dresser, her fingers curling against the polished wood as if clinging to it, as if holding on would keep her from crumbling.

Her breath came in uneven gasps, the tightness in her chest spreading, suffocating, clawing up her throat like something vicious. This hurt—Gods, it hurt more than she had expected, more than she had thought it should.

She had trusted them.

Trusted them to be truthful, to not hide things from her, to not let her believe she was something more if she wasn’t. She didn’t think they had meant to hurt her, didn’t believe for a second that they had sat down and plotted to use her this way—but that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That they loved her in some way, and still, it hadn’t been enough.

Still, they would have been fine without her. She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing against the nausea rising in her throat, against the sickening thought curling in the back of her mind. If she had never existed—if they had never met her—then what?

Would someone else have taken her place? Would Rafayel have married another woman, a woman who could carry Caleb’s child, a woman who fit into their perfect life just the same? She felt it then, the bitter, twisted sickness of the thought, the truth she could not outrun.

She was replaceable.

Her breath hitched, the first sob trying to claw its way free, but she swallowed it down, shaking her head violently, refusing to let it win. She would not cry over this. She would not break over this.

Still, she had never felt so hollow in her entire life. Chapter 11

[chaifootsteps]

Post-Veilguard, in light of the Blight being calmed and the Callings coming to an end.

---

The notice arrives late on a Sunday afternoon. There’s two letters, one bearing each of their names, and they open them standing around the foyer as the cats watch cautiously from the other room, disturbed by the arrival and departure of a strange man in blue and white armor.

Anders gets a paragraph in, swallows hard. “Is...is yours the same as…”

Ain nods.

“The Calling?”

Ain nods, never looking up.

Anders finishes his notice first. Lowers it to his side, exhales a long, slow breath, and says, in the voice of a man who was at peace with the alternative...

“Well, then...at least that’s one less thing I can expect to die of. What do you make of it?” Ain’s eyes, however, remain transfixed upon his letter. They reach the end, only to start back at the beginning, golden-browns darting, twice and then once more. Anders’ smile fades. “...Ain?”

The former Warden-Commander turns without a word and goes to stand out the back garden, where the Antivan thyme grows and the railing overlooks the sea. Anders follows hurriedly, padding barefoot after him, and finds him staring out at the horizon, expression as unreadable as fog on the bay. As he watches the wind shift his partner's dark curls, he remembers everything Ain’s ever told him about his Joining; how he was only 16 years old, never knowing the true cost. How he never spoke of it, never voiced regret, only did everything like he was running out of time.

“Ain, talk to me, please. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Finally, Ain does. And though his tone is as calm and steady as ever, a voice that's shot down Templars and soothed Amaranthine mobs, Anders thinks he sees a distinct shine upon his eyes.

“I’m thinking that we head into town, and have dinner at that place overlooking the city...the one where we had the fish ribs. I'm thinking we linger as long as we please over coffee, and on the way back we pick up something for the cats at the market, and when we get home, we lock the doors and I kiss every last inch of your body. Does that suit you?”

Anders exhales his second sigh of slow, glorious relief that day. It will most certainly not be the last.

"Measured and fitted, Fearless Leader."

***

When the summons arrives at the Grand Cathedral, the rain has been falling all morning. A light, warm drizzle, the kind that puts buds on fruit trees and wheat in fields, so very needed on a hungry south wounded by war and infected by Blight. It’s a drizzle that says the wet, sucking mud will go in time, and the grass will come again, and that someday, perhaps sooner than they think, they’ll all taste wine and cheese and butter on bread once more.

Leliana, despite knowing everything that comes and goes in the cathedral she’s seated out of, only learns of it when she finds her wife sobbing on the ground.

“Itha? Itha!” she implores, hitting her knees, taking Itha’s tattooed face between her hands. She tries to recall the last time Itha’s grief was greater than the strength it took to rise up off her knees and her mind goes back decades...back to when Tamlen died, to Malkuth, to the night they mourned Alistair together. “Look at me, dearest! What happened?!”

Itha wordlessly passes her the notice. Free arm tight around her partner’s small, quaking shoulders, Leliana takes the vellum, reads it hurriedly. Before the end, her hands are trembling.

“Oh, my darling...”

And suddenly they’re both crying, right there on the marble floor of the most holy and opulent building in the south. By the time the servants realize and come running, they’ve made their way outside, hang appearances and hang the weather. The staff can only stand in the doorway, watching Divine Justinia in her robes and the Hero of Ferelden, two middle aged women laughing and crying and spinning around and around in the rain that's soaked them to their bones.

Knowing -- finally, at long, long last -- that they have the rest of their lives to warm up again.

[outofmyheadoutofmysoul]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Oh, fuck off—no one can see the future in a few damn pieces of paper.”

The woman sitting cross-legged on the worn-out rug in the dimly lit living room turned her pale, warning gaze toward the smug man sprawled across the couch. A few tarot cards still lingered in her hands, their edges resting on the carpet like brittle bones. She took a deep breath to steady herself—just like that therapist had once tried to teach her… Tried, because that poor woman had ended up in the ground like the rest. Melodie was never the type to hold back when angry. After that murder, she’d barely scraped by. What a time that was.

“You fucking idiot. Didn’t I tell you to shut your damn mouth?”

The young man lounging on the couch, casually swirling the golden liquid in his bottle, flashed a shameless grin. Pissing people off was one of his favorite addictions—right up there with alcohol and chaos. Jeff brushed his dark hair back from his face and stared at the woman sitting on the floor. He and Melodie had never gotten along—and he couldn't blame either of them for it. He'd rather fucking die than try to get along with that bitch.

“What? I’m trying to save you from this bullshit scam. It's a goddamn waste of time.” Jeff grinned even wider, eager to see just how far he could push her tonight. “Instead of playing with that dumb shit, you should be down between my legs right now…”

“No one wants your tiny dick,” she snapped back. Melodie had long since learned to fire back hard. Jeff fucked with her every single day. “I'd get more pleasure grinding on a patch of poison ivy than touching whatever's rotting between your legs.”

Jeff choked on his beer right as she finished the sentence. He tossed the empty can straight at the tarot cards, now scattered across the rug, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. For Melodie—who was a master at bruising fragile egos—it was a clear victory.

“You filthy bitch!” Jeff’s deep, now-red eyes burned with rage as he barked the words.

“Jeff! You trashed everything, you fucking asshole!” she shouted, frantically trying to gather her soaked cards. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

The fight had already drawn attention from others in the mansion. Funny, considering this place—this so-called “home”—was in a constant state of chaos. Screaming matches were basically background noise. But tonight was different. Tonight, the Boss, Slender Man himself, was having a meeting in his study—and even the faintest noise could earn them a bloodbath. Of course, Jeff, arrogant little shit that he was, didn’t give a damn. He fed off conflict like it was oxygen.

The two only backed off when EJ walked in. Melodie slowly withdrew the sharp scissors she’d been pressing to Jeff’s neck, a deep, guttural growl still rumbling in her throat. She hated being interrupted.

“Jeff, put the knife down, or do I have to fucking rip it out of your hand?” The blue-masked man spoke with the tone of a fed-up parent—but with way more profanity. Most parents didn’t cuss out their kids.

Jeff, with a tired sigh, pulled the rusty blade away from her body. He rolled his eyes, muttering curses under his breath as he stomped toward the door. If he couldn’t get drunk in the living room, he’d just go rot in his room instead.

God, would he ever get to slice that bitch in two?

After Jeff stormed off—without a single word, strangely enough—EJ and Melodie were alone in the room. The stench of spilled beer mixing with the rotting odor wafting in through the open window made Melodie want to gag. Possibly the worst smell she’d ever encountered. She dropped to her knees to gather her tarot cards, muttering curses under her breath, her anger barely simmering beneath the surface.

“You’re both batshit insane,” EJ said as he crouched beside her to help. His black eyes were unreadable behind the blue mask. Melodie couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or being serious. “Y’know, people like you two fight like rabid dogs and end up naked in bed the next morning.”

“You're disgusting, EJ.” Melodie rolled her eyes. “If you’d said that about you and me, I’d maybe let it slide. But Jeff? Stop fucking deluding yourself.”

Once all the cards were back in a single, ragged deck and safely tucked into their pouch, Melodie thanked EJ and grabbed the faded purple shawl she'd left on the armchair.

The masked man spoke again.

“I’m serious. Jeff’s a total son of a bitch, a complete shit-stirrer. But you women always have this 'I can fix him' syndrome. You sure you’re not into him?”

EJ wasn’t like Jeff—he was sharper, more measured. If Melodie had to choose, she’d pick a guy like EJ in a heartbeat. Still, she couldn’t tell if he was joking or if there was some angle to what he was saying. He’d always felt more like an older brother than anything else, and somehow, Melodie actually listened to him—more than anyone else. Maybe he knew something she didn’t.

She was quiet for a moment before answering. “…I’m not dating him because I’d strangle him on the first day. By morning, you’d find him in bed, his guts spilling out of his stomach.”

EJ laughed—he couldn’t help it. That was exactly the kind of woman Jeff dreamed about.

“Pretty sure that’d turn him on.”

About an hour later, while Jeff was sprawled out on the floor of his room listening to music, a knock at the door tore his gaze away from the ceiling. He was still fuming, and whoever was on the other side of that door was about to be declared public enemy number one. Grumbling, he got up slowly and shuffled toward the locked door.

The moment he opened it, his scowl deepened. Of course. The pain-in-the-ass woman was standing there, pale blue eyes and her hair tied up in a messy bun like she owned the damn world.

“I didn’t order an escort,” he sneered, letting his eyes scan her body just to piss her off.

“I swear to fucking god, cut the whore jokes before I rip your dick off,” Melodie growled. It took every ounce of her self-control not to do it right then and there. “EJ forced me to come apologize. Not like I’m dying to waste my time with you—”

She was determined to finish her sentence, but... then she heard it.

“Wait—are you listening to My Chemical Romance?”

Jeff watched the furious expression on her face melt into something almost childlike—curiosity, maybe even excitement. The transformation was wild. It was like she’d been hypnotized. What, she listened to MCR too? He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, giving her a smug once-over.

“Don’t bullshit me. You? Listening to MCR? Bet you can’t even name five songs.”

“Eat shit with your sexist crap,” Melodie snapped, but then her eyes locked onto something behind him—something on his wall. “Holy shit, is that a Gerard Way poster?”

Like a ghost, she glided right past him and into his room without permission, eyes darting around in wonder. She hated to admit it, but—fuck—it seemed like their styles weren’t that different after all. How the hell could someone with this much taste still choose to be such an insufferable bastard? It genuinely made no sense to her.

Watching her snoop around his room, Jeff couldn’t help but chuckle. Her interest was inflating his ego more than he wanted to admit. Maybe, just maybe, he could stop poking at her like a ten-year-old and just... talk music.

“I’ve got all the albums,” he said, gesturing toward the neatly stacked CDs on top of his bookshelf. “Stole this CD player from Ben. Works like a charm when you're crying your eyes out at 3 a.m.”

The two of them laughed, as if they hadn’t just been trying to stab each other an hour ago. Somehow, the tension between them had vanished. They sat down, listened to music together, shared their favorite songs, talked about artists they loved. With each topic that came up, the urge to know more about each other only grew stronger.

“Give me your hand,” Melodie said after a brief chuckle, reaching toward Jeff.

It was a foreign gesture to him—no one ever wanted to hold Jeff’s hand. Usually, his palms were crusted with dried blood and dirt, his fingernails packed with red, and he was, frankly, a disaster when it came to hygiene. Before offering his hand, his blue eyes dropped to his own palm, like he was trying to figure out why the hell she even wanted to touch it.

“Which one do you want? Left or right?” Jeff asked, trying to buy time.

“Left.”

A little embarrassed, like he was about to lose his hand-holding virginity or something, Jeff slowly held out his left hand. Melodie’s delicate fingers cradled his large, calloused one. Jeff watched every move she made like a hawk. His right hand, out of habit, had already twitched toward his knife. Just in case.

Melodie’s pale blue eyes scanned his palm closely. Of course—she was reading it.

“Hm… Your head line’s broken, fragmented… means your thoughts are inconsistent,” she murmured, leaning in closer. “Ah, yeah, and a crooked life line… that means you’ve got a lot of energy. Which, yeah, I can see that.”

“I have no fucking clue what you’re on about. Are you casting a fucking spell on me or something?” Jeff scowled. The vagueness was making him uncomfortable. He tried to pull his hand away, but Melodie didn’t let him.

“Stay still! I haven’t even checked your heart line, shithead.”

Jeff grumbled and gave up the fight, letting her do her weird psychic nonsense. Life line, heart line... none of it meant a damn thing to him. Still, unlike him, Melodie clearly believed in this stuff. He judged her for it, sure, but when he saw her eyes suddenly widen—something shifted.

“…What? What’s it say? What does my ‘heart line’ say?” Jeff asked, catching on to her frozen expression. “What the fuck did you see? What?!”

The black-haired boy tried to yank his hand back to see what the hell had made her go mute, but he couldn’t figure it out. Melodie’s pale eyes were glowing now—and it was driving him crazy that she wouldn’t just spit it out.

“I—I need to go.”

Like she was escaping a crime scene, the young woman bolted from the room, leaving Jeff sitting there, alone and confused.

She sprinted down the dark hallway and made a beeline back to the living room. EJ was still there, scrubbing spilled beer out of the carpet. When he noticed her panting, he dropped the soap and sponge and turned to her.

“What’s with the panic? Weren't you in Jeff’s room?” His face was hidden behind his mask, but his voice made it clear—he was grinning.

“What happened?”

“EJ, I fucked up,” Melodie hissed, crouching down next to him and speaking in a whisper only he could hear. “I tried to read his palm. You know what I saw? A giant fucking M.”

“Would you look at that… Seriously?” EJ laughed. He had always known these two were tied by some twisted thread of fate. “Knew I was right all along.”

Melodie growled in frustration. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening. “No fucking way. Not in a million years. I’d rather die than end up with him.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[labyrinthdancer]

thx for the tag Somer!! :D

1. How many works on AO3? 60!

2. Total AO3 word count? 126,554 

3. Top 5 fics by kudos:

Heroes in a realm of Shade the chain meet Shade, as well as drama. the king of my kudos, continuing to rain supreme

Wolf in Nobel's Clothes Twilight is at a party and he hates it :) he also meets the chain

Soldier in the School House part of my Triple Time AU, Mask goes to school!

Twilight no good horrible night also from Triple Time, Twi gets chased through the city by TIme and Wars

Royal regrets Legend and Twilight talk about possession, and angst

4. What fandoms do you write for? Linked Universe exclusively

5. Do you respond to comments? Yes!!!! I love getting comments and responding!!! They fuel my soul :P

6. Fic with the angstiest ending: O-O oh boi… thats a hard one. Um either Harmed(Twi is tortures then dies) or the punishment for failure(where Twi is tortured BUT doesn’t die!)

7. Fic with the happiest ending: … (Do I- do I even HAVE those?) I would say Heroes in a realm of Shade again it ends on a pretty good note

8. Do you get hate? Luckly no! Everyones been nice so far! :D

9. Do you write smut? Nope!

10. Do you write crossovers? Also no, I’ve never had a desire to write any of my ideas besides LU :)

11. Ever had a fic stolen? 👀 I don’t think so

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? No. closest I‘ve gotta was considering writing some in Standard Galactic or some Loz fonts, to better read/learn them but I’ve yet to put that thought into action

13. Have you ever co-written a fic? Nope :P

14. All-time favorite ship? Do you want me to go chronologically or alphabetically? Lol, but for real I love so many different ships I don’t think I could pick a favorite XP

But some of the ones I like are: Dark/Twilight(Linked universe), Bumblebee/Charlie(transformers), Red/Blue(Pokemon)

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Nope! :D have a couple AUs I’ll prob never touch again but no WIPs!

16. Writing strengths? describing gore/body horror i feel like i’m pretty good at making things really gross :]

17. Writing weaknesses? Everything Probably dialog, and working with multipule people in one scene, I never know what to do with them XD

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue? Its cool, I like it and like using it! But it can also be used poorly 👀*side eyes my older works* yeeeah… it can get pretty unreadable

19. First fandom you wrote for? Linked Universe

20. Favorite fic you've ever written? Oof choosing between my babies… its prob Ranch Life Troubles 

no pressure tags! @musical-chan @hotcheetohatredwastaken @whatvioletdoes-blog

Tagged by the wonderful @zarvasace

1. How many works on AO3? 8!

2. Total AO3 word count? 132k Which is, uh, more than 10k a month. How did I manage that?

3. Top 5 fics by kudos:

Two Moon Pearls and the Master Sword the chain gatecrash Legend's first quest. Honestly, I'll be surprised if this is ever surpassed. It's my oldest, but also it's a good combination in terms of length, accessibility, and story I think.

Ocarina, Oracle Sequel to the above! The chain gatecrash OoA and OoT. There's a pipeline from people reading Moon Pearls to reading this nowadays. It'll be interesting to see how it goes, it is a longer read after all.

Mandatory Puppy Pile The funniest and shortest fic I have. This was second place after Moon Pearls for a long, long time. We love wolfbrain Twi.

Reasonable Assumptions The little fic that could. This came out after Moon Pearls and it's always done... fine. It's not the funniest, or best, or angstiest or most anything else of anything I've done, but it chugs along. Hyrule, Legend and Wild meet in Hyrule's era. None of them realise time travel has occurred.

Requiem of the Wind Ghost ship and space whales. 8.5k Wind centric one shot. I feel like this one is very me lmao. I like it! It'd be nice if it got more attention. I reckon Fortuity is going to overtake it though.

4. What fandoms do you write for? Zelda/LU exclusively at the moment

5. Do you respond to comments? Yep, all of them. The authors that influenced me tended to do it, so it just seemed the normal thing to do.

6. Fic with the angstiest ending: Hero of Hyrule The fic people skip, presumably because it's dark. I wouldn't say it's an unhappy ending though.

7. Fic with the happiest ending: Fortuity Shot story, happy ending, and co-author who would happily write the fluff for me <3

8. Do you get hate? Nah. Shout out to the bookmark that called OcaOra a solid 7/10 for being complicated and not as emotional as preferred though LMAO

9. Do you write smut? I have not written fic smut 😐

10. Do you write crossovers? Nope

11. Ever had a fic stolen? Nope, not that I'm aware of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Nope again!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic? @whitewinterstar and I wrote Fortuity together! It was a fun time <3

14. All-time favorite ship? I'm not much of a shipper to be perfectly honest! 'All time' is a big ask too!

Uhh, I loved Nagisa and Tomoya in Clannad After Story.

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Ha haaa... I'm gonna work on Completionist again one day, really I am.

16. Writing strengths? APPARENTLY PACING??? I've had several people complement this recently so huh. Dialogue, characterisation, having a couple of genres going at once.

17. Writing weaknesses? Painting a picture of the setting, generally setting the environment, fights probably, too much telling and not enough showing sometimes.

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue? I don't really have thoughts on mixed language dialogue. 🤷‍♀️ Maybe I should get some.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Technically I have a single Naruto one shot out there...

20. Favorite fic you've ever written? Two Moon Pearls and the Master Sword will always be my baby.

Tagging: @needfantasticstories @nyastri @not-freyja @zolanort @somer-writes

[sukirichi]

sweet lies [02]

His lies were way too sweet – and you were too addicted to make him stop.

cw. explicit smut, slight body worship, public sex, dirty talk, praising, toxic megumi, fwb dynamics, slight angst, body marking, sukuna bullying megumi, age gap, scratching, mentions of oral (m receiving) and mutual masturbation, the traditional unedited fic

note. choose your fighter, megumi or sukuna 😈 also UHM do you guys want me to make the ending angsty or fluffy? i wrote out two versions so LOL let me know what you think! we’ll get more of the megumi scenes on the next chapter though~

series masterlist | 01 | 02 | 03

Sukuna isn’t kidding when he said he’ll have you unable to walk by the end of this.

You’ve lost count of how many times you guys have fucked.

Once more in the stalls when you thought of repaying the favor by sucking him off, followed by him growing impatient and hauling you inside his car. Both of you were too tired to go for another round, but were still very much addicted for the other’s touch that mutual masturbation seems like the best option.

Thankfully, Sukuna’s cut his nails, so having three of his fingers buried knuckle deep in you feels like absolute heaven. He’s not complaining about your smooth hands wrapped around his shaft either, especially not when you’ve had enough practice with Megumi to know just how to make a guy lose his mind. By the time you’ve made it back home, Sukuna’s grown hard again, too impatient to make it to the bed before he just fucks you raw against the wall. You’re trembling at his hold, left with no choice but to trust his strength to drop you on his cock and bounce you to his pleasure.

It’s a miracle you’ve made it on the bed.

His digital clock reads a quarter at three in the morning, and for a moment, you worry about how tired you’ll be in class tomorrow when Sukuna’s large hands grips your thighs sharply.

“Goddamn,” he hisses through clenched teeth, chuckling at the irresistible sight of your breasts bouncing before him. Limbs tangled, minds controlled with the primal need to fuck, and moans shared with his deep grunts – you somehow end up on top of him, your thighs feeling like they’re on the verge of giving up as you continue to ride his thick length.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he slaps your ass and causes your hips to rut deeper, forcing that delicious curve of his cock to meld with your walls. You throw your head back, palms planted on his chest, focused only on that burning pleasure between your thighs. “I could fuck you all night long.”

Even though you truly have no wish to, you shake your head, fingers balling into a fist. “I have class tomorrow, need to wake up early,” you protest, the words falling into deaf ears as Sukuna thrusts up into you. He must’ve noticed how you’re growing tired and took matters into his own hands, feet grounded on the mattress to pound deliriously into you. You’re debating whether to be thankful or frustrated he still has so much energy even after hours of fucking, but it honestly doesn’t matter. You’re falling into his chest, arms slipping on your equally sweat-covered bodies. Right now, you just wanted to cum – once more, again, one last time! “Ah, Sukuna, t-too much!”

“Too much?” he laughs and tangles his hand to caress your scalp, the gesture too soothing that you almost forgot he’s fucking you into oblivion. “Want me to go slow?”

“No…”

“Thought so, sweetheart,” his grin is absolutely cocky as he bends his knees in a fold, pushing you until your back rests on his muscular thighs. Your mouth falls open at his hands wrapping around your threat, keeping you right there, hips flat and grinding on his cock. “Come on. Come for me,” Sukuna urges, tightening his hold around your neck a little harder.  

That’s all you need for your vision to blur and see stars, your body’s shaking uncontrollable. He’s thrusting with all his power and energy that it feels like you’re nothing but a hole on top of him, tongue falling open in a wanton manner as your drool trails down your chin.

You look filthy, you feel filthy, and yet, Sukuna sees it entirely different.

“So – fucking – gorgeous, fuck. I woulda fucked you sooner if I didn’t feel weird about it.”

“What?”

“Aw, come on, sweetheart,” he smirks at your half fucked out state. Sukuna rolls his hips in such a mind numbing manner that you end up staring at the ceiling, trying your hardest to decipher the colors of his room to get a grip of yourself. But he feels so hot, cock throbbing and pulsing inside you, your puffy lips encasing him with a translucent ring of cum and it feels so fucking good you don’t really understand what he’s saying anymore. “Did you really think I never saw you in my dreams?” he slaps your ass again, the reflexive response of tightening around him pulling a deep groan from the beautiful man beneath you. “I have such a sexy roommate, I couldn’t help it.”

“Then why didn’t you – ah, right there, shit – tell me?”

“Cuz,” he snickers and finally lets you breathe, your pupils blowing wide from the sudden flow of air. Sukuna kneads your breasts greedily, never stopping his mind-numbing rhythm of ramming deep into you. Your body burns, your thighs ache, your pussy feels sensitive but you can’t find the energy to stop him. Instead, you fall prey, failing in your mission to keep him wrapped around your fingers because now you’re wrapped around his cock, and you were quite fucking addicted to it. “You’re my friend’s student. Felt so fucking wrong.”

“What’s the difference now?”

“The difference is,” Sukuna’s face contorts into something of discomfort for a moment before he leans forward, his sturdy grip homing in on your hips again. You feel his searing breath on your ear, so parching it puts the warmth of your pussy to shame. “Having you like this has never felt so right, and I’ll keep fucking you if you let me.”

“I-I’d let you,” you concede absentmindedly and capture his lips for a sloppy kiss, tongues giving up on a battle of dominance. You’re always so clingy when you’re about to come, something Megumi never fails to chastise you for, and you fear Sukuna might push you away as you wrap an arm around him, nails painfully scratching down his back. Red marks leave a trail on its wake until his blood pierces through the sheets, the pain manifested through the increasing roughness of his pace. Now it’s your turn to whimper in his ear, pulling the man close and tugging harshly at the ends of his hair. Gosh, were you actually crying? “Sukuna, I’m close! Yes, yes, right there!”

Sukuna groans at the erotic sounds you reward him with. “Come for me, that’s right, ohhhh,” he stills inside you, his seed spilling deep inside you. You wince at the burst of warmth spreading all over your belly and Sukuna chuckles at your bulging belly. He presses down on it to coax his cum to trickle all over his cock, and he’s fucking filthy – you learn easily – to watch you make a mess on his cock with a childish smile on his face.

You push yourself off him and fall to his side, him following suit not long afterwards. The room feels completely stuffed from your intense fucking, the bruises on your body and scratches on his back a huge attestment to that.

Your legs remain wide open as you clench around nothing, his cum oozing out like a waterfall. Sukuna (that damned pervert) dips two fingers into your hole for one last moment just to drench his fingers in it, his eyes lit up in wonder while he lets it web around his fingers. You snicker at his actions and roll to his side, eyes fluttering close from the wave of exhaustion that comes into full force.

The lingerie set you intended to wear for Megumi was now ripped at the other side of the room, discarded, forgotten – merely evidence of a moment that had never been given to him.

Oddly enough, you don’t feel bad, not even when Sukuna faces you, his cheeks squished by his soft pillows. “I’m spent. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired. My gym sessions can’t compare to this.”

“You go to the gym?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t born this gorgeous, you know. I had to work hard for this,” Sukuna gestures to his body. You can’t help but follow the gestures and admire the hard planes of his muscle ripped above one another, the smatter of dark hair leading down his hips adding to his already immense sexual charisma. It makes you want to jump on him all over again, and you have to bite your lip to resist that urge, rolling your eyes at him in favor of letting him know you could totally go for another round.

“Dork.”

“Got me laid though, was worth the effort,” he jokes, and you both laugh.

It’s actually…weird, to laugh so casually with someone like this. It might be normal for Sukuna in his past sexual endeavors, but it’s totally a different thing for you. You and Megumi had never even bothered with aftercare. As long as he’s satisfied himself, he’d clean himself off in the bathroom and wear his sweatpants, winking at you before he leaves you alone all over again. The memory – albeit not really a regrettable one – is still painful each time you’re reminded you’ll keep coming back to him.

But are things different now? Could you go back to Megumi? You only ever wanted to fuck Sukuna because you’re sad and horny, but it wouldn’t be fair to him, especially when your roommate has been nothing but nice to you. Besides, him being a little more decent doesn’t immediately equate he’s different than Megumi.

For all you know, you could just be another cheap fuck. Sukuna is older and sexier, after all, he’s clearly had a lot more experience than you do.

As if reading your mind, Sukuna rests his head on his palms, elbows flat on the bed as he turns to you. The expression on his face is unreadable, but there’s some sort of softness behind it – a softness you’re not really familiar with.

“Hey. I don’t exactly know what you’re going through, not everything, anyway, but whatever we have right now, I want you to know it’s not because I see just as a pretty pussy, okay?” he says with a straight face, but you really shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up because Sukuna smirks, mischievous eyes darting back and forth to your soaked pussy and bare breasts. “Although you do have a pretty pussy. Can I eat you out again?”

With that, you snatch the pillow underneath him and whack it straight at his face. Sukuna laughs at your protests, the sound growing louder and a lot more mocking the harder you hit him. “Gosh, Sukuna, shut up!”

You end up hitting him way too many times in the face that he can’t get his words through, and before you could react, Sukuna’s ripped the pillow away from you. He cages you in his arms and hovers over you once more, his boneless dick grazing the insides of your thigh. It’s not meant to be sexual, and nothing about his stance gives off anything that shows he wants to do it again, but you can’t help but feel aroused, shifting your legs up and down the bed as you squirm.

“Seriously though,” he repeats, “We can be casual, or this could be a one time thing. Card’s all yours to play. If you want to forget everything tomorrow, I’d gladly do it. Let’s just go back to the way we were-”

“Sukuna.”

“Yes?”

“Did you really think I was only using you to distract myself?”

Sukuna’s lips flatten into a line. “I’m not stupid,” he says somberly, “I could tell you were still thinking about him. Not that I mind, though, you can’t stop yourself from loving someone,” Faintly, you’re distracted by his thumbs rubbing at your pulse point. It’s so lulling you want to fall asleep, but Sukuna isn’t done talking. “My point is…you don’t have to worry about being weird with me. We could just be friends with benefits, if you want, and not the kind you have with your boy toy either. ”

His blatantly catches you off guard and your eyes widen before they narrow at him, trying your best to hide your embarrassment. If Megumi was painfully honest, Sukuna’s ridiculously blunt that his mere words make your heart do weird things you’d rather not feel.

Careful, you remind yourself, Megumi is the one you want. You have to keep reminding yourself that before your feelings get the best of you. It’s Megumi, it’s always been Megumi and it always will be Megumi. Sukuna is just your roommate who’s nice enough to take your mind off things. You only wish you weren’t lying too much in case he gets the wrong idea you’re leading him on, but then again, isn’t that what you’re doing?

Friends with benefits or not – you still have no plans on getting involved with this guy any longer.

It’s always Megumi. You just really needed a quick fuck, someone whose dick didn’t belong with the guy you’re so hung up on over. The change feels nice and you definitely feel a lot better than the last time you met Megumi, but this guilt…it tastes bitter on your tongue, too heavy to swallow and ignore. It’s always Megumi, you tell yourself again in an attempt to relieve your pain.

Though it doesn’t subside and you huff in exasperation, turning away from Sukuna. You can’t stand looking at him right now.

“I’m not,” you mumble weakly, but the tears – the guilt, the heartbreak of not being Megumi’s lover, the regret and the ironic need to be closer to Sukuna feels all so confusing – all threaten to burst through. You don’t want him to see you cry, that would be lame, so you scoot closer to him and kiss his shoulder as you shyly ask, “C-can we cuddle?”

“Of course,” he chuckles, pulling you closer, “You don’t have to sound too nervous to ask.”

“Sorry, it’s just-”

“He never does that?”

“…Yeah.”

“Well, I’m not him,” Sukuna answers confidently, surprising you when he grabs your ass to press you flush against him. You’re both sweaty and hot to the point it’s uncomfortable, but Sukuna smells so sweet with his lingering cologne that you can’t help yourself from planting your face in his neck, breathing in the little hums he makes. Sukuna kisses the crown of your head – which is a little too sweet than you’d like – while his other hand runs down your back in a slow, sensual manner. Hell, it feels close to body worshipping, and you hate that you silently want more of this. “I’d cuddle you every day if you asked me to.”

“You’re surprisingly sweet,” you voice with a smile. Sukuna’s chest rumbles from the low laughter, and like that, you cling to him like he’s the only sturdy pillar in your life. It’s pathetic, maybe even desperate, but if he doesn’t mind, then why should you?

However, the moment is quickly ruined when the bell rings. “Shit, I forgot he was coming over!”

Sukuna glares at the door and holds you tighter, almost possessively, and refuses to let you go even as you squirm under him. “At three in the morning?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to meet him right now,” you groan helplessly.

Sukuna shoots you a blank look after that, then shoots out of the bed in an instant. You watch as he quickly dresses up in a fresh pair of sweatpants, grabbing a random hoodie from the back of his chair, presumably to hide the scratch marks. You have to hide your smile behind your hand because he looks so drool-worthy with marks littered on his already marked skin, and the fact he lets you mark him is even hotter.

He pauses at the door for a moment, pointing a finger at where you peered up at him curiously. “Stay there. I’ll talk to him and say you went out or whatever. Just make sure to silence your phone in case he calls. Better yet, turn it off.”

Sukuna closes the door behind him, already on the way to the entrance just as you press your ears against the door to eavesdrop. There’s a slight shuffling before the door unlocks, then, “Why the fuck did you lock-” Megumi pauses in his words, and you can perfectly picture his infamous scowl painting his handsome features already. Gosh, you wish you could actually see it, but if Megumi catches you sleeping with someone else, he might totally lose interest in you. That’s not something you could afford to happen.

“Oh. You’re her roommate.” You snigger at his usual what the fuck tone – how Megumi of him.

“Hey, kid, it’s a little too late for a visit, don’t you think?” Sukuna taunts, and it takes everything in you to not burst through the door at that moment. You’re stuck between wanting to laugh and crying, mostly because you would love and hate for Megumi to get riled up. “Do your parents know you’re here? Kids shouldn’t be out this late.”

“I’m not a fucking kid, I’m in uni,” he defends, “Do you know where Y/N is? I need to talk to her.”

Deciding fuck it, you open the door by an inch, just enough to peek. As expected, Megumi is glaring behind Sukuna’s shoulders in search of you. Meanwhile, Sukuna’s completely calm, checking his nails boredly as if Megumi isn’t fuming in front of him. And boy, do you know how much Megumi hates being ignored. “Oh, I think she went out, I don’t know why though. House was empty when I got here.”

“She didn’t tell you where she was going?”

At Megumi’s imposing tone, Sukuna tilts his head to scrutinize Megumi. Now that you’re seeing them together, Sukuna’s twice the size of Megs, their height and shoulder width too different to start comparing. But knowing Megumi, he’s not going to back down from a tattooed guy twice his size, not even as he sarcastically remarks, “Ain’t you her friend? She should be telling you that kind of stuff.”

Truthfully, you expected he would put up more of a fight. The two of them share a heated staring competition before Megumi scoffs, the first one to look away. “Whatever,” he dismisses, “Tell her to pick her damn phone up. I’ve been calling for the past hour.”

“I think I should tell her to get better friends.”

“What was that?”

“I said get home safely,” Sukuna chirps. Even with his back turned to you, you could tell Sukuna’s just further pressing his buttons with a grin that’s not meant to be inviting at all. Just when you think it’s done, however, Sukuna finishes off with, “Kid.”

Megumi rages. His blue eyes flame into something feral, his fists balled at his sides. He’s always had a temper issue and you nearly reveal yourself to stop whatever fight is about to ensue, but Sukuna’s already closing the door, ridding any opportunity for the younger one to retaliate. At the sound of the door closing, Sukuna leans against the door, his smile still plastered on his face as if he knows you’re watching the whole time. He meets your eyes from the slight peep of his door, waving his hands sarcastically.

“Sukuna, you didn’t have to be so mean.”

“Sorry,” he isn’t apologetic at all. “Next time I’ll be nicer to your asshole crushes,” he adds with a slight roll of his eyes and you punch his chest playfully. You don’t stop him from grabbing your wrists to embrace you in a hug that doesn’t seem so platonic – but not so suggestive either. Sukuna rests his chin on top of your hand while he sways you both side to side, his voice muffled in your hair. “I understand why you’re attracted to him though. He’s really handsome.”

“Yeah, he is,” you agree sadly, thinking of how much it’s really all a waste Megumi has to be like that. “Just sucks his personality ruins everything.”

“A pretty face is always deceiving,” Sukuna suddenly pulls away and holds you an arm’s length away.  “Hey, want to have early breakfast?”

“I think that would be late dinner,” you frown at him.

“Whatever, food is food,” he responds rather excitedly, and you watch as Sukuna rummages through the fridge. Now that you think about it, having sex so much really took a toll on you, and your stomach grumbles loudly. Sukuna hides his chuckles through the fridge but you hear him anyway, shouting at him that you’re not hungry. “Wasn’t asking, sweetheart. Now go get cleaned and changed, I’ll make something for you.”

If anyone were to tell you that a good fucking is all that’s needed for you to immediately form a new kind of friendship with your roommate, you’d call them weird. Sukuna isn’t necessarily out of reach, you and him just simply didn’t cross paths.

But now, you’re dressed comfortably in his boxers and the oversized shirt you stole from him, eating the slightly burn cheese sandwich he’s made, sharing conversation and laughing with him like you’ve been doing it for such a long time. Your sandwich is actually half forgotten on the plate as you whack your palms on the counter, “That’s how you and Prof Gojo met? I never would’ve expected you guys fought over a girl!”

“He was fucking annoying in high school,” Sukuna grumbles over an angry bite, “He was getting all the girls that when someone confessed to me, the hottest chick, no less, he straight up punched me in the face,” you laugh as you imagine the memory of a younger, already rebellious looking Sukuna getting smacked by the even more intolerable Gojo Satoru. Sukuna is lost in his own memories as well, shaking his head from around the last bites of his bread. It’s clear he hates the burnt crust judging from the way he turns a little green, but he’s bragged about his cooking skills so proudly that he has to save face in front of you. “Ah, such good times,” he muses before wincing at his own words, dropping his bread in disgust. “Damn, I sound old, don’t I?”

“You’re only like, five years older than me, it’s fine,” you giggle, “I like the maturity that comes with older people. You’re a lot easier to be with than guys my age.”

“Please,” Sukuna smirks, “Just say you like fucking older men. I won’t judge.”

If anyone were to tell you that you would be jumping over the counter to strangle your roommate who’s now running like hell, your laughter bursting through the once silent apartment, you would call them a liar. But now, you and Sukuna are panting on the floor, too tired from sprinting all around before calling it quits. Maybe it’s a lie – maybe this connection will never really be that much of a big deal – but as long as this lie and play pretend of friendship lasts, you’ll just enjoy every sweet moment of it.

taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed) (bold can’t be tagged) @uwubby-1 @expectoscamander @your-consulting-fangirl @dora-the-grownup @cosmotoic @charlie-xo @kittaliapenn @sukunas-cult-leader @flowersgirl02 @cloudsinthecosmos @90s-belladonna @averysheart-raleighsdick @generousstudentpsychic-bat @kat-su-ki @issamomma​ 

[huge-enthusiast]

MIRACULOUS FIC RECOMENDATIONS!! (Part 2)

You can find part 1 here.

The first one was really popular! So I decided to make a second part.

The rules are the same:

All of the fics will be rated Teen and up audiences or lower. Also if I don’t put the author’s tumblr is because they didn’t put it in the fic or/and I couldn’t find it.

The only thing that changes is that I would be putting the pairing in the description of the fic.

Without further ado...

Written in the Stars by Boogum (@botherkupo here on tumblr!)

Pairing: Marichat and Adrienette.

He was the god of destruction. She was a princess whose kingdom had been prophesied to fall. To save her people, she became his wife. To save him, she would have to do the impossible. The castle has secrets, the gods are watching, and time is running out.

Chapters: 37/37

TW for mild violence.

Arrange marriage, God AU. While I'm making this list, I still haven't finished the fic, but I had to recommend it because is THAT good. The way I gasped out loud while reading some of the plot twists. The worldbuilding is so good, and even if you aren't into AUs that deviate a lot from cannon like me, I 100% reccomend it.

Need a Lift? again by Boogum.

Pairing: DJWifi

Getting stranded on a foreign planet sucked. Luckily for Nino, his rival was willing to give him a lift home. Unluckily for Nino, she was beautiful and funny and he might just be in love with her.

Chapters: 1/1

Space Bounty Hunter AU! Really sweet and funny. If you are into flustered!Nino then this fic is for you.

hey, you by peachcitt (@peachcitt here on tumblr!)

Pairing: Adrienette

“Have you ever had a dream about someone that changes the way you think of them?”

or Adrien has a dream about Marinette.

Chapters: 1/1

Okay so, peachcitt is one of my favorite ml writers. Everything that they write is sooo good y'all, and i'm already a sucker for adrienette, so I cannot recommend this fic (or any of theirs) enough.

double dare again by peachcitt (I told ya!)

Pairing: Ladrien (with lots of sided ladynoir)

“Don’t ever do that again,” Marinette says, maybe a little too emphatically, and Adrien looks at her, his expression quiet. His cheeks, Marinette notices, are a little red.

“But I wanted to save you,” he says.

or Ladybug and Adrien can't seem to stop running into each other. (whether that is on accident or on purpose is nobody's business but their own, of course).

Chapters: 30/30

This was a ladrien june fic! Every chapter corresponds to the day's prompts but it also continues a story. If that doesn't make you want to read it then I don't know what it will. I fear fanfic writers, they're insane.

(not) so much by therentyoupay (@therentyoupayfanfiction here on tumblr!)

Pairing: Marichat and adrienette

(The claws are sharp, but the host of Destruction—for all of his loudmouth chaos and lack of reserve—is paradoxically careful.)

Chapters: 1/1

In which Chat Noir pays a visit not long after Marinette has made a pretty difficult decision, and they accidentally make a routine.

Prompt: Marinette gives Chat a hickey. Adrien has a suspiciously similar looking hickey the next day at school...

Gotta be honest with y'all, I did not expect this fic to be as good as it is. The adrienette has everything a stablished!Marichat should have. Marinette conflicted with her feelings? Check. Adrien being a hot mess bc That's My Girlfriend But She Doesn't Know That? Check. Them being absolute idiots? Check. It's good!

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News (Your Lips Is The Only Cure I Could Use) by BreG21.

Pairing: Adrienette

Rainwater sloshed up from the pools they had made on the sidewalk and coated his jean pants with every step he took. He couldn't bring himself to care.

He sniffed away some of the water that dribbled down his matted head. "Yeah?"

He paused as if to consider his words while Adrien stared down at him, so lost. "You weren't wrong when you thought you knew. A part of you wanted it to be her, but it was too perfect, you let the illusion fool you because how would you get that lucky. But trust me, Adrien. You weren't wrong."

He wasn't wrong? What was he not wrong about?

You weren't wrong. You want it to be her.

And it finally clicked as a small gasp wisped past his lips. He wasn't wrong.

In which, Plagg falls ill, and with Fu gone and Ladybug being the guardian now, has to go find her civilian self-even with the knowledge that she might not like that-is shocked to realize that even with having the kwami that was supposed to embodied the very being of bad luck, Adrien could conclude the very opposite of what he had thought for so long.

He was so very lucky.

Chapters: 1/1

I screamed so hard while reading this fic. It's just one of those who gets the characters right. Do you like a good reveal? Go read this now.

Operation Mega Sleepover by InTheWild (@smellerbeee here on tumblr!)

Pairing: Adrienette

When Alya and Nino drop out of their long awaited mega-sleepover at the last minute, it leaves Marinette and Adrien alone together for the night. An Adrinette one-shot with lots of fluff and sleepover shenanigans.

Chapters: 1/1

I just,,, I love adrienette fluff so much,,, I love them,,,

You, Me & A Little Bit Of The Future by joonapeach.

Pairing: this is a fortunate case of all lovesquare shenanigans™

Marinette expects some disaster on her first outing alone with Adrien.

She just doesn't expect that disaster to be her future self passing off a baby for her to take care of with Adrien.

(Alternatively... two idiots obliviously in love cooing over their daughter while acting like they have no idea whose kid this is.)

Chapters: 1/1

I think the description says anything that it needs to be said. It's really sweet and funny and I love how they just change their minds so quickly and get emo for literally nothing. Peak shakesperean dumbasery.

The entire Marry That Girl series by Miraculous_Max (Maximilian_Alexander).

Pairing: Adrienette

Let’s say Marinette has a special sketchbook. This sketchbook is filled with drawings of their future house, of Adrien as an adult in multiple occupational settings, of Marinette and Adrien’s wedding, and most importantly, their future children.

Let's say Adrien found this sketchbook.

Works: 8 (All are 1/1 chapters)

Just realized how this list exposes me as number 1 adrienette sucker... oh well. I love how Adrien doesn't feel weirded out by the intensity of Marinette's crush. He likes it! He's as weird and romantic as her! That's one of the reasons I love the lovesquare so much and it makes me happy to see that everyone is in the same boat with me.

Strenght by 11JJ11.

Pairing: Adrienette

Marinette knew she was much stronger than she looked thanks to being a hero. So when her class had an arm wrestling contest she knew that she could beat all of them with ease, but she wasn't expecting anyone else to come close.

Chapters: 1/1

Good ol' accidental reveal feat. the entire class shenanigans. I, once again, screamed for an adrienette fic. Who could've thought.

Super Fan by Taliax.

Pairing: Ladrien

It was a good thing Alya was holding the phone and not her, because it would have slipped from her fingers and shattered. How had she not noticed? She had been there, and somehow she’d missed her crush looking at her like she was an angel sent from heaven.

Forget the perfume ad. This picture was going to be her new desktop.

(In which Marinette realizes that she and Adrien might both be obsessive fans.)

Chapters: 1/1

Canon divergent from after Gorizilla. They're so dumb. That's my opinion on this fic.

How to Kiss Your Crush in Five Minutes or Less also by Taliax.

Pairing: Ladrien

He just needed to know if Ladybug needed Chat Noir. He didn't expect to learn just how much she wanted Adrien.

This would be the best five minutes of his life, if he didn't expect her to forget it.

Chapters: 1/1

CW for making out.

Set during Desperada. I promise there's a happy ending. Also Luka is there for some reason, felt really bad for him.

Laying Down the Rules: The Gabriel Agreste Clauses by LadyKae

Gen

Adrien leaves the manor on a dark and stormy night and seeks sanctuary at the only place he feels safe: The Home of the Dupain-Cheng Family. When Sabine learns why her dear boy is fleeing to her home in the middle of the night, she makes a personal visit to one Gabriel Agreste.

There's more rules in play, but not for Adrien and Marinette.

Chapters: 1/1

This is just Sabine going to beat the fuck out of Gabriel and it's really satifying ngl

4am. by hannieks

Pairing: post-reveal lovesquare

In which Adrien has the cat tendency to wake up their owners at stupid o'clock, and Marinette just wants to sleep. Cuteness ensues.

Chapters: 1/1

Really short but really sweet. If you like Adrien acting like a cat then you would like this.

Can I Date You(r Character)? by midnightstarlightwrites (@midnightstarlightwrites here on tumblr!)

Pairing: Adrienette

Adrien turned to her, something unreadable in his gaze. “Are you ok with this?” he asked.

And what a loaded question that was. Was she ok with it? Was she ok with the one guy she couldn’t seem to get over in real life kissing her in a game of Dungeons and Dragons? When she put it like that, it seemed a bit silly to get so worked up.

It was just a game...right?

She was ok with it, right?

“Sure,” she lied. “I’m ok with it.”

When Adrien's character falls in love with Marinette's, they decided to date in-game. What could go wrong?

Chapters: 7/?

THIS ONE IS SO CUTE. You want to scream??? Read this.

two idiots and a hamster by Boogum (again) and carpisuns (@carpisuns here on tumblr)

Pairing: Adrienette

How do you hide your superhero identity from your roommate? (spoiler alert: badly)

Chapters: 5/?

Once @anna-scribbles described this fic as "is literally the closest i’ve ever seen a fic come to matching the energy of canon", and I couldn't have described it better.

And that's all for now! Next time I will probably make an only DJWifi list since I've been treating them so dirty lol.

[princeblack]

She asks about his house elf so he nods, looking down at the box in his hand from the cauldron cake, starting to fold it up absentmindedly. It’s hard to meet her eyes, because he wonders what she thinks about his answer. Does it put her off? “Yes… his name is Kreacher. He’s been in my family for centuries and strangely he might be one of the only people who gets along with my mother.” Walburga got carried away sometimes, fulfilling the pureblood stereotype of treating their house elf like a servant, despite it being insulting to elven biology and culture. In reality, Kreacher is much stronger than her, but seems happy to play second fiddle and agree with the Black family values on everything. “He’s always going on about his noble and beautiful mistress… Repeats everything she says.” He shrugs, because it sounds bad and it probably is. He always thought his mother was those things too, growing up, but after speaking to Bee he feels a pang of embarrassment thinking of it. Everything he shares about his family seems almost artificial in comparison to the wonderful girl the Diggorys have raised. “I try to make sure he knows he’s family, so I hope you don’t think too poorly of us…” He realizes the irony of what he’s saying, considering his mother would think poorly of her no matter what she did.

It catches him off guard when she apologizes to him about Sirius being gone. She must’ve read the articles about Sirius murdering muggles in broad daylight– a massacre. He looks at her for a long moment, green eyes unreadable. Mostly he just feels awe; how could she be so kind as to apologize to him for something that the entire wizarding world was afraid of? Not even his own parents claimed Sirius’s actions, and there were rumors about his family being evil. Not that Bee had said anything about Sirius’s actions– instead she was worried about Regulus, which makes his heart flutter. “You don’t have to pretend like you’re not scared of him– I know everyone is. But it’s sweet of you to apologize and try to understand… It’s more than anyone has ever done.” He looks down, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and shame again. He’s never felt anything but pride for his family before this, and maybe some contempt, but this feeling is new. So is the emotion he’s feeling every time he looks into Bee’s pretty blue eyes. It makes him blush that she thinks of him as a ‘lovely prince’, spoken in that sweet, beautiful voice. How could she think such a thing when everyone else was intimidated by him and his family? “And you’re the kindest person I’ve ever met… Most people are afraid when I even mention him.” The fact she would try to understand his feelings to such an extent is unheard of, to him. It’s not like anyone in his household ever asked how he felt, either. They would sooner pretend Sirius never existed.

He listens to her talk about her garden with interest, picturing what she must look like sitting on her knees in some soil, talking to a plant like the way she is now, caring for it. He has no doubt in his mind that she could care for anyone or anything and give them new life, because she’s the warmest person he’s ever met. He’s never heard someone so excited about chomping cabbages or vegetables and something about it makes him smile. “Well, I’d like to enjoy one with you, if I could. But I don’t think anything about my home life would impress you.” Bee’s sunshine would probably be stifled in the dark elegance of his family mansion, so proper and ‘perfect’. Instead Bee is organic and full of life, as if a flower were made human. “You’re probably a good cook, too, aren’t you? Is there anything you can’t do?” It makes him jealous for the first time, because it’s something he had never before thought of. Because he was spoiled like a prince, he would never learn these useful skills Bee knows like the back of her hand. Maybe being in a half-blood household was better for teaching someone to be well rounded. Then again, maybe the same could be said for any wizarding family that was lower income. Even so, the Diggorys raised an incredible daughter. She’s smart and kind and well-rounded, which makes him jealous because it’s everything he wants to be. His family didn’t so much care about the kindness part– more about showing leadership qualities and commanding the space the Black family ‘deserved’ in their society.

Bee is practically glowing when she mentions the venomous tentacula. Yet another thing she should be afraid of, but instead she’s curious, just like with Regulus or Sirius. “Considering they expel venom, bite, and wrap people in their vines to eat them, you might be the only witch in our school with an interest, yes. But I think that makes you kind of amazing.” He looks at her with admiration, gaze warm. “I wouldn’t eat you either, if I were a venomous tentacula. It would be far nicer to have you feed me by hand and pamper me all day…” He looks at her thoughtfully before teasing. “But maybe I would nibble a little.”

He frowns as she describes her home life and the way her father only seems to give attention to Cedric. “That doesn’t seem fair… I think with only two children, your parents could love you both. I mean, I’m sure Cedric is amazing, but I’ve only just met you and I think you’re going to be the most interesting person here.” He shakes his head when she says it’s okay. “Well, if he doesn’t have room for you, then I do.” Regulus wants to be that for her– the person who reminds her to feel good about herself.

He watches how her face changes when he tells her about his mother’s viewpoints, the frown overtaking those perfect lips. He wonders what’s going on in her head and what she thinks of him now. She calls his mother hateful, which he can’t argue with, because what else would you call it? She was always angry, even if it was a normal fixture in Regulus’s life that he was used to like others weren’t. Maybe he was too soft with her– too forgiving, far too often. “Dragons are clean,” he says in agreement. “They engulf themselves in fire when they clean, so bacteria dies anyway. But my mother would never let me explain something like that.” He doesn’t know what else to say, only hoping she doesn’t think too poorly of him because of his family’s views. It’s ironic, considering he’s been initiated as a death eater. Surely, he’s just as bad as the rest of them, then? Maybe Walburga’s hatred of everything wasn’t something he should be so forgiving of, but was he one to talk anymore?

He doesn’t expect her to open her bag, pulling a book out to present it to him. He takes it gently, fingers touching her own. Looking from the beautiful, worn book to her pretty face, he smiles, so touched by the gesture that he’s almost speechless. He’s not sure how to process that the prettiest girl he’s ever met carries around a book about his favorite topic, but on top of that is presenting it to him even despite it being a sentimental gift from her family. “Are you sure? I mean, if it was a gift…” He hesitates, but takes it anyway, resting it in his lap to touch the cover in awe. “This is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s done for me,” he says, not sure how to convey his feelings. Sure, he was granted expensive things regularly, but none of the gifts he was given had love in them like this; both from her use of the tome and because of the thought behind giving it to him. His brows furrow at the way she tells him to remember her when he’s a dragonologist. “I hope we’ll be friends…” Maybe it’s foolish, since they’ve only met, but he’s never felt this sort of connection with anyone before.

He admires her for being so passionate about magizoology, despite her father’s discouragement. It’s not that he doesn’t disagree with her speech, but he knows it will never apply to his relationship with his mother. “Well, my mother is controlling of pretty much every aspect of our family. To her, my career is her business. I don’t think anyone in the Black family has ever prioritized personal happiness… just our family name and our forefathers. Maybe she doesn’t truly love me and I’m just a plaything to her… or maybe it’s somewhere in the middle.” He shrugs, because it doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s his family, and what’s the alternative? Being alone and unloved?

She’s flustered by his bluntness, which makes him smile. “I am a little surprised you haven’t flirted before. Surely with your looks, the town would be falling over themselves to talk to you. Not that I’m complaining, since I’d like a shot.” It’s a little amusing that she’s apologizing, as if it’s a bad thing she isn’t flirting back so much.

“No,” he answers, smiling. “You’d still look beautiful.” He pauses, considering her other words. “I want to thank you, for your gift… Please tell me if I’m being presumptuous, but would it be okay if I kissed you?” he can’t help but notice the chocolate on her lip, wanting to sit next to her so he can touch her.

bee knew what it was like to have a parent with high expectations, nothing you ever did was quite good enough. her father was like that...when he actually gave her attention that is but she can't imagine what it's like having a parent like that coming from an already privileged family, when you already have everything you'd think they'd ease up a little more instead of tearing you down cause it's hard for her to imagine regulus could do anything wrong.

never having to cook your own meals or clean the home you lived in seemed a bit foreign to bee, growing up she used to wake up early in the mornings to gather items from her family garden to sell just so her family could have meals or cleaning the house every sunday to make sure it was spotless, they never had help or someone to do it for them. "so you have a house elf I'm assuming?" she asks curiously. bee had never been a fan of the whole idea of house elves mostly do to the way wizards tended to treat them. she nods at his words about his brother, she's read about sirius black before. "I'm sorry to hear about your brother, it must be hard knowing your own flesh and blood is trapped in such a horrible place. I don't know what I would do if cedric wasn't here." it's the truth, though most would probably have terrible things to say about the eldest black but she didn't see a need for it. "well you are the most lovely prince I've ever met if that helps." she giggles softly.

"well that's unfortunate, I love a beautiful garden...i miss my garden. dirigible plums, chomping cabbages, grapes and the most delicious potatoes you'll ever taste. they were some of my best friends back at home." she reminisces about the first time she grew her own plant, they were only peas but it was one of the happiest days of her life. "I'm so excited for herbology class I hear we get to work with venomous tentacula's in first year! they're such a beautiful plant even though most people are absolutely terrified of them."

she's rather taken aback by his question, gaze falling for a moment "oh..." she says gently as she actually finds herself trying to think about it for a moment. no one's ever asked her that kind of question before, she figures that they never really cared. "I guess so, I mean it's just in my household it's usually my brother who is the star of the show, quidditch seeker, prefect, future quidditch champion. he's like my father's pride and joy, and not that I blame him. if you met cedric you'd probably love him too...it's just he takes up a lot of space and there's not enough room in my father's eyes. but that's okay, I'm used to it." she forces a sad smile, not wanting to speak I'll of her father.

the things that made her most happy was talking about newt and her own dreams of saving the beautiful most creatures who needed her, it felt like it'd been awhile since she felt as though she was able to talk about it. "I'm sorry...shoot." she laughs a bit at herself she's really apologizing for apologizing. she frowns a bit at his words when he talks about his mother, she sounded like an awful lady, so much hate in her heart. bee's eyes flicker towards his gaze as she frowns. "people like that are so hateful, our world wouldn't exist without the creatures that inhabit it and dragon's especially are very clean creatures and puffskien hair has magical properties they use in laughing potions...plus their freakin adorable." she muses happily wishing she could meet one sometime soon. "but if you like it so much then I'll be happy to talk to you more about whatever creatures you'd like to what of, my brain is like one big beast library."

she listens when he explains what book it was, it both warms and breaks her heart a little to imagine a baby regulus so excited to learn of dragons just for his selfish mother to literally rip his dreams from his hands and burn it away but it also gives her an idea. pulling her satchel from her hip she opens it up to look inside, before pulling out a golden book. "my parents got me this book for my 13th birthday and I've read it over a thousand times...my favorite is the swedish short-snout, the breathe blue flames and are known to have harmed the least amount of humans of the other species..." she smiles softly before handing the book over to the boy. "here, you keep it. just promise you'll remember me when you're a world renowned dragonologist changing the world."

she understands what it's like to want your parents' approval but what she could never do is give up on the things she wants most to please someone else. "my father doesn't approve of my dreams either, he says it's too dangerous and it's not exactly a job that gives you fame and riches unless you're newt scamander but...it's also my dream and I don't think you should live your life based on what other people want for you. if your mother truly loves you she'll understand your dreams even if it doesn't make her happy as long as it makes you happy that's all that matters."

her cheeks flush a bright shade of pink at his next words, fingers running through her auburn curls as she bites down on her lower lip. "n-no!" she says all too quickly. "I mean that's n-not what I meant I...I don't mind you flirting with me, I just...never really done this before? unless you count the daydreams I had about princes from story books." but this was a real life prince one in which was very bluntly telling her that he wanted to flirt with her. "I just mean to say I like that you flirt with me, sorry if I'm bad at doing it in return."

before she can continue to put her foot in her mouth she shoves the cauldron cake in her mouth, getting some of it on her lips as she saviors the tastey treat. she wants to feel bad that regulus had gone out of his way for her but it's also hard to resist her favorite chocolatety snack and after all he tells her wanted to as he strokes the fur of a very relaxed niffler.

bee tries not to choke on the cake when he goes on to compliment her or at the least what she thinks is a compliment because he talks about wanting to pinch her cheeks. "you wouldn't think I'd look a bit silly with squirrel cheeks?" she teases, puffing out her cheeks to make them look fatter as she smiles. "oh I've been told I give the best hugs, by my mom of course. I have this thing where I'm a bit of a chronic hugger...maybe you'll get to find out if you'd like."