#and worn wooden tables and benches

[ellenchain]

Lucas is the very definition of edge. I love how you drew his eyes, so intense!

Thank you ❤️

Lucas is the type of guy I'd like to do a pub tour with edgy but somehow cool but also a bit cringe, the perfect package

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Depths 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: fisherman!Geralt of Rivia x artist!reader

Summary: your sleepy existence is thrown into chaos by a mysterious man.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The water crashes onto the coast. The sound is dulled by the distance of your perch. The sky melds into the lake's surface as the sun hides behind a swathe of clouds.

You lean in to squint at the strokes on the canvas, sweeping your brush in repetition of the rippled horizon. You use the wnd of the brush to scratch your cheek.

Almost...

You peek above the easel and watch the small speck growing larger as it moves across the water. The fishing boat is there so often that you've added its silhouette to the acrylic tides. A stalwart to your early mornings and listless afternoons.

Day after day is layered before you in shades of cerulean, slate, and lavender. The grey sky with a tinge of golden sunlight, the waters stirring in sparkling shades of aquamarine and pearl, the coast rippled in fawn and umber. Another eye might see it and deem it finished but not you.

You step back to let the paint dry and rinse your brushes in the jar. Hmm. You're out of clean water.

You close up the easel and hook the canvas on the backside, carrying it like a briefcase as you pick up your canvas bag with your roll of brushes and pots of paint, your palette around your index finger.

You make a slow descent down the cliffside and curl around towards the shore. You veer away from the dock and head down into the silt. You put your stuff on a flat rock. You take the used brushes and palette to rinse in the shallows.

The water laps over your sandals as you linger in the soothing cool foam. The approach of evening skews the water with emerald and jade. You shake it all off and step back to dry it with a paint-blotted cloth.

You rearrange the bag so it all fits and hook it over your shoulder. You look down at the your linen apron. You can recall where every splotch and streak came from.

You take your easel and canvas and head back up along the dock. As you reach the post, the fishing boat knocks against the other end. You peer over at the man that lays a board across the spanse between.

You see him every night. You couldn't forget a man with snow white hair and golden eyes. His age is less than his locks might suggest and his eyes seem to look through you, not at you.

You smile, like you do every night. He doesn't react. Just like every other time.

The smell of fish wafts in the boat as he drags his net across the wooden ramp. You turn and press on. He's much to busy for you. It doesn't bother you. You came out here to get away from people.

Your feet leave divets in the dirt as the rock of the boat knocks in a rhythm against the dock. The man's toil adds to thunks and thuds and they fade behind you. The peace here is immaculate, you wouldn't want to ruin it for anyone else.

Past the seaside houses left vacant in the colder seasons and the smaller basins of the lake, between the rocky ridges and grassy knolls, you return to your little house.The cornflower paint chips from the wooden siding and the stairs are worn in the middle from the tramp of feet. A bench stands on the other side of the white railing between a plinthed flowerpot and folding table with a book forgotten on its slats. Home.

The spindly wreath on the front door rattles as you push through and the screen door snaps behind you. The evening breezs drifts in through the mesh as you set your easel down and rest the canvas on crate just beside the mat. You put your bag in front of the wooden stand and bask in the calm.

You hang your wicker hat and untie your apron. Your hands are covered in paint. You'll wash them before you eat. You leave your wet sandals at the door.

You pull out the pot of chowder you made two nights past from the fridge. You put it over a burner and wait for it to warm. The fare lasts you near a week when you take the time to put it together. Every ingredient must be used to its last, especially when it is so far to market. And expensive.

You scoop out a bowl and eat it on the front porch. Your eyes are too tired to read. When you finish, you recline on the bench and yawn. You lay in the dimming hue of the evening as the stars wink down at you.

A whistle carries on the wind. You sit up and look for the culprit. They are close enough to hear but that could still be far. It could even be a bird.

You take the empty bowl inside and rinse it. You retreat to the bedroom and change

You open the window to let the night in. Around here, you can do that. Not like the city and its grated windows.

You laze in the dusk shade and drift slowly into yourself. Sleep enshrines you atop the cushy bed, the water stirring from afar, the loons calling into the dark. Tomorrow you'll figure out the exact right colour for the undertow.

You're more than due to sell a new piece. You need to if you want to stay in paradise.

[hd-junglebook]

"Hey Sugar"

-said with rizz

Luke Hughes x F!Reader, Trevor Zegras x Reader (platonic)

Masterlist Link

a:n This has still remained my favorite gif of him, he's so perfect.

Warnings: throuple jumpscare, flirting, maybe cursing, suggestive flirting, nausea/vomiting, arguing

Summary: You and your close-knit group of friends, including Luke, are vacationing at the Hughes Lake house. During a dinner out, the sight of a fish dish causes you to become violently ill, leading to questions about what's going on.

Word Count - 4877

Part 2

You pretended not to see Maggy openly mime gagging at the two of you before falling in step with Trevor and Jess. Luke kept easy pace beside you as your mismatched band made their way towards the ramshackle building.

Perhaps it was the alcohol still thrumming warmly in your veins or the effervescent energy of the group, but you couldn't quite bite back the impish grin tugging at your lips. As you walked, you affected an exaggerated sway to your hips - very aware of Luke's heated stare searing into you from your periphery.

You didn't dare look over at him, fearful of what delicious torture might be simmering behind those eyes as dark as the sky around you.

Still, you couldn't resist reaching out to trail your fingertips along the firm musculature of his forearm as you sauntered past - a blatant tease that had his breath catching audibly.

By the time the five of you were settled at one of the plastic picnic tables scattered outside the bustling takeout counter, the dynamic had shifted almost imperceptibly.

What started as a silly lark with your nearest and dearest had devolved into outright cat-and-mouse flirtation between you and Luke.

Your friends, bless their oblivious hearts, were too caught up in their usual shenanigans to notice the escalating tension. Maggy and Jessica took great delight in heckling the poor teenaged cashiers over their "amateur" slushy techniques while Trevor tried valiantly to rein in the madness.

Luke, for his part, was a vision of ease - leaning back on the warped wooden bench with one arm thrown over the back in an effortless display of casual dominance.

You couldn't help but sneak sidelong glances at the hard ridges of his profile, at the way his worn Henley stretched deliciously across the broad span of his chest.

At one point, while Trevor was preoccupied with the drink orders, Luke must have caught you staring. His head swiveled infinitesimally, causing your eyes to meet and hold in a white-hot burst of awareness. One devilish brow inched higher as that knee-weakening half-smirk bloomed across his face.

"See something you like?"

The rough timbre of his voice had you suppressing an involuntary shiver. Rather than give him the satisfaction of a flustered response, you simply hummed noncommittally and dragged your eyes away with great effort.

That only earned you a rich chuckle as Luke inched imperceptibly closer, near enough for you to now feel the delicious burn of his body heat.

This continued teasing back-and-forth persisted until the food and drinks arrived - a riotous din of playful bickering over shared fry baskets and who was going to sample whose garish slushy concoction.

Luke, ever the easygoing rogue, watched the madness unfold with ill-disguised amusement, happily sipping a beer and indulging your friends' antics.

Despite their disruptive presence, however, the chemistry between you and Luke remained an undeniable force - a smoldering current arcing through the balmy sea breezes.

Simple things like the brush of his knuckles on your arm when reaching for a napkin or the searing weight of his hooded stare sent delicious frissons of electricity sparking through your nerve endings.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity lost in that heady tension, the revelry began to wind down. Maggy was the first to push back from the remains of your communal feast with an exaggerated belly pat and groan.

"Well, kids, much as I hate to call it a night...this former party animal needs her beauty rest," she proclaimed to the group at large.

Trevor heaved an overly dramatic sigh of relief. "Thanks be to God! I didn't know how much longer I could have hung on with you heathens."

Luke chuckled at that, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. You felt the brief brush of his shoulder against yours as he shifted slightly.

"No arguments here," he cut in easily, draining the last of his beer. "You guys ready to walk it off?"

The two of you exchanged a meaningful look that didn't go unmissed by Jessica - the astute blonde tracking the heated undercurrents with arched interest.

"Oh hell yes, we are WALKING this off," she piped up airily, rising from the bench and linking arms with Maggy and Trevor. "You crazy kids feel free to take the scenic route. We'll see you back at the house!"

And with that parting wink of insinuation, the three of them turned and struck out in the direction of the parking lot. You opened your mouth, intending to protest or at least offer parting sentiments, but Luke beat you to the punch.

"Don't even think about it, Sugar," he rumbled at your side, utterly unconcerned by your friends' ribald implications. "We both know where this is headed."

You felt your breath catch at the blatant flirtation as you turned to face him fully. Up this close, you could make out the poem of freckles smattered across the bridge of his straight nose, the faint laugh lines crinkled at the corners of those searing brown eyes.

Luke's nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as his gaze roamed over your features with unhurried intensity. You couldn't help mirroring the path, drinking in the sharp masculine beauty of him like a woman dying of thirst.

"Is that so?" you finally managed in a tone considerably breathier than anticipated.

Rather than answer directly, Luke reached out with one large hand to toy with a flyaway strand of your hair - allowing the backs of his knuckles to graze your flushed cheek in a scorching caress. You shivered at the contact, instinctively leaning into the calloused warmth of his palm as it cradled your jaw.

"We've been dancing around this all night," he murmured in that midnight rasp, holding your heated stare unblinkingly. "The flirting, the innuendos...you can't tell me you haven't felt this gravitational pull between us."

You couldn't have looked away even if you wanted - utterly transfixed by the molten promise in Luke's expression, in the exquisite agonies playing out behind those blazing irises. God, he was glorious like this - all simmering intensity and effortless masculinity.

Luke's thumb traced your lower lip in a feather-light caress, voice dropping to a hushed rumble. "I've got to know what those pretty lips taste like. Just this once, just to get it out of my system."

A tremulous whimper slipped unbidden from your throat at the naked yearning in his tone. In that heated breath, there was an ultimatum being issued - one you were powerless to refuse even if you'd wanted.

Taking his ardent silence as assent, Luke slowly began to close the scant distance between your parted lips...

…

1 year later…

The familiar crunch of tires over gravel roused you from your pensive reverie. You blinked rapidly, peering out the Uber's window to find the lake house's rustic facade coming into view. Your breath hitched ever so slightly as that old ache blossomed anew in your chest.

So much had changed over this whirlwind year, yet your relationship with Luke seemed suspended in a permanent holding pattern - all heated flirtation and vague intimations of something more without ever taking that fateful step.

You worried your lower lip, chewing the soft flesh as the driver killed the engine outside the small parking area. Was this just the way Luke operated? A permanent tango of push and pull without any lasting commitment? The prospect caused a leaden knot of anxiety to form in the pit of your stomach.

Drawing a fortifying breath, you gathered your things and slid from the backseat - offering the driver a tight smile of thanks. You were so preoccupied with the tangled mess of emotions, in fact, that you very nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of Luke's rich timbre.

"Hey there, pretty girl! Need a hand with your bag?"

You spun toward the unmistakable rumble to find Luke loping down the porch steps, arms outstretched and that knee-weakening grin splitting his whiskered jaw. The warm spring sunlight gilded the artful tumble of his chestnut curls and cast his chiseled features in an almost ethereal glow.

He looked...outrageously beautiful, as always. The realization caused a fresh pang just beneath your breastbone.

Pasting on what you hoped was a convincing smile, you shook your head at his oferrit. "I'm good, but thanks for the rescue."

Luke reached you then in a few easy strides, folding you into a fierce embrace without preamble. You melted into the solid warmth of his broad chest despite yourself, muscles going lax as he cradled you against the firm plane of his body.

This was the rub of your torturous relationship - the dizzying highs of Luke's nearness juxtaposed with the maddening ambiguity of whatever it was you actually meant to each other.

For a few blissful moments, you simply held him close and drank him in...the clean, crisp scent of his cotton shirt, the scorching brand of his hands at your lower back, the reassuring thud of his heart against your cheek. Then, all too soon, Luke was pulling away with one final lingering squeeze.

"Jesus, I missed you," he rasped in that midnight timbre, holding you at arm's length for a beat as his searing eyes roved hungrily over your face.

You could only nod mutely, afraid your brittle composure might shatter completely if you attempted words. Luke seemed to sense the undercurrent of tension, however, if his slightly furrowed brow was any indication.

"Hey..." His calloused palm found your jaw, tilting your chin up to meet his molten stare unblinkingly. "You okay? Talk to me."

And just like that, the precariously constructed dam inside you fragmented - emotions bubbling up in a roiling torrent of longing, frustration, and bone-deep weariness.

"I...yeah, of course," you heard yourself rasp, hating how painfully unconvincing you sounded even to your own ears. "It's just been...a really long day, y'know?"

Some imperceptible shift occurred behind Luke's blazing irises at the vague admission. His achingly familiar features seemed to shutter ever so slightly as he regarded you with new intensity, as if truly seeing you for the first time in ages. When he spoke again, his deep timbre was laced with an undercurrent of flinty steel.

"I'm starting to get that feeling, yeah." His grip on your face tightened a fraction, forcing you to hold his potent stare as those beloved lips twisted into a rueful grimace. "Why do I get the feeling we've got some things to hash out this weekend?"

You opened your mouth, intending to deflect or make light of Luke's weighted remark. But his piercing gaze seemed to strip away any half-truths before they could take shape. A small sigh escaped your lips as candor won out.

“We won’t be Luke, I’m just a little tired from having to get up early,” you found yourself replying in a small, hoarse tone that brokered no argument. “Lets get inside.”

Luke simply stared at you, seeming to weigh the ramifications of your simple demand as he carded his fingers over your hair in an unconscious caress.

Finally, after what felt like an agonizing eternity, he exhaled a low rumble and gave a slight nod - the barest dip of his stubbled jaw. Pulling you flush against his solid frame once more, Luke pressed his lips to your crown in a lingering caress.

"You're right, Sugar," he murmured, the timbre of his voice vibrating through you. "They're waiting for you. Come on."

With that, Luke released you from the circle of his arms but kept one large palm anchored at the small of your back as he guided you towards the lake house's entrance. You felt the rigid tension slowly ebb from your shoulders at the familiar weight of his reassuring touch.

No sooner had you crossed the threshold than a raucous din of greetings assailed you from the open living area. Maggy, as always, was the first to barrel into you - her wildly curling hair a ruby cyclone as she enveloped you in a fierce embrace.

"Y/N! You made it!" she crowed into the crown of your head before releasing you with an exaggerated sniff. "And you didn't get mauled by any psychopathic Uber drivers this time. Progress!"

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly at her typical dramatic flair, unable to repress the grin tugging at your lips. "Living on the edge as always, Mags."

Before you could so much as draw another breath, Jessica was sweeping in for her turn - golden tresses shining like haloed silk as she squeezed you tightly.

"We missed you, girl!" The familiar sugary lilt of her voice washed over you like a balm as she rocked you gently. "This lakehouse is way too quiet without your laugh."

You savored the simple intimacy of their warm embraces for a few beats, feeling the last lingering tendrils of fatigue dissipate. God, you'd missed these beautiful disasters more than you could have fathomed.

It was only when you turned to find Trevor hovering awkwardly nearby that the breath caught in your throat. The sweet, teddy bear-ish man seemed to have only grown more handsome in your weeks apart - his warm hazel eyes crinkling endearingly behind those thick-framed glasses as he flashed you a lopsided grin.

"Well don't just stand there gawking, Trevbear!" you teased, the old nickname rolling effortlessly off your tongue as you closed the distance between you. "You know the rules."

Trevor's unassuming features stretched into a radiant smile at that. Without hesitation, he swept you up into one of his patented, all-encompassing bear hugs - the kind where he lifted you clean off your feet and spun you in a dizzying circle amid a chorus of bright laughter.

As your arms wound instinctively around his broad shoulders and the familiar, comforting scent of his woodsy cologne enveloped you, you found yourself momentarily awestruck.

In the span of a few whirlwind revolutions, the simplicity of Trevor's affection seemed to unlock something profound in your heart - an awakening of sorts.

This...this was what you'd been sorely lacking all these months. Not torrid flirtation or vague promises of something more, but the purest expression of unwavering friendship and acceptance.

The utter certainty that no matter how frazzled or lost you became in this haphazard journey called life, your people would always,  always be there to catch you.

By the time Trevor carefully set you back on your feet, his concerned hazel eyes were scanning your features intently.

"You good, kiddo?" he asked, endearingly casual timbre laced with the faintest hint of confusion.

You could only nod mutely, blinking back the telltale prickle of grateful tears as you disentangled yourself from his solid embrace. Allowing your eyes to roam over each of their familiar faces, you felt your heart swell almost painfully.

"I'm good, Trev," you said at last, aiming for a confident smile despite the quaver in your voice. "I'm home."

...

Later that evening, the decision was made to venture into town for dinner at one of the local restaurants. The drive there held its own sort of anticipatory energy - luke's rugged Mustang growling along the sleepy rural roads as your mismatched crew chattered and bantered amidst peals of laughter.

You found yourself wedged into the front seat beside Luke, the occasional brush of his denim-clad thigh against yours sending tiny frissons sparking beneath your skin.

Maggy, Jessica and Trevor bickered good-naturedly in the backseat like rambunctious children, leaving you and Luke to share sidelong glances and suppressed grins.

"So," Luke began at one point, deft fingers toying with the radio dial before settling on a grungy classic rock station. "How long you think it'll be before those three idiots finally make it official?"

You shot him a confused look as The Black Keys thrummed from the speakers. "Make what official?"

Rather than respond outright, Luke simply cocked one brow meaningfully and jerked his chin towards the reflection in the rearview.

You followed his gesture to find Maggy and Jessica sandwiching Trevor between them - a trio of tousled heads bent together in secretive whispers and muffled snickering.

Comprehension blossomed like a slow dawn, your eyes widening almost comically. "Oh? Oh! You mean like...an official throuple situation?"

The answering rumble of Luke's laughter was rich and gravelly, the sound seeming to reverberate straight through to your bones.

"That's exactly what I mean," he confirmed with a salacious wink. "I'm giving it til the end of the week before they just say 'screw it' and start swapping fluids."

You couldn't help but dissolve into unbridled giggles at that delightfully crass remark - shoulders shaking with mirth as you aimed a ineffectual swat at Luke's rock-solid bicep.

"Oh my god, you're disgusting!" you managed to gasp out between peals of laughter. "Also...probably not wrong though."

That merely earned you another of Luke's knee-weakening smirks, the dimple in his stubbled cheek winking roguishly. "That's why you keep me around. For my sparkling wit and insight."

With a derisive snort, you shook your head and turned your attention back towards the darkened scenery whipping past - though you couldn't quite bite back your answering grin. Luke was far from wrong in his assessment, after all.

You'd been witness to the slow-burn flirtation brewing between the three of them for years now. What had started as harmless overfamiliarity had slowly, inexorably blossomed into something richer and infinitely more layered.

The lingering caresses, the heated glances, the borderline inappropriate innuendos...it was only a matter of time before that tension combusted into actualized desire.

Hell, you mused as your gaze drifted to the rearview mirror once more, they were practically daring you to acknowledge the elephant in the room with their shameless canoodling. Perhaps a small part of you even envied their easy intimacy - the utter certainty with which they seemed to fit together, like corresponding pieces of a larger whole.

Your idle reflections were interrupted as Luke suddenly merged onto the main drag, the quaint storefronts of the town's center materialized amid a warm glow of streetlamps.

"There's that new Italian place," he said by way of explanation, gesturing with a tilt of his stubbled jaw.

A raucous cheer erupted from the backseat at that, with Maggy crowing her emphatic approval. "Oh hell yes! I could demolish some fettuccine alfredo right about now."

You shot Luke a bemused grin and shrug, to which he simply laughed and signaled towards the cramped parking lot adjacent to the restaurant.

By the time the Mustang's twin exhaust pipes had quieted to a purr, you were all piling out onto the sidewalk amid a fresh bluster of conversation - Luke's steadying palm finding the small of your back as per usual.

Once you gained entry, the welcoming aromas of garlic and tomato sauce seemed to envelop you like a well-worn blanket. Stepping inside revealed an intimate but boisterous space - a cacophony of lilting Italian pop competing with the clatter of dishes and lively chatter.

Before you could so much as blink, your mismatched crew had been whisked away to a cozy booth tucked in the back corner. You settled onto the worn burgundy leather with a contented sigh, ceding to Luke's gentle insistence as he ushered you towards the innermost seat.

The following two hours seemed to blaze by in a whirlwind of laughter, familiar ribbing, and outrageously embellished stories. Courses of piping hot breadsticks, caesar salad, and copious glasses of reasonably-priced Chianti made their merry way around your table amid riotous pow-wows.

Even Trevor seemed to be in exceptionally high spirits - regaling your crew with the increasingly risque exploits of his latest Dungeons and Dragons characters between enthusiastic pulls from a basket of garlic knots.

"So this tavern wench is laying it on thick, right?" he crowed through a mouthful of doughy bread. "Like she's practically undressing me with her eyes while I'm just trying to order a pint!"

Maggy cackled indelicately beside him, idly tracing patterns along the sloping musculature of his forearm as she savored the tale. "Of course she was, Trev! She could smell your virility from across the room."

"Damn straight!" Jessica chimed in from your other side with a shameless leer. "We've all witnessed the raw, animalistic power of your lovemaking firsthand."

A sudden spray of Chianti fountained from Trevor's lips as he dissolved into a spluttering cough - eyes bulging comically behind his smudged lenses. You couldn't help but join in the chorus of bright laughter at that, instinctively reaching over to pat his broad back through the fit.

"You three are utterly incorrigible tonight," he managed once he'd recovered, attempting in vain to dab at the red wine stains blooming across the front of his pale blue button-up.

"Hey, we're just being supportive girlfriends!" Maggy countered with an impish flutter of her lashes.

There it was again - that playful acknowledgment that seemed to take on deeper intimations the more the wine flowed freely. You found your eyes instinctively tracking towards Luke, curious to gauge his response to the escalating flirtation.

To your mild surprise, the roguish sparkle in his eyes and the uptick of that damnable half-grin spoke volumes. He clearly took no issue with their blatant suggestions, instead leaning back with his powerful forearms splayed casually to either side.

As if feeling the weight of your speculative stare, Luke cocked one brow meaningfully before lifting his wine glass in a subtle toast of acknowledgment.

The blatant understanding in that singular gesture caused a small thrill to ricochet through your nerve endings. Maybe he wasn't so far off in his earlier prediction after all...

...

Any further musings were interrupted as your waiter finally reappeared with your entrees balanced precariously on a burdened tray.

You watched with detached amusement as he carefully maneuvered the steaming dishes onto the table - a mouthwatering array of hearty pastas and artfully arranged proteins.

Luke's meal - the rigatoni alla vodka - landed first with a dull clatter directly in front of him. You had to actively resist the urge to lean over and inhale the rich, creamy aroma wafting from his plate as he murmured his thanks.

Trevor's gargantuan meatball parmesan followed close behind, causing the table to groan beneath its considerable heft. Then came Jessica's margherita pizza...

Finally, with tremendous care, the waiter settled Maggy's order immediately across from you. You watched with detached interest as he arranged the dish, unaware of the delicate porcelain plate's contents until the very last moment.

Then, like a swift upending of your stomach, realization struck in one sickeningly potent wave - immediately wiping the contented smile from your lips.

There, nestled in a delicate swirl of cauliflower puree and roasted fennel, was a glistening fillet of some indeterminate white fish - the pearlescent flesh gaping in a grotesque mimicry of a gasping maw.

You must have paled several shades because Luke immediately tensed beside you - his scorching palm finding your knee beneath the table in a steadying grip.

"Y/N? You good?" he murmured beneath the din of Maggy's enthusiastic compliments towards the waiter.

But you couldn't bring yourself to respond, every survival instinct flatlining beneath the sudden onslaught of visceral nausea roiling in your gut. Your jaw clenched spasmodically as you struggled to contain the rising tide of revulsion, to maintain some semblance of composure.

When that failed, you had no other recourse but to abruptly shove away from the table and make a beeline for the bathroom - Luke's urgent calls and the concerned eyes of your companions quickly receding in your peripheral vision.

…

The bolt slammed home seconds before you crumpled onto the mercifully cool tile, hands braced against the sides of the stall as your stomach clenched painfully. A strangled groan tore from your throat just before the first wave of nausea broke.

"Occupied!" you managed to grumble out between convulsive retches, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the slick porcelain.

Each spasm seemed to tear through your abdomen with white-hot lances of agony until, finally, you were left shuddering and empty - forehead beaded with a clammy sheen of sweat. You heaved in ragged gulps of air, throat feeling savagely raw and abused.

Only then, in the fragile lull, did the confusion begin to set in.

What the hell was that? You'd felt absolutely fine mere moments ago - happily indulging in the warm cocoon of friendship and frivolity. So where had this sudden, debilitating bout of nausea sprung from?

You racked your muddled brain, trying in vain to isolate any potential causes as another unpleasant roll of queasiness settled in your roiling gut. Had it been something you'd eaten recently? No, you realized with a jolt, you hadn't consumed anything substantial since well before your flight that morning.

Maybe it was the start of a stomach bug then? That seemed the most plausible explanation, despite the utter randomness of it all. Except...you reasoned shakily, wouldn't there have been some sort of discernible build-up to indicate you were getting sick?

Before you could ponder it further, another series of convulsions doubled you over - this time accompanied by the unmistakable sound of the bathroom door creaking open. You stiffened, straining to hear over the tortured gurgles issuing from your abused stomach.

"Y/N?" It was Jessica's sugary lilt, muffled but recognizable. "Babe, are you okay in there?"

You opened your mouth with every intention of reassuring her, or at the very least calling out that you were still alive. But the words shriveled into an anguished moan as another piercing cramp lanced through your tender abdomen. There was a pregnant pause on the other side of the stall door, followed by your friend's increasingly worried tones.

"Y/N? I'm coming in..."

The latch rattled precariously as Jessica shouldered her way inside, wisps of honeyed hair filtering through the crack first. You tried weakly to protest - to summon some semblance of dignity or determination to be left in peace.

But then her stunning features swam into view, and the flimsy pretense shattered beneath the naked concern etched into those delicate features.

"Oh sweetie..." Jessica breathed, all traces of her usual saucy bravado evaporating as she dropped into an urgent crouch beside you.

One slender hand immediately found the damp nape of your neck, fingers soothing over your flushed skin as her brow furrowed. You could only manage a pitiful whine in response, too consumed by the roiling anguish to formulate actual words.

"You're clammy as hell," she murmured, mostly to herself as her free hand roamed over your forehead and cheeks. "What's going on? Did you eat something that messed with your stomach?"

You shook your head weakly, too mortified to fully engage the line of questioning. What could you possibly say? That the mere sight of Maggy's half-eaten fish fillet had sent you into a full-body revolt? Just the memory of those dead, glassy eyes staring back at you had your gorge rising anew...

Unable to bite it back this time, you lurched forward with a guttural retch - every muscle straining as another vicious bout assailed you. Dimly, you registered Jessica's comforting murmurs and the soothing strokes along your trembling shoulders. But even her tender consolations couldn't prevent the piercing embarrassment from seeping into your churning gut.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the punishing waves subsided into a queasy lull. You sagged back against the damp tiles, boneless and utterly spent as you sucked in ragged gasps. Jessica immediately moved to cradle you against her side, slender fingers sifting through your damp tresses.

"Better?" she asked once your breathing had steadied somewhat, brow still furrowed.

You could only manage a feeble nod, still stunned by the ferocity of the episode. Jessica seemed to sense your mortification because she leaned in to press a consoling kiss to your clammy temple.

"Don't even trip, babe," she soothed in that sweet, maternal tone. "We've all been there. The last time I got hit with food poisoning was no damn joke."

The tender gesture, coupled with her easy reassurances, seemed to thaw some of the icy tendrils of shame entangling your gut. You found the residual strength to curl gratefully into her slender form, savoring the simple comfort of her embrace.

How long the two of you remained like that - tangled on the gritty bathroom floor in a silent cocoon of commiseration - was anyone's guess. But eventually, the faint murmurings from the other side of the door reminded you that the rest of the world still existed beyond your misery.

"You think you can stand?" Jessica's query was gentle, implied concern lacing her sugary soprano.

With extreme effort, you managed a slight incline of your head. Jessica didn't seem convinced, however, because she shifted to disengage herself before carefully maneuvering to her feet.

"Come on, sweetie," she urged, stout hands finding your elbows and tugging insistently. "Let's at least get you off this nasty ass floor and cleaned up a bit."

Too wrung out to protest further, you allowed Jessica to coax you upright - every muscle screaming in exertion. She looped a steadying arm around your waist as you swayed perilously. Then, with exaggerated care, she began leading you towards the sinks.

…

[bonniebird]

Aegon x Fem!Reader

Requested by Anon

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Request: Anonymous asked: "I ran too fast and now I can’t breathe. It’s the first time I’ve exercised in four years." Ageon Targaryen and Fem!Reader please.

Shuffling your feet you sighed and wished for something interesting to happen. You were appreciative that you were one of the queen's favourites and that, for today, delivering a carriage full of supplies would be the hardest job you had that day, perhaps for the week. It didn’t make the waiting around any less boring though. You turned curiously as the door to the sept opened. 

It was the smaller door built into the giant doors at the front of the sept. It was disguised with ornate woodwork so that unless you inspected it closely you wouldn’t be able to tell that it was there.

“(Y/N).” Aemond said as he came into view. He was followed by the twins Erryk and Arryk. Aemond said your name as if he had hoped to find someone else.

“Aemond.” You smiled cheerfully and you could see the irritation at your cheerful disposition clear on his face. It did bring a spark of dreadful joy to rile him up. Though he never said anything, only giving you a distasteful look as if your bubbling character exhausted him beyond reason. You always got the sense that after spending any length of time with you the prince took a long lay down afterwards to recover.

“The royal carriage outside. That would be yours?” He asked in the same tone. He came across as rather bored and as if he would rather be anywhere else but he was also stern and impatient, his foot tapping as he waited for your reply.

“It is. Your queen mother has asked me to take this to the Septas to be given out to the needy.” You held up your large woven basket that hung from one arm and several more that were lined up on the worn wooden benches near the front of the sept. It was lined with green cloth and filled with food left over from a feast that had been thrown by King Viserys in Princess Rhaenyra’s honour two days prior.

“And you are alone?” He pressed. His foot tapping out an echoed song on the cold stone floor, his fingers matched the sound as they tapped silently on the hilt of the sword on his waist. 

“Yes. That is why I was sent with the royal carriage your mother prefers.” You said as if that answer was obvious. You turned your attention away from the three men and towards the two septas that hurried towards you. The youngest gave you an appropriate greeting for your rank while the elder lady bowed her head quickly, thanked you and assured you the queen's gift would be greatly appreciated. There was a loud rustling and scuffling which drew all your attention towards a stone table with candles set heavily into the floor towards the back corner of the room. The younger septa, newly joined from a sept outside the city and not as used to the chaos of the royal house as the elder, jumped as Aegon leapt up from the shadows under the table. He darted off with a determination, not unlike the rat cats from the Red Keep, when the cook would chase them from the kitchen when she received dairy goods. While the twins chased him Aemond followed calmly. He stopped to bow to the three of you before following. There was peace again as the door closed, promptly broken by Aemond’s barked cry of “BROTHER!”

Once you had completed your task for the queen, you took the time to light a candle and knelt to pray. You lit another candle for the queen as well. It seemed the right thing to do when she hadn’t been able to make the trip to the sept as she wished. Once you were done you dusted yourself off and headed to the carriage. 

The silver carriage you had been allowed to take today was the queen’s personal carriage, not the usual one that you and her ladies or the ladies that waited on Princess Helena would ride in. It was pleasantly upholstered and the wheels rolled smoothly even over the roads that had become uneven during the weather over the last few months. 

“Are you ready to return home, my lady?” One of the queen's guards who travelled with the carriage asked. You nodded as he opened the door and helped you up the wooden steps into the carriage.

“Yes. That is all the queen wished for us to do today.” You said and smiled at him. 

All of a sudden something large struck your side and you yelped as you plummeted painfully into the carriage and something large, heavy and smelling of stale alcohol landed on you. 

“Unhand me!” Aegon snapped at the guard who was quick to follow your fall into the carriage and jump to your aid realising that the attacker was in fact Aegon and finding himself unsure if he should let him loose or not. “I said unhand me!”

“Aegon!” You snapped once the poor guard, pail-faced and clearly panicked, had helped you to one of the seats, seeming to decide it was best to let the flailing dragon go rather than try to heave him out of the carriage. Ageon had already taken up one of the bench seats and did not look willing to move again, so you sat on the other. “You’ve ruined my dress!” You complained as you saw the mud and dirt he’d gotten all over your clothes. Ageon did not respond, instead, he gasped a few times and waved a hand at the guard, who was still lingering in the doorway of the carriage, indicating that he would like to be taken home. You glared at him, fixing him with as hard a look as you could manage.

 "I ran too fast and now I can’t breathe. It’s the first time I’ve exercised in four years." He gasped out after a long pause. You tried not to giggle but the sound broke out on its own and made him smile as you put a hand up to your mouth as if to try and catch the sound.

“Why are you running from Aemond?” You asked to distract from your amusement and he sighed.

“Because he’s a frightful bore and I wanted to have some fun.” Aegon sprawled out across the seat he was occupying and closed his eyes.

“You shouldn’t hide in the sept. It's rude. Not to mention you always hide there so you're easier to find.” You said quickly. He opened one eye and groaned a little.

“Are you going to scold me all the way back to the keep?” He asked lazily. You sighed and leaned into the comfortable seat a little more.

“I would much rather not have to talk to you at all.” You said quickly. He chuckled and shrugged.

“Very well.” He spoke with sharp amusement that made you frown.

“I mean that.” You said stubbornly. He smiled again and basked in the sun that burst through the carriage windows as the long stretch of road opened up and the carriage turned down the road that exited the main heart of the city and headed to the front courtyard of the keep. 

“And I agreed.” He was starting to smile, amusement playing at the corner of his mouth as you fidgeted in your seat, running your tongue over your front teeth and smacking your lips quietly with frustration. “But you do insist on it ever so much.” He said after a pause.

“Because you do not speak as if you believe me.” You answered matter of factly. He nodded and made a noise as if he agreed.

“It is true I do speak in such a manner. Mostly because I don’t believe you. You like me more than my brother at least.” He said softly and grinned as he looked over at you, his feet kicked up against the wall of the carriage at the end of the seat, crossed over each other at the ankle as his hands rested on his chest.

“Not true at all. I find Daeron much more enjoyable to spend time with than you.” Your answer made him laugh.

“Everyone likes him. But you like me more than Aemond.” He sat up and leaned towards you as the carriage came to a stop. The small space seemed to become smaller still under his gaze, watching you as if he wanted you to confess that he was right but the door was yanked open and Aemond appeared as he stepped into the light that burst through the opening, yanking Aegon out of his seat and through the carriage door out of sight. Sir Cole stepped into view shortly after and gently helped you from the carriage. 

“Thank you for finding him.” A stiff voice came from behind you. Turning you found Otto Hightower over seeing Aegon being swept out of sight into the depths of the keep.

“Well, really he found me.” You confessed and smiled. Your smile fell awkwardly when Otto’s face remained stern. 

“The queen will see you in her chambers for an update on your trip to the Sept.” Otto said and nodded to Cole. Though he was gentle as he guided you inside, Sir Cole’s grip on your arm was unyielding and you had the good sense to suspect that Aegon had gotten you into some kind of trouble.

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[saintslewis]

❝ 𝐂𝐎𝐙𝐘 ❞

𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 — 𝐋𝐇𝟒𝟒

˖ ࣪⭑ - pairing: lewis hamilton x fem!oc

˖ ࣪⭑ - summary: imagine you go for dinner at your neighbours house and you’re told you’re getting married? you better get cozy for this one!

˖ ࣪⭑ - warnings for this chapter: none

˖ ࣪⭑ - saint’s team radio: hey y’all…. i told you guys i don’t have a planned schedule for this series and i’m really starting to think i should 😭. i hope you guys enjoy this and lemme know if you wanna be tagged 🤭

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"Renaissance yachtin' in capri!" Nadia sang as she entered the driveway of the Hamiltons only a week after the first dinner. Knowing her mother's dramatics, Thembi had once again requested her presence at the home except she had to drive straight to the Hamiltons house. Finding the situation weird but not giving it a second thought, she parked next to the all black G63, one of her many dream cars and one she hadn't seen the last time she was here. Thinking it was just a simple visit (and Thembi hadn't given her a chance to dress up after the phone call), Nadia fixed the Nike tee and adjusted the biker shorts she had worn throughout her chill Saturday morning.

Knocking on the wooden door felt weird, given that she was welcomed into the house before but she felt like something quite suspicious was going on but she couldn't even figure it out. Rubbing her eye whilst waiting for someone to answer the door, she wrote a few reminders on her phone to not forget to complete the work she had to take home from the previous day.

"Well aren't you a ray of sunshine?" Nadia had recognised the voice to be Nicola, adding a little laugh after her sentence. "I woke up late so this is valid." Nadia replied, giving a smile as she entered the house with Nicola making room for her to walk in. After the first dinner, the two women had kept in touch because of the growing friendship and Willow, who would send a voice message every day to say hi. But this time, Nadia couldn't hear the kids laughing or playing around the house.

Oh, this was serious.

"Is that Nadia, darling?" Linda's voice chimed through the entrance hallway leading to the living room. "Hello Mrs Hamilton." The young woman greeted, giving Linda a side eye as she held a glass of water in her hand. "Please Nadia, rather call me Linda. Do come through, my dear!"

"We're out by the patio, need the bathroom before we start?" Nicola asked, making Nadia way more confused the more footsteps she took. "Start with what?" She trailed off, seeing Nicola just smile and head into the direction of the patio with her following. This was officially starting to get weird but Nadia chose to push her thoughts aside for this lunch.

"Oh she's here! How was the drive, Nads?" Her mom spoke up as soon as Nadia's foot hit the wooden floor of the large patio. Different types of charcuterie boards were placed with juices and waters to accommodate everyone but the atmosphere seemed so different from the dinner last week, it rather felt like a meeting.

"Helloooo." Nadia dragged out the greeting as she eventually found an empty seat, once again, next to Lewis. The man was genuinely a sight to see as the sun shined on him as he sat comfortably on the patio bench chair. Wearing a black NY cap, a graphic tee once again with a pair of jeans this time and his jewellery on display, Lewis smiled up at her with a toothy grin.

After personally greeting everyone around the table and answering their fast questions, she plopped down onto the chair with a few of her bracelets clanging together. The familiar scents of each other from the last time they met fused together as they both studied each other once again.

Nadia's tattoos were finally on display, each dainty artwork fluttered around her skin with a few being inked in red. The most noticeable thing being her hair as she changed the colour to black and it reached past her back. The makeup was very simple and she only carried her phone and lipgloss in her hand as she placed the overly cracked device onto the table right next to Lewis'. When she smiled, he noticed a small gem on one of her front teeth and he definitely admired her style, not one he would regularly picture on a high school teacher.

"You know Nadia, we were just talking about how odd it would be to suddenly become famous within a matter of hours." Linda started, grabbing the large jug of grape juice to give the girl a glass. Helping the older woman, Nadia lifted herself off the chair and gave Lewis a look, non verbally asking if it was true and his eyebrows furrowed whilst pursing his lip upwards, making Nadia smile a little.

"Really? In what aspects?" She sat back down, lifting the glass to her gloss covered lips and only taking little sips. "Oh just how you'd maybe have to close off social media for a while and suddenly having people around you to help with everything." Linda said, taking her glass of water and eyeing Nadia's mom after her sentence. Tilting her head in confusion, she made sure to sit comfortably as this was definitely an interesting conversation.

"I never really thought about it like that actually. The way teams assemble within a matter of hours is something else but I always hear my students say that they're one hundred percent ready for fame." Nadia watched the two older women constantly look at each other with the older men being suspiciously quiet. "Oh and don't even get me started on the scandals you're put through." Nicola submerged from the house, holding a fresh pizza on a wooden board with an extra plate.

"Lewis, you'd know a thing or two about these things right?" Nicola smirked as she placed the plate on the opposite side of the table. Snapping her head towards Lewis, he sighed then nodded before straightening up his posture as it was before. Now Nadia was incredibly confused. Although she spent at least two hours in conversation with Lewis, she never really found out what exactly he does for a living even though he knew what she did as she went on a whole rant about her day with the teenagers. The way he had carried himself whilst speaking with everyone and just how he listened made it seem like he could be a businessman of some sort that clearly made his money and he made it well as he wore jewellery pieces that she could only dream of seeing.

A beat of silence passed and a knock on the door was heard. "Oh, that must be Gerald." Anthony got up in quite a hurry, with the table falling into conversation to detour the previous topic. After the man was welcomed onto the patio, he placed his small briefcase next to him on the chair with Nadia's suspicions growing more and more.

But what if he was really just there for lunch?

The word 'deactivate' kept being thrown around between Nicola, Thembi and Linda for several minutes, snapping Nadia and Lewis out of their conversation on her tattoos. "Nads, come here really quickly and bring your phone." Her mom ordered as the young girl walked to their side of the table. Standing over all three women, she held her phone in front of her mom's face. "How do you deactivate your Instagram? Nicola here made one for me but i don't want it anymore." Thembi asked, once again eyeing Linda.

Showing the directions on her own phone, Nadia then became distracted by her stepdad's question. "Nads, do you know when Rea's flight lands? Will you be okay to go?" He asked, slightly jumping at something. "Yes, I'll be fine. Her flight lands at like two in the morning so after here I'll just finish up some work then go to the airport early." Nadia responded, feeling her hand move a little as she spoke to James.

Thembi tapped her daughter's hand as Nadia focused back on her phone. Seeing her instagram page now logged out, she groaned at the thought of her completely forgetting her password to it. Plopping back into her seat defeated, Lewis eyed her then her phone that she placed on the table. "You good?" He asked, turning his body to look at her. "I think I  accidentally logged myself out of insta and i forgot where i wrote down the password." Nadia frowned a little as she clasped her hands together. Even though he didn't want to seem like he was smiling at her misery but the little pout she had on her face was adorable and obviously he wasn't going to admit that anytime soon.

"Okay, I cannot do this anymore." Anthony announced out as he sighed which caught everyone's attention. "Dad, what's going on?" Lewis asked worried, he had noticed his father was quiet most of the time but he brushed it off knowing that his father was usually like this.

"Son, listen. I know what I'm about to say will sound insane but I need you to listen very carefully. Along with you too, Nadia." Anthony stated. Linda then stood next to her husband in terror. "Wait, Anthony. Are you sure you want to do this right now?" She muttered.

And now the uneasy feeling came right back.

"Lewis, you know I care for you deeply however these past few weeks have been tough for you... and pr." His dad started off, earning a sigh from Lewis and a pinch on the bridge of his nose. Seeing Lewis stress like this was weird for Nadia and what exactly did his father mean by PR? Anyone could tell that he wanted to say something but chose to keep quiet.

Now sitting up properly, Nadia was intrigued with the entire situation and wondered how famous Lewis actually was.

"Linda and I, along with Nadia's parents and Nicola have decided that we wanted to help you to clean up your image a little more even though you are a private person. And for that, we've come up with the concept of a fake marriage between you and Nadia." Anthony concluded and took his seat.

It was as if the blood from Nadia completely left her face after that very last sentence however her face stayed extremely neutral. Her face rather snapped towards her parents who were avoiding eye contact with her.

The silence was so loud, the birds chirping ever so slightly as if they were part of the plan as well. Looking at everyone's face, anyone could tell that this had probably been discussed many times before. "What?" Nadia being the first one to say something, spoke in a monotone voice.

"Look we wanted to see how you two would get along when you first met and it had seemed to work very well. We're only really looking out for you, Lewis. These rumours have kinda taken a toll on you." Nicola voiced, seeing that their faces were stoic yet burning daggers into everyone's skulls.

Finally looking at each other, Lewis and Nadia's eyes met with no source of attraction to each other in that present moment. "This is crazy." Lewis muttered to himself as he shook his head whilst looking down at his shoes.

"Okay." Nadia said, crossing her arms and looked at her mom directly. "Okay?" Lewis grumbled with slightly narrowed eyes to the girl. "Yeah. Clearly this is important and stuff so I'll do it." Nadia responded with a calm facade but she was truly screaming on the inside, her leg shaking underneath the table. Shocked as he was at her nonchalant response to the situation, he slumped back and chose to not speak up in front of guests. Lewis wasn't frustrated in the slightest but he was just extremely confused.

"What about the details?" Lewis sighed, feeling through his beard and accepting his fate.

"Wait, you're actually doing this?" Thembi expressed. If anything, Thembi felt embarrassed to even coming up with this suggestion thinking that it was going to help the driver and his many social problems. "Ma, please tell us the details before we rethink doing this for you guys." Nadia deadpanned, grabbing a grape from one of the charcuterie boards displayed.

"Well. You would have to tell the world that you've been married for at least a year or two and I've already told your PR team, Lewis, to get everything ready before you announce. For now, you're only allowed to tell your closest friends and coworkers about this so that it doesn't seem suspicious that your friends didn't know of your marriage." Nicola started.

"Nadia, because you're now affiliated with Lewis, security and a team will have to assembled to be at your beck and call. Marie from Lewis' team will come over to help you choose potential candidates for your everyday team. Now the difficult part. You two have to be married legally because you know how people get, Lewis. They'll want evidence. And that's Gerald is here for." She concluded, gesturing to the guest to open his briefcase but god, did he feel awkward.

"Uh, hello. Here's the marriage certificate you two are meant to sign for the court to recognise it as an actual marriage." The poor man was red in the face as he shakily placed the certificate between Nadia and Lewis with a pen. With her freshly manicured hand, the girl picked the pen and signed underneath her name officially as a Mrs. She took a quick glance at Lewis' name and it seemed so familiar but the thing that intrigued her the most was the 'Sir' before anything.

Lewis had a good look at Nadia's side profile as he watched her sign the official papers. She didn't seem bothered with anything that was said, it was as if everything just defeated her and she just accepted it. If there's one thing he noticed was that it looked like she didn't have a clue about who he was at all and that was so fascinating to him.

She handed the pen to him, their hands touching a little with the warmest touch as they made eye contact. They both couldn't read each other's eyes, only dark brown pupils staring into each other's souls. Lewis then also signed with a bit of hesitation, the reality falling on him as he dragged the pen to the very last of his signature.

"Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Hamilton." Gerald broke the silence as he uttered his words. He quickly packed his briefcase and walked away from the table with a small wave to everyone to escape from the awkwardness of the lunch table.

"You only have to do this for a year or so then you can either divorce publicly or privately. And the living situation has to be changed. Nadia, you will have to be almost everywhere with Lewis now that you've signed that certificate so I am not sure how you will handle this at your workplace. Do you have an active passport?" Anthony ended with his question to which the quiet girl just nodded.

"Wait, where am I going to live?" Nadia asked, eventually snapping out of the quiet demeanour she had. "Well you'll have to speak to your husband about that." Linda smiled at the two, the smile slowly falling when seeing their deadpanned faces.

Sighing out for the final time, Lewis sighed and lightly tapped Nadia on the arm signaling for her attention. He held his car keys in his hand and she knew that she had to go because being there any longer would've suffocated her. The newly married couple simultaneously stood up and gathered their belongings, making everyone's faces grow into confusion.

"Where are you guys going?" Thembi asked, standing up as well with a worried expression. All Lewis did was shrug as he fixed his shirt and move out of the way so that Nadia could walk before him. "Bye everyone! Your charcuterie boards looked amazing by the way, Linda." It was as if someone completely different had greeted the group goodbye because her mood changed in a matter of seconds as if nothing happened.

"What the hell did we just do?" Nicola asked, rubbing her forehead as she watched the two walk away and out of the house.

-

"You've arrived at your destination." The automated voice rang through the large car as it approached a large black gate behind an elegant building.

The drive to the unknown destination was not as quiet as they thought it would be. When entering the car, all Nadia could do was to laugh as soon as Lewis entered the car so much so that a few tears of laughter came out. It was a sound that he appreciated to hear and he joined her in her laughter. They couldn't believe that they even went through that, mainly laughing at the fact they went into the house for lunch and left as a married couple.

It was quite the lengthy drive but it seemed much quicker as they spent the time speaking about what happened at lunch yet they never got to the topic of his job and also because they decided to play music to get rid of the negative mood they both had.

“I thought you were going to kidnap for a second. I still do.” Nadia joked as he playfully rolled his eyes at her. “Where are we even?” She looked out of the window to see the back of the large building, eventually spotting a small yet visible sign on the wall reading ‘Harrods VIP parking’.

Letting the smallest gasp escape her mouth, she gazed at Lewis once again who was typing on his phone and wondered what he did for a living for him to be able to decide to park his car here. The rumours from this department store were unbelievable so to see them bloom in real life felt surreal to Nadia.

Lewis definitely saw Nadia to be a good friend to him and could keep her around his circle and vice versa. It was a sign that a friendship was brewing between each other and they’re somewhat grateful for that although it happened so quickly.

“Seriously bruv, where are you taking me? I have to get home to watch catfish.” She asked, flicking her hair back and he laughed once more. “Bruv?” He said in between his giggles. “Okay my pookie wookie buddy bear, where are you taking me?” She said, fluttering her eyelashes at him which made him burst into so much more laughter.

“Since you want to know so badly, we’re going to Cartier to get our wedding rings.” He smiled a toothy grin, turning off the ignition of the car while looking at her stunned expression.

“…what?”

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[velvet-paradox]

Stay (ch. 4)

Lessons from Kruger - Meeting a Ghost - Pleasure

Warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY, explicit content, strong language, female masturbation.

You got to sit at the table that night for dinner. No longer assigned to the floor, you got your very own spot on the bench, beside König at the head of it. An arrangement of mushrooms and grain lay out on your plate beside some of the boar meat that was caught earlier that morning. Most of it had landed itself on his plate.

"How does it feel?" König asked through a mouthful of his dinner. He had at least put his shirt back on, this thinner one looked comfortable and light on his thick bands of muscles.

"To be off the floor? A lot better."

"Good to hear," he nodded and brought his horn of ale beneath his hood. "But that is not what I asked."

"Then what do you mean?"

"How does it feel… to be one of KorTac now?"

You didn't know how to answer him or even if you should. It only bothered you when you laid down that night, watching König busy himself getting ready for bed that you realized you liked it here. You liked the people, even the ones who barely acknowledged you. They minded their business. You kept your head down and didn't bother anyone. The children of the clan seemed to like you the best because you had new and unheard stories to tell.

You liked KorTac even though you didn't give consent to be here.

And that gave you pause.

….

"Higher."

Krueger shifts and tilts the worn shield in your hand and readies his stance against you. You've been at this for hours, wooden swords for practice, the clacking made nests of birds flew free. Kruger had been entrusted to train you, which he had gladly obliged last week or so. Your stomach flipped when The Collector had sent you off with a light push to follow the other masked man.

Time and days were running together as you no longer kept track.

The markings under your bed had looked low. König had left the door that once separated you, open. And even though you were stolen, a ransom, leverage, some nights you had the urge to crawl into his bed.

You were incredibly touch starved. You hadn't felt the warmth of a hug in so long. Only Keeva had shown you affection and now her light touches were made for her babies.

"Come now, you're not paying attention, pet. If you are to be the wife of The Collector you need to defend yourself," Kruger's wooden sword clacked against your one when you brought it up to block the blow. "You are better than this, no?"

"You're worse than König." You pant, out of breath at his level of training. You've never sweat this much in your life! Day after day, Sebastian had pushed you until your bones ached, until you collapsed to the ground. He'd rouse you back up, set you back on your feet and go for another ten minutes or so.

"Thank you."

Each day you came to train, a little cat of curiosity would creep into your head as to why now, Kruger was the one to train you and not The Collector himself.

Kruger grabbed your shield and knocked it against your head.

"Fucker! And how do you know I am to be his wife?"

Kruger grabbed your arm and held it up, almost yanking you off your feet with his brute strength. "This. König explained what it means to you, to your family. And we're happy to have you. Keeva and Price especially, thank the Gods you were with her in her time of need. You are one of us."

"She's the only one whose been nice towards me."

Kruger scoffed, you couldn't see his face but you knew behind his mask he was feigning some hurt. "As if I am not friendly to you! That is quite rude, pet. I could tell König you know, he'd punish you."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Care to try me?"

You huffed and rounded your shoulders, knowing all too well now that if you challenged Kruger, you were in for a fight.

….

You couldn't sleep that night. Muscles too tight, head too heavy. You tossed and turned in your bed, moving and folding your blankets a little more neatly. You just couldn't get comfortable, no matter how hard you tried, on your back, your side, upside down. Nothing seemed to help and König's talking in his sleep wasn't helping either.

He snored too.

Impulse took root and before you knew it, you had raised your fist and banged it heavily against the wall you shared. You heard silence for once that night, snuggling down into your furs and blankets, punching down a damn near flat pillow.

You felt your body jerk, suddenly yanked down to the edge of your bed with an irate and sleepy looking menace hovering just above you. Your attempt to shield your face from his venomous gaze proved pointless as König swiftly grabbed your wrists and pinned them down to the bed.

"If you have something to say, just say it." He growled, his voice low and tangled with sleep.

You twisted in his grip but that only made him grunt at you and squeeze your bones.

"Are you not the same man who told me not to speak unless spoken to?" you retorted. "And how shall I do that if you are dead asleep?"

König sighed. "You could have come in and kicked me, I would have preferred that than to hear you banging and rolling around in here."

"If you were asleep, how do you know I am restless?"

His mask billowed around his bare shoulders, scars, fresh and old covered his skin like armor in the crackling flames from the burning lanterns inside your side of the room. You wanted to touch them. You shook that feeling from your mind like cobwebs.

It really had been so long since anyone had touched you and you were feeling the delirious effects.

"You have been restless all day, so why should the cover of night be any different? Was Kruger rough on you today?"

"No."

"Hmm, then he is not doing his job. I shall have a talk with him in the morning, make sure you are being pushed to your true potential."

König pushed off of you and he made his way to the separating door, he lingered there before disappearing into his room.

"What's it like?" Anso, a little boy no taller that your kneecap begged the question. "How have you no siblings? I am one of eight!"

"My parents were only blessed with me." You answered. He trotted next to you, holding on the skirt of your dress as you walked down the lane, other little ones following after as you were sent to market for a few elixir items a blonde woman named Laswell was in need of.

"Truly you are blessed by the Gods," Brunihild joined the conversation, catching up to your adult steps in comparison to her stubby short ones. "I am one of nine! I get nothing to myself."

"That is because no one wants what you have!" Ango, the eldest of Keeva and Price laughed himself into hysterics until another girl, Astrid, about the same age punched him in the chest.

Gaz had finished your boots for the colder months ahead, calling out to you once you had procured the herbs and salve for Laswell. The kids had gotten distracted and had taken off at a full sprint towards the fjord you had yet to take in.

"Well, how do they feel?'

You bounced in place after lacing them up, you did not have any suitable size sock to pull on to see how you would fare soon enough.

Gaz was indeed a true master craftsmen. He knew what he was doing. You didn't even need to try on the pants he'd hemmed and tailored for you to know they would indeed keep you skin tight and warm.

There was clamoring in the great hall when you got back, hunts came back left and right and all times of day as of late so it was no real matter to you as you moved past some excited KorTac members.

Laswell's apothecary was on the side of the village to Keeva's, you knew the area well now. You knocked and were welcomed in, she had even paid you an unsuspected sum, a little leather bag to your palm much to her wifes' annoyance. You thanked them and made it back up the hill to the great hall.

On your way with your own score of the day you had bumped into a rather large form. You apologized thinking the mass and weight of shoulders before you was Kruger, only for the man to turn about face and stare you down.

Definitely not Kruger.

The unknown skull-masked man tilted his head and examined you from head to toe.

"And just who might you be then?"

"Apologies."

"That is a rather odd name." The foreign man rounded his thick shoulders, furs slouching a bit if not for the chain digging into his bulky neck, they would surely be on the ground. Brown eyes narrowed down at you.

"No. I mean I'm… I'm König's-"

"Ah! So you are König's newest little play thing, yeah? Give us a spin."

He clicked his teeth but stopped short when a large hand clamped down on your shoulder. You squeaked.

"She will do no such thing for the likes of you, Ghost." König tightened his grip momentarily, locking eyes with this new brute of a man.

"Apologies here said she's yours. I have been away a rather fruitful hunt, we will last another winter."

"Apologies?" He asked.

Ghost pointed at you.

"Her name is pet, not apologies, Simon."

"Of course, König. Whatever you say," Ghost shrugged, water off a ducks back. The tension between the two of them only seemed to anchor and grow once Ghost started speaking again. "She said she was yours, does that mean this one is not for sharing? Keeps perhaps, big man?"

A shiver licked up your spine and if it weren't for König being so close and radiating heat, you might have fell over with the way he looked at you. You were getting used to König's blue eyes, sharp and clear but Simon's brown ones seemed to burn a hole into your flesh.

How many other ransoms and taken hostages, men and women, had been subjected to being passed around? It made bile rise in the back of your throat and you wanted nothing more than to turn and run all the way home.

"No. She is not for consumption."

Ghost looked disappointed but again, as cool and unbothered he hummed and reached his arm out to The Collector, to which he took it and let Simon bring him in close.

"Since you are so preoccupied, maybe I'll pay a visit to Ada, your favorite paramour then. Sure could use a bath and a fuck." Simon sauntered down the hall, making sure to fluff out his furs for dramatic effect.

"Is he going to be a problem?" You finally asked once the burly man was out of sight and hearing.

König snorted and quickly released your shoulder, which he seemed to have completely forgotten about, he urged you two to make the trek back to your quarters. "If he does, you let me know, pet. I am glad to see you have acquired some things from Gaz, we'll fit you for a cloak soon as well."

….

Autumn had settled into the air and into your bones, even though you had a little fire pit in your room, nights were getting colder and colder. The leaves were changing, children were growing and turning out to be effective Vikings, their eagerness to raid with their fathers and older brothers was growing on them. Price and Keeva's oldest had been seen as of late out in the training grounds.

One night you thought of crawling into bed with König, just for warmth of course.

You desperately wanted to see your parents before winter came, blocking passage up your village. The Collector would soon be making his seasonal rounds anyway, and hopefully he would stay true to his word and let you visit.

You waited patiently in your bedroom, wiggling your toes in your boots, hands wringing over the leather of your new pants. He was away on a hunt with Kruger and Ghost. He trusted you to stay put, to which you did. Three days without seeing his humous form stalk about the KorTac village, hear his voice, see his hood swaying as he pounded the dirt down the lane. Watching him quietly move about this very room, a scene not everyone was privy to. Much like you, getting up and walking into his part of the shared space, sitting on his bed instead.

It was a private moment when you realized you were instinctly rubbing your thighs together.

Uh oh.

You'd been touch staved for months now. The scent of König filled your nose when you laid back into his furs, his pillows, his space. Reeking of the woods, sage and his distinct smell. Manly. Burly. Strong. Heady.

The more you thought about him the more you wiggled and gave in, grabbing his closest pillow and inhaling like a dog in heat. And perhaps you were.

You covered your face with the pillow then, gripping at the blankets below as you busied yourself, tearing at the strings of your pants, bucking into nothing, breathing in his scent as your nimble fingers found the source of the issue. Your clit throbbed, your pussy clenched around nothing but want and desire, the first time you'd even allowed yourself to feel something other than dismay. You bit into the fabric of the pillow. Drooling, rubbing your slit for some sort of relief. You startled yourself when you moaned out The Collectors name. What a mess!

Thankfully he wasn't anywhere nearby to see your antics, covering your mouth, the crackling sounds from the fire burning in your room, the warmth of it as you moved and nosily filled the canal of your cunt, easily with two fingers. You'd never heard yourself this loudly before, your mind racing as you pulled them out, circling your clit once more until you gave in and stuffed yourself knuckle deep.

"Whose Ada?" You asked Keeva the next morning, spotting her having some difficulty wrangling her children about, the newborns having sprouted a lot more hair than you remembered, on your way to market. You were surprised to see her up and about so soon, the babes now a good month old, looking wide eyed around the new world around them.

"Oh that one," Keeva snorted and shook her head, as you carried her woven basket. It reminded you of yours back home, collecting dust. "She's a silly one, that Ada. She likes to entertain."

"Ghost called her a paramour."

"Simon is right. Knees to the sky, that one. She's not a bad woman, mind you pet, she just… does things her way. She gets paid to spread her legs for anyone with enough money and willing. I heard," Keeva began to whisper, shooing her little ones away from prying ears. "She's even gotten a few of KorTac's finest to beg. Can you imagine?! Word gets out about submission and they'll make a new song of it, I'm sure."

"Anyone?" Your mind reeled with the image of any of KorTac's finest begging for sexual favors.

Keeva paused. "Are you interested? I don't know of her rate but a new play thing like you might fetch a few pretty coins."

"Not me. The Collector."

"Oh so you are interested in our leader? Not surprised."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing. You two spend a lot of time together, I only see what it is plain. Are you jealous, dear pet? You shouldn't be, he has not been to see her in many months now." Keeva explained, calling after her brood.

"How do you know?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Keeva laughed and you followed after her with a furrowed brow and even more questions than answers.

Obvious of what?

"Wee lass! I was wondering if you might've taken your leave in the wake of The Collectors absence. You must be enjoying yerself here wit' us." Soap found you rummaging for some carrots for Keeva, he clapped a heavy hand on your shoulder that gave you chills. You wondered if he had forgot you were not to be touched or the man couldn't care less. You weren't sure if that was reckless or just the sort of man Soap truly was.

"And risk being blood eagled? I think not."

"König wouldn't do that to you!"

"He did it to the last guy who betrayed him!"

"Oh that," Soap waved a blood lust death like there was some flying insect in front of his face, like it was nothing and maybe to these people it wasn't. Growing up you knew that was the most heinous of deaths and it was rightly served. You played and stayed on the straight and narrow to not be lumped in with venom like that! "That's a totally differen' situation. No' even close, lass."

"Are you König? How would you know that he wouldn't turn on me at once? I have seen his wrath, I know what The Collector is capable of and I would be an idiot to think otherwise. I need his trust."

"You mean… his approval?"

"If I am to be his wife, yes Soap, I need his approval and trust. I can't just be some… some.. nobody."

"WIFE?!" Soap practically shrieked, getting a few looks.

"Did he not tell you what this means?" You held up your arm, the emerald band glinting in the mid-day light.

"No. Why would he tell me something so intimate?" Soap asked.

"He told Kruger."

"Ah, Kruger and I are quite different in rank, pet. Congratulations are in order I suppose, then."

"Maybe don't mention this, out loud again until he comes home, yeah?"

"Home? I suppose you are feeling most welcome." Soap smirked and waved you off, adjusting his cloak as he walked away with a secret. He glanced over his shoulder once as you found the right amount of vegetables needed.

….

Your lips feel bruised, sloppy and wet, sliding over another. Large hands are on your body, prodding and groping. Kneading into the flesh of your thighs, grabbing them, hoisting them, pushing them up and apart. You're out of breath and desperate, oh so fucking desperate for friction, for filling.

You're on your knees, excited and eager to please, the pleasure of serving is hot on your mind, licking at the base of your skull, warming you through like a summer breeze.

It's nice you could cry. You are so unashamed and thorough to be this good. A hand on your head, another under your chin to make you look up and up and . König is smiling at you.

You instantly sit up in bed.

Oh Gods no!

You cannot be feeling this way about your captor.

This cannot be happening. You rub at your eyes, your face is hot and sweating. The apex of your sex is sticky and wet. You're thrumming with adrenaline, jittery at best. You knew it was a mistake to touch yourself, let alone touch yourself in his bed, surrounded by his things.

Now look at you, a miserable and horny mess once more.

You should get up, go outside, get some fresh air, cool yourself off. Stave off this desire. The moment you told Soap that you needed The Collectors approval, his trust, his praise, you were in too deep. Given to him as payment, forced to be his wife, apart of the KorTac clan, to be married to the most brutal and violent man in this realm was not something you ever thought about. And why would you? He's a killer. He's a murderer.

He's… yours.

[welcometothemaraudersspam]

a walk in october ~ n.k x reader part 1

“apocalypse ~ cigarettes after sex”

volume: ■■■■■□□□

warnings: cursing? just nanami being cute :3

word count: 2.3k

part 2 here!

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Your converse cladded feet kicked the tiny pebbles adorning the sidewalk, a soft sigh leaving your lips. Lifting your gaze up from the ground taking in the breathtaking scenery. The leaves had reached their full autumn bloom. Shades of orange and brown coating every inch of the park. There were plenty of people enjoying the cool weather, their chatter heard in passing as you made your way further into the park.

The only other sound you took notice of were the rustling of the leaves, your eyes gazing up at the sky.

You could swear up and down that fall skies looked different. There was a certain hue to them that you couldn’t find in summer skies.

Summer skies were bright.

Baby blue.

Fluffy white clouds coating the sky. Everything was the perfect shade of green. The scenery just looked clean.

But fall skies-

That’s where it truly is.

Fall skies… they were brown. They were comforting. Everything about fall made you feel so warm inside. Maybe it was the ever changing shades in the leaves. The earthy tones coating the ground.

It was breathtaking..

And you look forward to it every year.

Your train of thought came to an abrupt stop as you had arrived at your usual spot. Setting your bag onto the wooden park bench, a soft thud followed shortly after. Taking a seat on the worn wood tugging your lunch out of the brown bag, humming a soft tune. Another gust of wind rustled the leaves above you, a few stray ones dancing their way down to the ground.

This place you had considered your spot wasn’t entirely hidden. Anybody could take it. But, no one ever did.

It was a lone wooden table barely holding it together with benches. The wood was beyond worn. Outlines of where people had loved it before. It was further into the park, near the outskirts of it, under a giant tree.

The tree looked over hundreds of years old. It’s roots sticking every which way. But it was thick, it could be hit with a bulldozer and knock the machine right back. The way the branches were positioned made it look like you were sitting under a mushroom. It was perfect.

It gave you just the right amount of shade.

A gorgeous view.

You could stay there for hours.

For days.

The sound of someone calling your name broke you out of your trance, lifting your head up from your sandwich, a smile tugging at your lips. The sight of Gojo waving erratically with unamused familiar faces in tow.

The white haired man practically sprinted over to you, helping himself to a bite of your sandwich making himself comfortable on the seat beside you.

A scoff left your lips, “Soturu. Wow, how lovely to see you. Yes, of course you can have a bite. Thanks for asking!” Offering him a fake smile pinching his cheeks, a little harder than usual an odd sound leaving his mouth. He just grinned at your actions, resting his arm around your shoulder tugging you closer to him.

“Soturu, behave. You’ve barely been here 2 seconds and you already managed to piss her off.” Suguru mused, sitting across from Gojo, his bangs blowing across his face. Shoko snickered at his words, opting for sitting on the edge of the table. You beamed up at the girl attempting to shrug off Gojo’s arm, but he didn’t falter. He tightened his grip on you, popping a few of your grapes into his mouth, pretending to not hear you struggle beside him.

“Shoko! My love, please save me.” Begging the brunette, reaching for her with both of your hands, Suguru sighed audibly while Nanami rolled his eyes at Soturu’s antics. The tall boy just wrapped another arm around you, squeezing you tighter.

“Soturu, do you remember that time last december when we went on a mission and the curse’s power had the power to shrink-”

Almost as if he had been struck by lightning, the blue eyed man released his hold on you instantly, red dusting his pale skin. Snickers left Geto’s lips clearly knowing the backstory, a satisfied hum left Shoko sending a wink your way. You tugged the brunette toward you peppering her face in kisses, loud smacks leaving both of your lips as you giggled to one another.

Shoko had been your best friend since diapers.

You had been through every stage of your life with that girl.

When you had turned 12, you had moved due to your father passing. You had begged and pleaded to not leave, offering any of your possessions but nothing helped.

Your mothers mind was made up.

Having to tell Ieiri that you were leaving was the worst moment of your life. You still remember everything that was said. All of the tears wept between the two of you.

Knowing her temper, the girl had no one to yell at but you. She blamed you at first, out of anger, but deep down she knew she was just trying to protect herself from getting hurt.

You never thought you would see her again but almost as if you guys were meant to be with one another. The pair of you didn’t meet again until you ran into each other at Jujutsu High.

You had never been more thankful in your entire life that you could see all of these awful curses, as long as it meant you could be with your best friend again.

.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-

“And over here is where your dorm will be. You have one neighboring roommate. She’s nice. I’ll introduce you to her… yeah, right through here. ” The tall blonde spoke gently, unlocking your new dorm room giving you a chance to walk in first.

The room was much bigger than you had expected. It was bare. But you didn’t mind. You had plenty of belongings to make it feel like home in no time. Sighing softly as you kicked your slippers off at the entrance, your sock clad feet padding across the wooden floor. Making your way over to the window in the corner of your room. Peeking out the window, a soft gasp leaving your lips.

“Nanami! You never told me I had such a gorgeous view.”

“I wasn’t sure you even had a window.”

“C’mere. Look! You can see all the trees from here,” You mused to the tall man, motioning him over. He gingerly made his way over, bending way down to see the cherry blossom trees coating your windows view. You could see a creek from your room as well, a soft hum left his lips.

With the little space between you, your senses were overwhelmed with what you assumed was his natural scent. Smelling of fresh laundry and… was that cinnamon?

“… all I got was the view of a brick wall.” A snort left your lips snapping you out of your trance, nudging the blonde playfully. An unfamiliar look flashed across his face quickly clearing his throat, maneuvering around you to go towards your dorm door. “I-.. did you have any further questions?”

“Yes actually,” Anyone from a while away could see the nervous wreck that was Nanami Kento, a small part of you only meaning to poke fun at the 2nd year who was standing before you. “Is your dorm also in this hall?”

“Em- since girls and guys have to be in separate halls… I am- I am not.”

“Hm.. what a shame.” Uttering under your breath, knowing full well he could hear it. A rush of pink flooded his face, parting his lips at your words. The blonde fringe covering his eyes partially made you realize how cute his eyes truly were, a soft giggle leaving your lips.

“Nanami… we still have the rest of the tour to go on.”

“Right!- if you follow me…”

.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-

A loud heaving noise to your left made you release Shoko, giving the giggling boy a glare as he looked proud at himself. Both you and the brunette gave him an amused look, gesturing towards him and the dark haired boy beside him.

“I didn’t think you of all people would be against same sex couples considering you have a whole ass boyfriend-”

“That’s not true. Whatsoever. He’s my husband-”

A wave of groans left your group's lips as his long limbs reached across the table to take ahold of Geto’s clasped hands, a look of feigned disgust coated his face. Nanami just rolled his eyes but you took notice of how he had moved his hands under the table. Holding back a chuckle catching his eyes, a faint blush creeped up his neck.

“You haven’t been here long have you?”

“No, not too long. I was bored and the weather was lovely, so I figured why not have my lunch here rather than at the school.” You shrugged your shoulders, finally taking a bite of your sandwich, looking up at the young girl whose lips had already been captured by yet another cigarette. “Shoko… tell me that’s your first one today. It’s barely 11.”

The girl stiffened her hand with the lighter stopping right before her mouth, avoiding your stare. Setting down the sandwich, leaning forward so your face was right under her gaze. She just sighed.

“I don’t want to lie to you…”

“Sho! I thought you were trying to quit.”

“I know, I know! But being around this dumbass makes it incredibly difficult. ” Tilting her head back towards the tall white haired man who was currently trying to balance a glass container on the top of his head, a goofy grin spread across his face.

Hold on.. that’s my glass container.

At the mention of Shoko’s insult he snapped his head toward the two of you. A stream of words began leaving his lips catching sight of your container tumbling off his head. A soft gasp left your lips as you scrambled to reach the glass container, a pair of hands reaching it before it touched the ground.

Nanami looked unamused by Gojo’s actions, setting the container into your awaiting hands, fingers brushing slightly, offering you a smile. A smile graced your lips before quickly turning into a frown, facing the white haired boy.

“Gojo.”

A beat passed, the boy turning his head around to face the tree trunk.

“I’m going to beat your ass.”

“You wish you could touch me.”

“You know I’m one of the only ones who can. That’s why you're not facing me right now.”

Another beat.

He started whistling to himself, his head moving side to side as he pretended to not hear you. A sigh left Geto’s lips, rising from his position on the bench. Shoko hesitated to move but she knew it best if she did, tossing her cigarette under her boot smothering it.

“Soturu. Let’s go before she ends up having to explain to Yaga where you went.”

Soft grumbles left his lips, begrudgingly standing up giving you a quick peek at you over his sunglasses. You pretended to cup your hands together, making him huff and begin to fast walk ahead of your friends. A giggle left your lips, watching him stumble over a rock.

“I’ll see you at training, sweets.” Suguru leaned down to bring you into a warm embrace, rubbing his back as he started after Gojo who was sulking from afar. Suppressing the laugh that begged to be let out at the sight of an almost grown adult, pouting with his arms crossed over his chest. Shoko pressed a chaste kiss onto your cheek, waving goodbye at you.

A sigh left your lips pressing your head onto the wooden table.

“I visibly saw the weight leave your shoulders once he left.”

“I swear. He makes my head pound. How does he even manage that?”

Nanami just let out a soft chuckle, crossing his arms in front of him as he eyed your form. His eyes drifted over your tousled hair splayed on the table, catching sight of a fairly deep cut on the back of your hand. Almost on instinct, his hand reached out, stopping right before he could touch your skin.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Hm?,” Lifting your head up to look at your hands, just now taking notice of the gash on your hand. The blood around it had already dried, looking like it had already begun scabbing over. “That is… a good question. I’m not entirely sure. Sometimes I just get a bunch of random cuts and bruises and have absolutely no recollection of where they came from.”

“It’s truly a surprise you’ve made it this far as a sorcerer if that’s the case.” Nanami hummed a smile tugging at his lips, a laugh leaving your body as your eyes locked with his. A comforting silence washed over the two of you.

The only sound you could hear was the rustling of the leaves above and below you. The breeze was nice and cool on your skin, tugging your shirt hems over your hands.

“Nanami?”

A soft hum.

“Have you ever thought about getting a lip piercing?” The strangest sound left his mouth eyeing your face to see if you were being genuine. Tilting your head at him, quirking an eyebrow at the blonde.

“I- I don’t think it would suit me.”

“Are you kidding? I genuinely thought you were secretly tatted under that uniform. A lip piercing- scratch that, any piercings would 1000% look killer on you. I think it suits your face.”

“... do you truly?”

“I have no reason to lie to you, Kento. I swear.”

His heart soared at your words, a smile gracing his face. He untucked his ears, not a single word leaving his lips. You stared innocently up at him, eyes trailing to where his hair now uncovered. A small gasp left your lips, the sight of pure joy lighting your face up made him chuckle, feeling his face heat up at the look on your face.

“NANAMI KENTO. YOU- YOU HAVE PIERCED EARS.”

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a/n: hi lovelies! this is my first time writing for jjk, i just recently finished watching the series. and i completely fell in love. i have written well over 10k worth of words on this story. plz let me know how you guys feel about it. lots of love <3

[lilbittymonster]

Day 5: Stamp

Read on AO3

Kugane’s market district was just as vibrant as she remembered, the streamers and paper lanterns swaying in the sea-blown breeze as people milled about a well-worn memory. No one stopped her to thank her for some heroic deed or another, no one stood gawking at her from a corner in awe, she was...just another patron of the market. It was freeing in a way she hadn’t been free in a long time.

She slowed her pace, taking the time to really look at all of the stalls she was passing. A blue wooden box propped up with two bamboo brushes caught her eye and she carefully wove her way closer to inspect it.

“Finest calligraphy supplies this side of Thavnair!” boasted the saleswoman behind the counter.

“Hello, are those inks in that box, or just brushes?” Kitali asked her in Doman as she approached.

“Yes, these are both inks and brushes,” the woman smiled. “There are full colour sets here, and traditional black here.”

“Could I see the colours?” Kitali asked.

Delicately, the woman lifted the box from its place and handed it to her, cover open. Nestled inside were eight uniform sticks of various pigments, all stamped with a gold dragon. Kitali bit the inside of her cheek to hold her amusement at bay. Surely no one could accuse him of heresy should she send him these…

“How much for these?” she asked.

“For the ink and the brushes, 300 gil.”

“And this is just the ink and brushes, no stone?”

“Correct. If you would like to pick out a grinding stone as well, we have plenty to chose from. Come, see what we have over here.”

She beckoned Kitali with a hand to the other side of the stall where there were several small stones laid out, ranging from plain dishes to intricately carved dishes with fitted lids. Most were the same flat black stone, but a couple had bits of shell and wood inlaid into their design, two even having what looked like gold.

A small round dish, roughly the size of her palm, with a large crescent moon dotted with inlaid shell sat nestled between two much larger stones almost the size of tea saucers. Gingerly she plucked it from its seat, and to her delight it had an actual lid over the well. Perfect for keeping little paws from stepping into wet ink.

“How much is this one?” she asked.

The shopkeeper quickly consulted a list behind the counter. “That one? 65 gil.”

Kitali fished out her small coinpurse from a pocket and counted out her total.

“Would you like this wrapped as a gift?”

“Yes, and preferably something that can be shipped,” Kitali said as the woman pulled out a sheet of thick paper. “It’s a gift for my husband.” The word still felt so strange to speak aloud, this small secret.

“Ah, how lovely! How many years?”

Kitali thought for a moment. “By the time this reaches him, it will be one year.”

“Congratulations,” she said warmly as she plucked the box and brushes from their resting place. “He has used inks before, yes?”

Kitali shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

A small white card was plucked from a stack and placed on top of the ink box.

“Instructions for him, then. Thank you so much for your patronage, miss, do come again!”

Kitali clutched the parcel against her chest protectively as she walked off, content with her find but still taking the time to circle the markets in full. She wasn’t needed to discuss financial matters with the East Aldenard Trading Company representative. She could enjoy her homecoming in peace, however bittersweet it was.

At a leisurely pace, Kitali slowly wandered back towards the ijin district to wait for Alphinaud and Tataru to conclude their business. Lyse and Alisaie were sitting some distance off at one of the tables sharing a plate of what looked like takoyaki. Lyse noticed her coming down the stairs and waved her over, sliding over to make room on the bench.

“Ooh, what’s that?” she asked, nodding at the package.

“A gift,” Kitali said simply.

“Who’s it for?” Alisaie asked around a mouthful of dough.

“A friend in Ishgard, I promised them I’d send a souvenir,” Kitali said evasively, hoping the thinned truth would satisfy them.

It did, and their conversation turned back to wondering over the delights of the city while Kitali looked on, amused.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐀 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟖.𝟖𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟕𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

When you see the figure for the first time, you’re dreaming. 

Distantly, on some faraway plane where the tiniest sliver of your awakeness resides, you know you are dreaming. It isn’t obvious really except for the way everything looks. It’s like looking at a poorly developed Polaroid--streaks of white rippling through your vision, flashes of technicolor dotting the corners. Everything is murky, muddled. 

You’re standing in the mess hall by yourself, which has never happened before, and every muscle beneath your sizzling skin is locked in place. You can hardly breathe, even--your lungs stunted at a deep exhale. The long, wooden picnic-style tables flank you on either side, expanding along the worn floorboards. You can still smell, very faintly, the charcoal from the grilled burgers last night. 

It’s not a moment after you realize you can’t breathe that you make out the figure in the near distance. It’s something hunched over, shrouded in black, made up of something thicker than shadow and thinner than skin. It’s moving minutely, shivering almost. Something deep in your aching belly tells you--immediately upon first glance--that the figure is unfamiliar. This isn’t Rooster or Hangman or Phoenix: this is a stranger. 

If you could speak, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t want to draw attention to yourself, not when you’re so near the strange figure. Fear is gripping your throat so strongly that it feels like a noose wrapped around your neck and being slowly tightened. You feel like you have to stand on the very tip of your toes to just breathe. 

You can’t even blink, can’t look away even for a millisecond. There are tears streaming down your face, fat and hot, and you can do nothing but let them fall into your open mouth and dissolve on your tongue in puddles of salt. 

Light floods the room--not sunshine, but artificial, like the flash of a camera bulb. For a moment, your vision is clear and crisp: that’s when you see the blood. It’s all over the floor, smeared across the benches, seeping between the floorboards, painting the windows, splattering the ceiling. And the figure contorts, stretching and cracking with sickly pops that burst on your eardrums like gunpowder exploding from a barrel. 

Suddenly, your body is warm and your vision is grainy again. You know, without really knowing, that you’re drenched in blood, too. Head-to-toe, top-to-bottom, caked in blood. Beneath your fingernails, between your molars, soaking your roots, dousing your robe and nightgown. 

You don’t know whose blood it is. You don’t know who’s standing just before you, their body contorting and rippling as they leave the crouching position. And when the stink of rot fills your nostrils, coats your throat, fills your stilled lungs, that's when the figure finally makes a sound. That is when a deep and guttural--

Gulping the chilled air, you jolt out of the nightmare and wake up on your cot where you fell asleep hours ago. It takes a few moments for you to realize it, blinking up at the ceiling, glancing at the taper candle--the one you forgot to blow out--that’s almost burned to the wick, swallowing all that fresh Maine air hungrily. 

Toying with the hem of your plaid felt blanket, you try to regulate your breathing as you flex your jaw and flatten your shoulders. Your bones are heavy with exhaustion and your face feels hot from sinking so deeply into the goose-down pillow. 

You’re fine. It was a nightmare. You’re just worried about today. You’re going to be fine. It was only make-believe. It’s okay. 

The morning light is still more black than blue and there is a distinct chill in your cabin, which has you reaching for the wool socks you always pack but never wear. 

And it’s when you catch your breath, looking up at your collage of children’s drawings on your cabin wall, that your ears suddenly cease in their ringing and hone in on the very moment you’re living in. 

Strange. You can’t hear anything except your own pulse. 

The walls of your cabin stand silently around you in the dark, not settling or groaning. The birds are not awake yet and the crickets, the bullfrogs have retired. There is no wind tickling the leaves of the tall oak trees outside. No twigs snapping under the puny weight of a scampering gray squirrel, no goldfinches crooning as they hop from branch to branch.   

Usually there’s splashing down near the water, the boys racing down the hill in their skivvies with brash laughter falling from their wide-open mouths. Usually there are children screaming during games of Red Rover or Statue or Spud. Usually there are whistles being blown and announcements being made over the loudspeaker. All emulsified, concocted a symphony of noise that is as effective as slipping headphones over your ears. 

But the sun hasn’t risen. There are no birds or crickets or bullfrogs. There is no wind. No one else is awake on campgrounds, which is just something that you know. You’ve caught the earth in a rare moment of in-between, when night is becoming day, when the veil is so thin that it’s translucent. The kind of moment that you miss if you blink. 

And instead of relishing in that, you’re overcome with dread. Something feels wrong about it all--Camp Arcadia is never supposed to be quiet. Again, your lungs feel heavy as if filled with damp sand and your fingertips are quivering. 

But then, just as your skin gooses and your belly turns, the birds begin to sing and the wind begins to blow. Like it was waiting for you to notice--like something is taunting you. 

“Jesus,” you whisper into the dark. You rub your palms over your eyes and let your hands rest there, leaving you in the pitch black again. “Fuck.”

“You okay, birdie?”

You’re not sure why--or how--you don’t scream, but you don’t. Instead, every bone in your body locks and your head is on a swivel, eyes scanning the dirty screens that line the wall by the front door. 

There’s that fear again, the one that paralyzes you--but then there’s a warm glow that lights your cabin and oh. Oh. It’s only Rooster standing outside your front door, holding a lantern. He’s still in his pajamas, holding his hands up in surrender. 

“Christ, Bradshaw,” you mutter, groaning as you sit up. The springs of the thin mattress groan louder than you somehow, crying under your every movement. “You’re really gonna make me freak out!” 

Rooster’s only been standing here a few moments, just long enough to hear you curse and hold your palms over your eyes. He was taking one of his kids to the latrine, blinking himself awake, when he heard the strangled gasps coming from your cabin. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t overstated, but it was enough for him to hear on the quiet blue plane of Camp Arcadia. In fact, he felt like it was the only noise he could hear at all. 

It helps that the altrine is right beside your cabin--which has meant that Rooster often gets to pass by your windows and make sure you’re alright when he’s taking his campers to potty after midnight. Sometimes, he’ll catch you still awake, reading in candlelight. Sometimes he’ll wave and you’ll wave, too. Other times, he’ll sneak back over after tucking his camper back into their cot, and share a drink of that brandy you brought with you.   

“Sorry,” he whispers to you, genuinely apologetic. “Not trying to creep or anything. Just came to check on you.” 

You nod, raking your hands through your hair. And then you heave yourself out of bed, slip into your robe, and unlock the screen door of your cabin. Rooster’s grinning at you, hands on his hips, eyes washing over your robed figure. 

“Had a wicked nightmare,” you tell him, closing the door behind him. “It was major.”

Rooster inhales the scent of your cabin--you always manage to make it smell so sweet, just by living here for a few months. It smells like old oak and dust, but it’s hidden beneath a layer of vanilla and jasmine that he always attributes to you and your perfume. 

“Yeah?” He asks. With the glow of the heavy lantern lighting your little cabin, he squints at your bedside table. And there, beside the glass of water and the reading glasses you’re too embarrassed to wear in front of anyone, is Carrie by Stephen King. “Gee, I wonder what the nightmares are about.”

Busted. 

Rooster sits on your unmade bed, which is still warm from your body, and sets the lantern on the ground before picking up the book and raising his brows at you. 

“Oh, what’s that have to do with the price of tea in China?” You sigh, smiling.    

You lean against the door, just a few paces away from him as he flips through your dog-eared book, and take him in while he’s drenched in golden light from the lantern--his red shorts, which get tighter every summer, and his cropped top that sports a very faded image of Wile-E Coyote. 

“Have a blood-soaked dream?” Rooster asks, glancing at you over the novel. When you bite your lip and wrinkle your nose, Rooster laughs and closes the book. “Nurse Nightingale, don’t you know better than to watch Jaws while you’re swimming in the ocean?”

With that, he tucks the book beside the lantern, fully intending on taking it with him. 

“Oh, you’re gonna confiscate my summer reading, then, huh?” You ask, shuffling across the floor until you’re standing before him. When you’re this close, you can smell the sweat that dots his hairline and the incense that stains his skin. “Way to stick it to the man.” 

“Listen,” Rooster defends, biting his lip hard to stop himself from wrapping his arms around your waist. “When I hear a damsel in distress, I do what I can!” 

You scoff. 

“Damsel in distress?” You ask, gesturing to yourself and the quaint cabin around you. “Let me know when you locate her, clydesdale.” 

Rooster beams. He likes the back-and-forth you and him have. You’re really on his wavelength, always quipping back. It’s refreshing. He looks forward to it every summer.

“Listen, you were crying out in your sleep! You’re lucky I didn’t break down your door,” he tells you, smirking as he leans back on his palms. 

A bit of his belly peeks out from under his shirt, tanned and toned, and you swallow hard. Shit. Even his mustache seems like it’s smirking at you, which makes you tighten your robe in fear that it will magically fall off your body and leave you in your little nightgown in front of him. 

 “I was, huh? Bizarre. I’m usually such a log when I sleep. Anything good?” You ask. 

Rooster beams at you. 

“Just the usual, you know? Oh God, give it to me! Yes, yes, yes--!” 

You smack his shoulders, biting your bottom lip as his laughter fills your cabin. Heat has pooled in your chest and throat, but you can’t help the grin that pulls on your lips. 

“Can it,” you tell him.

“Aw, birdie, I’m only joshing you!” He tells you when he sees the way your eyes have gone glossy with embarrassment. “Listen, you’re our precious thing, alright? Gotta protect you!”

“And by precious you mean virgin?” You ask, brow perched. 

It isn’t something you’re secretive about. And it isn’t like you haven’t done anything at all. You absolutely have--with several different men--but you just haven’t found any one of them to be worthy of going all the way. It’s somewhat of a joke between all the counselors now, something they tease you for. 

Rooster swallows hard now, shrugging. 

“Sure.”

“Well,” you start, tucking his curls behind his ears and then patting his smooth cheeks. “This cherry’s intact. And she wants to start a pot of coffee before the gremlins rise from the dead. You down?” 

Rooster grins at you. His chest is tight from your touch, like it always is when you’re this close to him. But he nods, very cool and collected. 

“Mind dipping your finger in mine?” He asks. He stands up, collects the lantern and your book. Then he grins down at you, chest grazing yours. “I like mine extra sweet.” 

♀

Right now, you’re basking in a moment of aloneness in the nurse’s cabin and wondering why you took that glorious silence this morning for granted. And you’re kicking yourself for not having that second cup of coffee that Rooster offered later on. 

“That’s cheating!” A camper screams outside in the yard, quivering your eardrum. 

It’s amazing how easily sound travels here, which probably has a little bit to do with the lake and a lot to do with how small campgrounds really is. 

“Buzz off, fart-breath!” Another one returns. 

A piercing whistle breaks through the air and makes you wrinkle your nose as you tilt your head towards the ceiling and fan your sweaty neck. It’s not even noon yet and that whistle has raddled your eardrums a record-breaking amount of times today.

“Hey!” Phoenix calls. “You’re gonna have to get off my turf if you’re gonna use that language, Abernathy! Capische?” 

You can’t see Phoenix from where you’re standing with your back towards the door, but you can imagine the serious rise of her eyebrows and the flat line of her lips as she coaches. 

“Capische,” Abernathy groans. You can’t see him either, but you can imagine the 10-year-old pressing the toe of his Chuck Taylors into the gravel with a pout planted firmly on his lips. “But--!” 

“Abernathy, if there’s more you have to say, then let’s sideline this and talk our feelings out, huh?” Bob asks. 

It makes you grin, even as beads of sweat drip down your spine. Bob is the newest counselor, this only being his second summer, and his approach with disputes between campers has been wildly effective. 

“No, no,” Abernathy quickly yells out, his voice sounding farther away than before. “I’m cool, Mister Bob! No heart-to-hearts!”

Bob’s pleased with himself, pushing his glasses up his nose and nodding at Abernathy as he slinks back off towards Phoenix’s side of the field. Phoenix shoots Bob a thumbs up and he keens--they make a great team. Built-in good cop, bad cop.  

The noise gradually builds again, all the children playing. The nurse’s cabin is not very well insulated so you can hear most everything that happens outside, even the distinct sound of rubber soles dragging on the gravel and stopping just outside the threshold of the open door. 

Coyote clears his throat, holding Jake’s shoulders firmly, and beaming at you as you turn to face them. Your face looks warm, little pieces of hair matted to your temples with sweat, but your grin is warmer than the sun that’s been beating down on everyone relentlessly today. 

“Who’s there?” You call, already knowing who it is. 

“Your next victim,” Coyote introduces, shoving Jake past the threshold of the cabin and promptly blocking the doorway with his broad body. “Can I watch?” 

Jake, who is grumbling and smoothing out the wrinkles Coyote left on his shirt and his dignity, gives you a pleading look. His mustache wilts above his frown, his green eyes wide. 

Please don’t let Coyote watch. 

Holding your hands on your hips, you give Coyote a sweet smile, then shake your head. 

“Someone’s gotta watch the kids,” you remind Coyote. You step towards Jake and lace your arm through his, much to his enjoyment. “In fact…jinkies, if you’re here and he’s here, then who’s driving the bus?”

“Zoinks!” Coyote says, playing along. Then he blows you and Jake a kiss. 

And at that, Coyote is sauntering back off to where he left his gaggle of campers, still grinning from Jake’s utter lack of bravery about donating blood. 

“Thought he’d never leave,” Jake sighs, wrapping an arm around you. For a brief moment, all you can smell is him--deodorant and sweat and grass. “So, you’ll just pop a bandaid on my arm and I’ll be on my way, huh? Our little secret.” 

You wrap your arm around his waist, too, and guide him to the little examination table that you’ve just disinfected. You tut, letting him take a seat. He’s cocksure as ever, which is nothing new. Even the way he’s sitting right now in his little ringer shorts, legs spread and a grin dominating his features. 

“What makes you think you’re getting out of donating?” You ask him, brows raised. 

Oh, fuck. Jake didn’t think you would actually make him do it. 

“I thought we had…an understanding?” He tries. He knows already that it’s for naught--the two of you have precisely zero understanding on the grounds of him donating today. “A rapport?” 

You purse your lips, unimpressed. 

“I don’t recall,” you tell him. 

He swallows hard. 

“C’mon,” he tries dryly. “You and I go way back--can’t you do a guy a favor?” 

You nod vehemently. 

“Sure, I can!” You say, enthused. The crease between his brow fades. “But favors don’t usually involve lying, do they?”

Jake shakes his head at you, looking suddenly anguished. 

“After everything we’ve been through?” He asks, holding a hand over his heart. 

Everything you’ve been through meaning four summers working together at Camp Arcadia, two of which you’ve been the camp nurse and not a counselor.

“You have to donate,” you tell him point blank.    

“I really can’t.” 

“You really can.” 

“I’m gonna pass out,” Hangman says indignantly, throwing his arms up in defense. “Blood makes me downright queasy, Gale! I’ll hurl! All over your jellies!” 

“Hey,” you warn, waggling your finger at him. “Leave my jellies out of this!” 

He beams at you, eyebrows raised and arms crossed over his t-shirt, which is so tight across his chest that it’s practically translucent. 

“Then leave my blood alone! It’s a no-go, Nurse Nightingale!”

In his defense, Jake really does have a blood phobia. He can’t stand horror pictures and he’s made it a specific point to not watch Friday the 13th for that reason--but also because he’s been counseling at Camp Arcadia every summer since he was sixteen. He doesn’t need any more nightmare fuel; he gets enough of that between the snakes that like to live in the showers and the poison ivy incident of ‘85. His skin still crawls when he thinks about the rash that spread across his knees and calves--among other precious, private places.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, biting that grin that’s tugging on your lips. Really, you shouldn’t be smiling right now. Jake has been going in circles with you about this for the past five minutes. You should be growing weary. You should be rolling your eyes and moving on, leaving him on the table by himself. 

But he’s just so charming. Even with his shaggy blonde hair that’s just a touch too long--he’s been begging you to cut it, but you would much prefer to stick with bandaids and epi-pens versus scissors and clippers--and that bushy mustache he’s growing out just to spite Bradshaw, he’s charming. 

“Every counselor is donating,” you tell him, gesturing to the field just outside the nurse’s cabin that is alive with sounds of children playing and whistles blowing and counselors hollering. “Hell, we even had some tikes donate! You gonna be a chicken about this?” 

Jake narrows his eyes at you, shaking his head minutely. You know you’re getting across to him, know it just by the way he’s looking at you and not speaking. Rendering Jake speechless is as good as getting him to say fine, fine, I’ll do it!

“Look,” you tell him, sighing. You point to your own arm, where there’s a band aid covering the tiny puncture wound from where you drew your own blood. “I did it, too!” 

Jake scoffs. 

“Yeah, aren’t you a universal donor or some shit?” He asks. He throws his arms up in the air again, gesturing wildly. “So, basically, you’re giving twice the amount of blood!” 

“Your logic is bogus,” you tell him. You take matters into your own hands, pressing your palms against his shoulders and nudging him to rest against the wall of the cabin. “Listen, I’ll make it quick, okay? You’ll be done before you know it! Boom, bam, back to wiping snotty noses.” 

“Hey!” He complains. “My kiddos don’t have snotty noses!” After a beat--one where you raise your brows at him expectantly and he deflates--he sighs. “Alright! You caught me! They do,” he says softly. “But we’re working on it! Summer ain’t over yet!”

“Set an example for them,” you say softly. “Be brave.” 

As if to prove your point, you flex your biceps. Jake mocks impression, whistling lowly and delivering a gentle squeeze to your arms.

“You can be tough for the both of us,” he tells you. “Hey, I’ll tell you what--you tell everyone that I donated and I’ll score you an extra muffin tomorrow morning! How about it, honey?” 

“Bargaining is the third stage of grief,” you tell him, hands on your hips. “C’mon! We’re withering away in here!”

Jake grumbles, but allows you to hold his wrist and lay his arm out flat on the table. Finally--it only took forever and a day to get him to comply. He’s the second-to-last person to donate and you’re ready to be done poking people today. 

Besides, it’s getting stuffy in here. There’s no air conditioning anywhere on campgrounds, but it’s especially stuffy in the nurse’s cabin since there’s only two little windows. That’s why you always have the door propped open with a rock--one that you can’t even lift, one that the boys usually have to move for you. 

“You’ve gotta kiss it better, though,” Jake tells you. His jaw is set now, his fist clenched. “Promise it, honey.” 

You’re lucky your back is turned to him right now--you don’t want him to see the way you’re biting back a grin or the way all the heat in your body is gathering across your throat and cheeks. 

“I’ve been told that I’ve got a sweet touch,” you tell him, gathering the rubbing alcohol and tubes on a metal tray before returning to his side. He swallows hard as you force your hands into a pair of latex gloves, flinching when you snap them on your wrists. “Veg, Hangman!” 

“You’re wigging me out,” Jake complains. He swallows hard, eyes lingering on the needle. “Jesus, I might really ralph!” 

Silently, you pinch his chin and angle his face towards you. You keep his gaze, smiling in a small and sweet way. Even as much as you’re enjoying teasing him about this, the big and bad man around campus who always kills the snakes and doesn’t mind taking a dip in the lake in just his tighty-whities, you know that this is real. He is scared--you believe him. 

You have good bedside manner--it’s been complimented abundantly--and having practiced on all the campers this summer, you’re completely cool and confident when you stroke Jake’s chin.  

“Just keep your eyes here, homeboy,” you tell him. 

“Easy,” he says softly.

You roll your eyes, lips pursed, but he sees that amusement written all over your face.   

He swallows hard again. His mouth is dry just looking at you right now. You’re glowing in the late morning sunlight, your face sweet and composed even as you wet a little pad of cotton and press it against his vein. You’re beautiful always--but you’re especially beautiful when you’re doing something you’re good at. And this, taking care of people, you’re good at this. You’re really, really good at this. 

“Storm’s moving in, huh?” You ask, glancing at him. He’s still staring at your face, unable to look at you unpackaging the needle and tying a band just above his vein. “Supposed to be pretty mental, I heard. Weatherman called it the storm of the summer.” 

Jake watches your lashes flutter as you press a gloved thumb to his vein, aggravating it. He tenses and you, instinctually, tut and pat his bare knee. It’s what you do with the kiddos when they’ve got a splinter or scraped knee. 

“Yeah, storms always make the kids act like mania--DAMMIT!” Jake’s entire body tenses when you gently push the needle into his vein and straighten out the tube, making sure his blood is collecting correctly in the vials. “Damn, ever heard of on three?” 

“You’d flinch on three,” you tell him with a small smile. You meet his eyes again, smiling. “Now, tell me about those maniacal kids.” 

Just as Jake is about to say something, his head tipped back against the wood as he grinds his teeth, there’s a knock on the open door. 

Standing in the doorway is Coyote and Rooster, both of which are dressed in their tight ringer t-shirts with STAFF printed across the back, grinning at you and Jake as sweat pours down their faces. Both of them play just as hard as the kids do--which is why they’re so popular around here. 

“He gonna make it?” Coyote asks. “I’m getting buried alive out here!” 

Jake grumbles, paralyzed by the little needle in his arm and unwilling to look down in fear that he really will keel over. 

Rooster has his eyes on you, grinning as he pants. You’re grinning at him, too, hands on your hips as you nod towards Jake. 

“Give him a couple more minutes,” you tell them. “He’s gonna need a cookie to recharge.” 

“Then my turn, huh?” Rooster asks you, brow perched.

Biting your lip, you nod. 

“Right-o, Bradshaw,” you tell him. “You gonna give me as much trouble as Seresin here?” 

Rooster glances at Jake, who has his eyes closed and his brow creased as he lies completely motionless against the wall. Rooster grimaces, shaking his head.

“No, ma’am,” he tells you. “I’ll be on my best behavior.” 

“That’s what I like to hear,” you tell him. 

“How’s it hanging, man?” Coyote taunts. Then he nudges Bradley with his elbow, waggling his eyebrows. “See what I did there?” 

Somehow, though his entire body is rigid with discomfort, Jake manages to weakly flip Coyote the bird. Coyote barks out a laugh and sighs. 

“There he is,” Coyote says. Coyote holds a hand over his heart and bats his lashes at Jake. “There’s the man I fell in love with!”  

Grinning, you gesture for Rooster and Coyote to get going. 

“Shoo,” you tell them. “Let the man bleed out in peace!”

You don’t miss Rooster’s wink before he returns to the camp-wide game of tag. 

“That guy’s a clown,” Jake mutters, still not opening his eyes. 

You chuckle, fiddling with the tube a final time before letting your palms rest on his knees. 

“I think he’s alright,” you answer with a sigh. Hangman peeks at you, nose wrinkling. “What’s your beef with him, anyway?” 

Jake’s beef with him, of course, is that they’ve both been competing for your attention for four summers now. Ever since you started on at Camp Arcadia, at first as a counselor as you worked your way through nursing school, they’ve been swooning over you and chasing after you like lovesick puppies. This has solidified a ridiculous and long-standing rival between the two men, which is constantly taunted by the other counselors--and even the campers, sometimes. 

“Nothing,” Jake breathes. “He’s just a shameless flirt.” 

You guffaw. 

“Imagine that,” you mumble. “Pot, meet kettle.” 

And before Jake can respond, you swiftly pull the needle from his arm and replace it with a tuft of cotton to blot the blood that’s staining his arm. Jake’s entire body goes slack and he heaves out a sigh of relief, finally glancing down at the damage. You work quickly, pressing a bandaid to his skin and twisting the caps on the vials. 

“I don’t even get to pick which color of bandaid, huh? That’s cold.”

Smiling, you shake your head. 

“How bad was it, huh?” You ask, glancing at him through your lashes. 

His cheeks are pale--but you’re sure that’s more anxiety-induced than anything else. 

“You kidding me? I could do that all day,” he says weakly. 

You label the vials while he recovers, sticking them in the refrigerator. After taking your gloves off, you waltz over to the little refreshment station and smile at him. 

“Apple or grape?” You ask, nodding to the juice boxes. 

“Grape. Duh,” he says. And before you can ask, he says, “Chocolate chip.” 

Just to tease him, you fix his juicebox for him before handing it over, grinning. He rolls his eyes but takes it nonetheless. 

“So, you were saying the kids turn into wild animals when it storms?” You ask, leaning against the exam table. 

Jake nods, sipping the sweet juice.

“Uh huh,” he answers. “Coyote and I can usually get them to settle in if we promise to keep watch.” 

That makes your chest warm. You remember what it was like dealing with little people who don’t have rationalization skills yet--how silly their fears seemed and how big the most minute things seemed in their tiny worlds. Hangman and Coyote are good with their age group--the seven and eight-year-olds--despite the awkward in-between age. 

“So, you’re gonna be up all night, then?” You ask softly. 

Hangman takes a bite of his cookie and nods. He’s watching your face again, the way your eyes have fallen to his throat. You’re watching every single movement of his neck; the straining tendons, the bobbing Adam’s apple, the constriction when he swallows. 

“Most definitely,” he tells you. “Why? Afraid of storms, honey? Need me to check in on you?” 

You roll your eyes. 

“You wish,” you tell him. You’re grinning, though, finally meeting his lingering gaze. “Now, get lost. And tell Rooster to get in here.”

But Hangman shakes his head, resting against the wall still. 

“I was promised a kiss,” he says easily, glancing down at his arm.

If you could fight the grin off your face, you feel like you’d be fairing a lot better right now. But all the heat of the summer has suddenly collected and pooled in your cheeks and throat. 

Jake watches you--you’re flustered. He knows you well enough by now to know that you fluster easily under the right conditions. He’s always scouring for those moments, ones where he can sneak in a little bit of touch or a lot of sweet talk, and make you roll your eyes with that megawatt grin. 

“Princess,” you grumble, holding his wrist in your hand again. 

He’s just grinning at you with a mouthful of cookie, watching your every move. You move tenderly to press your sticky lips over the latex on his arm, a quick and warm thing that you don’t let linger. 

Jake is pleased as ever, sighing like he’s just gulped a glass of water. 

“This is the life,” he tells you. 

“Rooster,” you remind him, pointing towards the door and dropping his arm. 

That heat won’t leave your face.  

With that, Hangman scarfs the rest of his cookie and salutes you, hopping to his feet. For a brief moment, your bodies graze another. You can feel how hot his skin is and he can feel the dampness of your floral dress against him. 

He grins down at you like this is precisely what he meant to do, like he calculated his movements to have your body pressed up against his. He winks at you, a quick and cocksure thing, before pressing a lewd kiss to the top of your head and sauntering off in his little shorts and Reeboks. 

You’re cleaning off the examination table, bent over to reach the far corner, when you feel the heat of Rooster’s gaze burning your skin. You pretend not to notice, letting your dress ride up your thighs. You even lean over even further, hiking your knee up on the table, to turn up the little radio sitting on the window sill. 

Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran is playing now, echoing in the stuffy cabin. 

Rooster’s biting his lip, leaning against the doorway, watching you move. God, you’re gorgeous. You don’t have to wear the ringer shirt and shorts that the counselors do--and he’s thanking the Heavens for that right now as your dress rides up and gives him a daunting glimpse of all the smooth flesh of the back of your thighs. 

Sometimes you and Rooster do this--play chicken, wait for the other to fold. It’s a game you’ve been playing since you were younger, when you were the newest bright-eyed camp counselor and he was the mullet-toting older counselor who showed you the ropes, took you under his wing. 

“Gonna stand there all day?” You finally ask, not turning around. 

“Lord willing,” he sighs, grinning. 

But then he saunters over to you, fingering the hem of your dress as you bite a smile, finally glancing over your shoulder. His chest pressed against your back, he takes a moment to inhale the jasmine that perfumes your skin. 

“I’m sweaty,” you warn. 

When his rough fingertips press into your skin, you stifle a shiver. 

“I don’t mind,” Rooster whispers, nose nudging your ear. “I like your stink. It’s my fave.” 

As if to prove his point, he burrows his nose in your hair and takes a big whiff. You break in laughter, struggling away from him and turning in his arms to push his chest. 

“You’re an apeman!” You tell him. “Now, sit down on this table so I can make you bleed.”

“I love it when you talk gory to me,” he says, jovially hopping up on the table and giving you his arm. “Poke me, baby.” 

Again, you roll your eyes, but cross the tile to grab a sterile needle and a few more vials. 

“The kids acting something ugly today?” You ask. 

Rooster nods, watching you carefully pack up the metal tray before you turn around and head for him again. 

“You betcha,” he answers, sighing. He watches your face as you skillfully tie a band above his vein and apply some alcohol to a cotton ball, humming like this is just what you do in your spare time. “Gonna have a long night with my chicks. They’re all scared of thunderstorms.” 

You grimace, sucking your teeth and wrinkling your nose. 

“They’re gonna freak,” you tell him, nodding to the radio. “Storm of the summer’s gonna be pushing through after midnight.” 

Rooster sighs. 

You push the needle into his vein and he watches the whole time, eyebrows knit slightly. You straighten the tube and make sure his blood is collecting the way you need it to before smiling up at him. 

“You’ve got a sweet touch,” he tells you softly, eyes lingering on your mouth as you stifle a smile. “Don’t know what Hangman was crying about.” 

“Phobias are very real,” you tell Rooster. “It’s the brain’s way of trying to protect us from things it perceives as evil.” 

Rooster scoffs. 

“I must be Hangman-phobic, then,” he tells you. 

You roll your eyes for what feels like the millionth time today. 

“You two are gonna kill each other before summer’s over,” you sigh. “How’s your one-man show going, anyway?” 

“I like being the rooster in the coop and all, but I wish Tara hadn’t pulled out last minute. She kinda left me hanging,” he tells you. 

He’s talking about Tara Hannity. She was supposed to be the only new hire of the summer, coming all the way from Kansas or something like that. She was supposed to help man the five and six-year-olds with Rooster, but unexpectedly resigned a week before camp was due to begin. That leaves Rooster by himself with seven kids--all of whom worship him.

“I think it’s sweet how much they dig you,” you tell Rooster with a small smile. “They pretty much think you walk on water, don’t they?” 

“Big time,” Rooster answers with a sigh. 

You think for a moment, keeping your eyes low and on the steady stream of blood that’s flooding from Rooster’s arm and into the collection vials. 

“You know, if you ever need any backup…” you start with a slight shrug, “I’m pretty much off the clock after dinner. Kids usually aren’t hitting their noggins after they have sloppy joes.” 

Rooster, who prides himself on his ability to hold down the fort by himself, grins at you.

“I could use a spare hand every now and then,” he says. “If you think you can handle it.” 

Now you scoff, leaning against the table with your arms crossed. 

“If I can handle Hangman threatening to ralph all over my jellies, I can handle anything,” you tell Rooster, who beams at you. “All the kids love me, anyway.” 

It’s true--you’ve got a little fan club. The wall above your cot in your cabin is cluttered with drawings from craft time, ranging from stick figures drawn with pencil to smiley faces scribbled in crayon to watercolor portraits. There’s little posters of your own, too--a Smokey Bear portrait that has been faded with age, his finger pointing towards you with an ONLY YOU printed across his fur. A picture of you and your father in the kitchen of your old house, one where you’re very young and he’s not very old yet. A few sticky notes from your friends at the hospital, the ones you share your long shifts with.

You play the part of nurse well--you’re kind and smart and comforting, but you also have a certain authoritative air about you that keeps those kids in line. 

“You are a popular one,” he tells you. “Can we all sleep in your cot tonight when the storm comes knocking?” 

“Sure,” you tell him. “So long as no one’s wetting the bed.” 

“Broke that habit last summer,” Rooster teases. “I’m a big kid now.” 

“You’re such a ditz,” you tell Rooster, shaking your head.

“Thought about your nightmare any more today?” Rooster asks. 

You clear your throat, shrugging. Not really--honestly. You’re a practical woman, a nurse who thoroughly believes in science. It’s really no wonder you had that nightmare--reading Carrie and having the blood drive today. It’s not difficult for you to connect the dots. 

“Nah,” you tell him. “I’m a big girl now.”  

As you lean over to take the needle from his arm, he laughs a big and good laugh. It’s louder than the music, louder than the children yelling outside. It’s a good sound--one that you don’t mind overpowering everything else. But you can’t smile because as soon as the needle is out of Rooster’s arm, he’s bleeding all over the table. 

“Oh,” you say, blinking down at his arms as you quickly gather gauze to press against him. “Shit, I didn’t peg you for a bleeder, Bradshaw!”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” he tells you with a sigh. He’s frowning at his own arm, watching the blood drip onto your gloved hands. “I’ve always been.”

“No problem-o,” you sing. “Just give me a warning next time, huh?” 

You work diligently, applying pressure to his arm and wrapping it with cotton and medical tape--tight. Then you gently pat his arm with a smile. 

“Piece of cake,” he says with a grin. “Say, you should be a nurse or something!”

“Aren’t you just full of good ideas today?”

As you settle the vials in the fridge, he stuffs a couple cookies in his mouth and punctures a juice box, leaning against the table. You flutter around the room easily, dropping the bloody gloves in a medical waste box and sighing, fanning yourself as you meet his gaze.  

“Hot?” He asks. 

You nod. 

“Burning up,” you tell him. 

He bites his lip and swallows his mouthful of cookie harshly. 

“I can tell,” he says seriously. 

Biting down hard on your bottom lip, you rest against the counter and tilt your head at him. Your relationship with him is a peculiar one--punctuated by your mutual attraction to each other and relentless flirting. But there’s some disconnect, some vital open wound that won’t heal before the summer ends. 

There was that one time, of course, two summers ago. You and Rooster had wandered into the woods to gather kindling during a counselor-wide bonfire. Somewhere between the few gulps of rumchata you’d shared and the darkness of the woods, you ended up pinned against a tree with his hot lips wrapped around your clit. But it had been interrupted by something--a snapping twig--and has never been resumed. It hasn’t even been spoken about since then. 

“You better get back to your chicks,” you tell him, swallowing hard. 

Rooster beholds you, leaning against the counter, fanning yourself, a sheen of sweat glowing on your skin. He lets his eyes wander further down, to the swell of your breasts against the floral dress you’re wearing, then to your shining thighs. And those ridiculous jelly shoes you’re wearing--shiny, black things that he’s certain a few of his campers wear, too. 

“Hey,” you say, stomping on the floor a few times. “Don’t judge the jellies.” 

He grins, meeting your eyes again. He shrugs as he sips the juicebox--apple, of course--and then throws it into the trash can. 

“See you out there, Nightingale,” he says. Then he stops in the doorway with a grin, glancing at you. “I just realized we’re both named after birds.”

You squint at him. 

“Uh huh,” you say. “And?” 

“People could call us lovebirds,” he says, batting his lashes at you a few times. 

“Or I could just call you bird brain.” 

Rooster hums and then shakes his head. 

“I like my idea better,” he says softly. “Maybe we should have the chicks start calling you Hen? Just to eliminate confusion!”

Your heart is racing. Rooster’s grinning at you. 

He knows precisely what game he’s playing.

“Scram,” you tell him softly. 

And again, you don’t miss that wink he delivers before jogging back out the door. 

Christ--you feel like you’re going to be torn in half by the end of the summer.  

♀

You’re late to lunch, like you usually are. It’s tedious work labeling all the blood and making sure that the fridge is organized, but you’re finally out the door a few minutes past noon. 

Even though the sun is high and hot in the sky, walking onto the gravel outside the nurse’s cabin feels like walking into the frozen dinner section at the grocery store. You stand there for a few minutes, just breathing in the fresh air: the pine and oak leaves and lake water and sunscreen. It sits thickly in the atmosphere--permeating even open areas like the courtyard.

You love the smell of Camp Arcadia. Honestly, you just love Camp Arcadia. The tall oak trees that line the camp, the humble little cabins, the tall flag post that proudly boasts the camp logo, the crackly speakers that you use to make announcements, the cavernous mess hall, the big lake just down the embankment. It’s the closest thing you have to a home-away-from-home. 

When you walk into the mess hall, you’re engulfed in sound. Over the loudspeaker, Coyote is playing Modern Love by David Bowie. And you know he’s the one playing it because he’s putting on a show for his campers: breaking out in dance with a sandwich hanging out of his mouth as they all fall to the floor in stitches. 

All the campers are talking and laughing, their mouths full and their cheeks red from playing tag all morning. The counselors are chatting, too, scarfing their lunches as they recline against the walls and watch the kids carefully. Everyone’s still recovering from the game of tag earlier, panting and swallowing hard.

The mess hall is the biggest building on camp grounds, an elongated cabin made entirely of wood from vaulted ceiling to wide-plank floors. There’s big windows lining the east and west facing walls, which gives the cavernous hall a sunny disposition and a certain heat, too. 

Fanboy and Payback are hosting some sort of finger-football at their table, which has been very popular with their age group--the eleven and twelve-year-olds--this summer. Everyone is participating except for Mable Brandt, who’s diligently reading her bible like she always does during spare time. 

Bob and Phoenix are carefully monitoring a table-wide game of Down By the Banks, sneaking in bits of conversation between bites of their sandwiches. Besides the usual banter, the campers have been relatively well-behaved today.

Rooster still hasn’t even started on his own lunch yet, still busy puncturing juice boxes and fielding off-topic questions. He’s honestly lost count of how many times he’s said focus on your food, please! in the last ten minutes--but he knows it’s gotta be double-digits by now.

“Who’s it gonna be today?” Bob asks Phoenix softly, nodding towards you and nudging her. 

Phoenix turns and looks at Rooster--who hasn’t looked up from tying June Walker’s tennis shoe for the seventh time today--then sighs with Bob. 

“Hangman,” she says. 

Bob agrees, glancing over at where all the commotion is coming from--which is, of course, the seven and eight-year-old table. Jake’s already got his eyes on you, a grin growing beneath his mustache.  

Jake glances at Coyote, who is doing the worm for the campers much to their amusement, and then whistles. When you look at him, he grins. He points to the empty spot beside him, the one he was saving for you, and beckons you closer. You’re apprehensive for a moment, wrinkling your nose, but then he holds up the muffin he saved for you and you’re immediately crossing the hall.

“We’re getting good at this,” Bob whispers to Phoenix. 

Phoenix nods, pressing her curls a bit and taking a bite of her string cheese. 

“Years of practice, Bobby,” she tells him. “Years of practice.” 

You catch Rooster’s gaze just as you sit beside Hangman, nodding towards him. You two always seem to find each other’s eyes, even in crowded rooms. He nods right back, his hair flopping over his eye. He watches you take the muffin from Jake from his spot with the littles, too busy making sure Susie finishes her yogurt and Howie stops pulling Sarah’s pigtails. If he didn’t have so much on his plate, he would’ve gestured for you to come sit with them. 

“Hey!” Sarah screeches, near tears at this point. Howie grins at her, strawberry jam smeared across his ruddy cheeks. “Stop it!” 

“Hey,” Rooster says, eyeing Howie, who smiles timidly up at Rooster. “You keep that up and I’m gonna make you sleep in the outhouse, pal.” 

“No,” Howie whines, crossing his arms. “It stinky in there!” 

Rooster nods. 

“You’re being stinky,” Rooster tells Howie factually. “We don’t pull our friends’ hair. Got it, kid?” 

Howie nods, grumbling to himself. 

“Mister Rooster?” Susie asks. 

He glances at her. He’s trying not to sound as incredulous as he feels. 

“How can I help you, Susie?” 

She grins a toothless grin at him. 

“Can’t you do the worm, too?” She asks, pointing to Coyote. 

Rooster grimaces, sighing. 

“Not unless you wanna see a grown man cry,” he tells her. 

She blinks back at him, her face entirely motionless. Those big brown eyes of hers are full of precisely nothing as his smile fades. She’s a peculiar one--Rooster knows this already.

“Uh,” Rooster says, clearing his throat. “No, I can’t. I’m not hip enough.” 

“Girls like boys that dance,” Sarah pipes up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and leaning against Rooster. The kids are always touching him, which is something he’s grown used to this summer. “That’s what mama says!”

Rooster glances at you as you unwrap your muffin and nod along to whatever Hangman’s talking about. He doesn’t miss the way Hangman’s watching your every move, how his eyes are wandering from the tip of your nose to the curve of your lips. 

“Maybe Miss Nightingale would sit with us if you danced?” Howie offers, following Rooster’s gaze. 

Rooster scoffs, looking down at all the children who are blinking back at him. Between tying their shoes, lathering them in sunscreen, opening their juice boxes, reading them bedtime stories, and holding their hands on midnight potty runs, he’s gotten to know these tikes pretty well. He loves them, really. They’re good kids--but dammit if they aren’t observant.

  He points at each of them, eyebrow perched. 

“Eat your damn lunches,” he tells them.

All the children giggle--except for Howie, who gasps in horror. 

“You can’t say damn!” Howie exclaims. Then he gasps--realizing what he’s done. “Uh-oh. Pastor David is not gonna be happy about this.” he whispers.

“It’ll be our secret, kid,” he tells Howie, rustling his mop of curls. 

Coyote finally returns to his spot, panting, still trying to eat his sandwich. All the campers are still giggling, begging for him to do it again! Again!

“Mister Coyote is tired,” he tells them. “And he really wants to finish his sandwich without getting jiggy, alright?”

“Mister Hangman,” Martha sings, pinching Jake’s side as he gazes at you. “Your turn!”

“Yeah,” Coyote says with a grin. “Why don’t you entertain the gremlins while I flirt with Miss Nightingale?”

The campers are absolutely delighted by this chiding, falling all over each other with giggles and screeches. They all cover their mouths and widen their eyes, looking at Jake expectantly. 

“The gremlins can’t handle my moves,” Jake says with a taunting shrug. “Besides, I think Miss Nightingale wants my company. Right?” 

You pretend to think about it, weighing your options by nodding your head to the left and right a few times as you finish chewing your muffin. 

“I could stand to be wooed,” you tell Jake, winking at Coyote. 

“I mean, I could go grab Rooster,” Coyote adds. 

You nod, glancing at Jake again as he glares at Coyote. 

“It’s true, he could.” 

“Uncool,” Jake says to Coyote, pointing at him with an indignant finger. “Mega uncool, man.”

You’re laughing, taking another bite of muffin as Hangman crosses his arms with a huff and shakes his head at Coyote. It’s only moments until the entire table is alive with laughter, all at the charge of Coyote, who’s feeding the kids lines. You’re about to put Hangman out of his misery, about to plant a kiss on his cheek in front of everyone, when you notice Timmy Creighton sitting across from you about to chow down on a Snickers bar. 

“Timmy Creighton,” you say, halting him in his tracks. His stomach drops. Busted.

At your sudden outburst, Jake and Coyote both look over at Timmy. At once, Coyote snatches the bar from him and scoffs. 

“Man, you trying to catch a ride in an ambulance or something?” Coyote asks, wrapping the candy bar back up. “This has nuts, pal.” 

Timmy’s already flushing from the sudden attention, heat pooling in his freckled cheeks.

You sigh, frowning. 

Poor kid--you don’t know what life would be like without peanuts.

Coyote tuts, patting Timmy’s back. 

“You’ve gotta be more careful, man,” Hangman says to Timmy, eyeing him seriously as Timmy’s gaze falls to his lap. “Can’t have my main man going off in an ambulance!” 

You nod, frowning. Hangman grins, grabbing the Snickers bar from Coyote’s hand and taking a bite out of it. He chews, grinning, and gestures to Timmy with the said-Snickers. 

“Don’t worry, kid,” he says. “I’ll dispose of the evidence!” 

When you drive your elbow into Hangman’s side, mouth agape, he doesn’t so much as flinch. He just throws his arm around you and pulls you into his side, planting a chocolatey kiss to your forehead. 

“I don’t wanna have to break into that Epipac, okay, bud?” You tell Timmy with a small smile. 

“Okay,” Timmy says quietly, frowning. 

“Imagine a world without nuts,” Hangman whispers to you. 

You sigh. 

“What a beautiful thought,” you whisper back, pressing your palm against his bare thigh. He pretends not to shiver beneath your touch. You look up at him, biting a grin.“Let me bask in it for a sec.” 

“You can do whatever you want as long as you don’t move your hand,” he whispers back to you, eyebrows raised. 

Just as Hangman is about to say something equally as offensive, you slap his thigh good and hard and give him a grin. 

“Done!” You call out. Then you glance at Coyote, who’s watching on in amusement. “Ready for the storm tonight?”

And then, for no particular reason at all, your spine prickles. You’re distantly aware that Coyote is answering you, that the kids beside you are tugging on your press and asking you questions or simply saying hello, but you’re looking at the kitchen door. That’s where the figure was in your dream, bent over, contorting. Right now, drenched in sunlight with the sweet soundtrack of summer camp playing over it, it’s not so scary. But that fear you felt while you were sleeping, the noose of petrification, you feel like it burned your throat. You hold your hand there, gazing on the empty area. 

Jake watches this happen, brows raised. He bumps you with his elbow, glancing in the direction you’re staring, then furrows his brows when you blink at him. 

“Earth to Nightingale,” he says. “You solid, chief?” 

You nod, swallowing hard. Just a dream.

“Super,” you answer. Then you turn to Coyote and give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, you cut out. You were saying?”

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: COYOTE IS MY KING

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

[florawrites-blog]

"Right where you left me"

The quaint little café at the edge of town was a place frozen in time. Its worn wooden tables and mismatched chairs, the soft hum of chatter, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee created a comforting, familiar atmosphere. It was where you and Heeseung had spent countless afternoons, lost in conversation and each other. It was also where he left you. The memory of that day was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the floor as Heeseung sat across from you, his eyes avoiding yours. There was a heaviness in the air, a sense of impending doom that you couldn't shake. "We need to talk," he had said, his voice barely above a whisper. You had known Heeseung since high school. You had grown from awkward teenagers into adults together, your lives intertwining in ways that felt destined. You shared dreams, secrets, and a bond that you thought was unbreakable. But sitting there, across from him, you felt something shatter inside you. He spoke of his career, the opportunities that awaited him far from your small town, and the need to find himself. "I need to do this alone," he said, his eyes finally meeting yours, filled with a mix of sorrow and determination. You had pleaded, argued, and cried, but nothing you said could change his mind. "You'll move on," he had said, his hand squeezing yours one last time. "You'll be okay." And then he was gone, leaving you sitting alone in that café, surrounded by the echoes of your past. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, but you remained right where he left you. You threw yourself into your work, hoping to numb the pain with busyness. But every time you walked past the café, you couldn't help but glance inside, half-expecting to see Heeseung sitting at your usual table, waiting for you. The café became a shrine to your memories, a place where you could still feel connected to him, even if it was just an illusion. Friends and family urged you to move on, to let go of the past and embrace the future. But how could you, when every corner of this town held a piece of him? The park where you had your first kiss, the bookstore where you spent lazy Sundays browsing for new reads, the bench by the river where you talked about your dreams—all of it was a constant reminder of what you had lost. One rainy afternoon, a year after Heeseung had left, you found yourself back at the café. The same waitress who had served you so many times smiled warmly as she handed you a cup of coffee. "He's not coming back, you know," she said gently, her eyes filled with sympathy. You nodded, unable to find the words to respond. You knew she was right. Heeseung had moved on, and it was time for you to do the same. But how do you let go of someone who was a part of your very soul? As you sat there, staring at the empty seat across from you, you realized that moving on didn't mean forgetting. It meant finding a way to live with the memories, to carry them with you as you forged a new path. You took a deep breath, feeling a sense of resolve wash over you. You stood up, leaving the past behind, and walked out of the café into the pouring rain. It was time to write a new chapter, one where you were the protagonist of your own story, not just a character in someone else's. But no matter where life took you, a part of you would always be right where he left you, in that little café at the edge of town, holding on to the echoes of a love that once was.

Please don't steal or copy , thank you

[jimraisedmeup]

TICK // 2.1 - hollywood nights

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Rating: mature (language, sexual content)

Word Count: 1600

☾

She stood there bright as the sun on that California coast He was a Midwestern boy on his own She looked at him with those soft eyes, so innocent and blue He knew right then he was too far from home

☾

September 1983 - junior year

You sat on the wooden picnic table, leg bouncing up and down with a buzzing sense of anxiety.

Eddie was late. And you fucking hated when people weren't on time.

Honestly, you had nothing else to do for that entire evening, let alone the whole weekend. So his tardiness didn't really affect anything. It was the principle, though. A general respect for another individual's time. 

So the scowl on your face felt appropriate as you watched him stroll towards you. His black boots kicked up dirt around his feet, an air of cockiness hovering over him like a rain cloud.

"You don't look very happy to see me, sunshine."

Eddie Munson was your first and last choice for the tattoo. You were only 16, almost 17. And even if you were old enough, the closest tattoo parlor was several towns away from Hawkins. 

So your next logical thought was a risky homemade tattoo. Who in town wasn't a nark and had tattoos? Eddie fucking Munson. 

Normally, you would steer clear of the loud, unpredictable creature. You preferred calm things… things you could maintain control over. You kept your circle small. A quiet bubble of mundane peace. Eddie was pure chaos.

You noticed the metal lunchbox in his hand as he set it down clumsily on the table next to you. Instead of sitting down on the seat of the picnic table, Eddie perched himself on the top of it, looking down at you.

You sighed, "Let's just get this over with." His worn out boots were too close for your liking.

Ignoring your displeasure, the brown-eyed boy slowly leaned back on his elbows in a relaxed pose. The chains on his pants were the only sound in the quiet wooded park.

"How was your day, Y/N?"

You placed a palm to your face, dragging it down until you scratched at your neck. Be nice, Y/N.

"Um… it's Friday… and the weather is still warm, too. So I guess I had a good day?"

Eddie stared up at the trees above them. "You literally sound like an alien who is trying to figure out what a real human is supposed to sound like." 

Keeping your expression deadpan, you found little amusement in his teasing.

"So, should I take my pants off or what?" Standing up, you began to unbutton your jeans. "I didn't come here to have a heart-to-heart with y-"

"Woah, woah! Take it easy!" Eddie gestured wildly at you like he was trying to shield his eyes at something.

Looking around, you stood there with your pants undone. 

"I thought you came here to give me a tattoo. I told you, I want a quarter sized half moon on my-"

Eddie interrupted you again, which was also something that ticked you off. 

"Y/N," he stated coolly, "I have the memory of a fucking elephant. I remember what tattoo you want."

"So what's the problem here, Munson? I don't have all day. And you were late to our meeting to begin with."

"A real businessman, you are," the boy mumbled, staring at your bare stomach that he could see near your undone zipper. "It's just never been this easy to get a girl naked before."

"Ugh!" You threw your head back, hastily buttoning your jeans back up. He might have the memory of an elephant, but you had a fuse that was probably shorter than his cock.

With a huff, you sat down on the bench with your back to him.

"Why do you want the tattoo anyways? Does it have some kind of special meaning? You don't seem like the kinda girl to be breaking rules."

"What kind of girl do I seem like?" 

You looked at Eddie, who was back to gazing up at the canopy of green leaves. It was still basically late summer and the trees hadn't begun their transition into autumn yet.

Though his head was tilted back, his liquid dark eyes were now peering down at the frustrated girl.

"Hmm. I dunno. Y/N Buckley. French Club… good grades," Eddie pondered for a moment. "I've seen you hanging out with Nancy Wheeler and Harrington. That says a lot." 

His voice was almost resentful at that last statement, but you listened as he continued. 

"Your clothes are abnormally clean. Like, I'm surprised you're even sitting on this old ass bench with me right now. If I scuffed your white Converse you'd probably claw my eyes out."

You snorted, but you wouldn't ever dream of telling him that he was kind of spot on.

"Alright, enough of that. Can we please just do the tattoo so I can go?"

Eddie seemed scatter-brained and easily distracted. If you could help it, you would have already gotten the damn tattoo done and over with so you would never have to talk to him again. This whole situation was screaming Last House on the Left.

Digging in your pocket, you slapped the crumpled up five dollar bills on the top of the table.

☾

He'd headed west 'cause he felt that a change would do him good See some old friends, good for the soul She had been born with a face that would let her get her way He saw that face and he lost all control

☾

"So, are you gonna tell me what this whole thing is for? Seems like getting a tattoo means a lot to you."

Thankfully, he was almost done with the hand poke tattoo. You weren't exactly the best of company, in Eddie's opinion. 

But for fuck's sake, he could basically smell the sun on your skin while he was touching you. Hiding the hard-on in his jeans afterwards was going to be a legitimate problem.

So asking you questions was really the only effort of distraction available to him.

Suprisingly, after ignoring him for the last 20 minutes, you picked at your fingernails and grumbled a reluctant response.

"I just want something to keep secret."

"A secret? From who?"

He snuck a quick look at the girl, laying uncomfortably across the top of the sketchy picnic table. You were focused on your hands and inspecting your cuticles. You didn't seem fazed by the pain of the needle on your exposed hip.

Forcing his eyes away from your enigmatic face, he fought the urge to adjust his jeans. He had to keep the latex gloves on his hands sterile regardless of his dick being crushed by his pants. Completing your tattoo with precision and no infections meant a lot to him at this point.

And maybe, if he was lucky, you two might become some resemblance of friends after this.

"I don't know. My parents. Everyone around me," you shifted slightly. "Are you almost done? It's starting to get dark out."

"Stay still, Y/N. I'm just about done, then you can make your grand escape."

"Right? I'm surprised you haven't pulled out a knife yet."

Eddie held in a chuckle, trying to focus on the tiny moon. "That's the real plot twist. I'm going to wait until the tattoo is done to kill you."

"Not funny, Munson."

"You know, this isn't really a secret tattoo."

"Yes it is. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because I know about it."

Silence. Several minutes passed.

The half moon was borderline microscopic compared to some of his own meaningless tattoos, but in all honesty, Eddie admired it. He could only think of a handful of girls at Hawkins High with ink on them. 

But then, after a second, he suddenly felt wrong about comparing you to other girls.

"Alright, all done. Let me clean it up so you can see it."

Holding out a hand to him so that you could get off the table without rubbing the tattoo on your jeans, you looked down at your hip and sighed.

"Well, shit."

"What? Are you realizing this wasn't worth getting murdered over?"

For the first time, you let out a little laugh in front of him. Eddie was slightly stunned, and he would have fallen over in shock if he wasn't still seated on the bench of the table. The wicked Y/N Buckley actually expressed an emotion.

"No, not at all. I'm actually surprised that I like it."

"Gee, thanks, Buckley. I'm flattered."

"Do I need a bandage or something?"

Eddie reached into his lunch box for the extra-large Band-Aids he packed. Your tattoo was small enough that a dab of Vaseline and a big bandage would do the trick.

"Yeah, c'mere."

You still stood a few feet away, scowling at him.

He let out a bark of laughter. "What the fuck? Come here, I don't bite. You've been laying in front of me for a half hour without that damn look on your face."

Scuffling over to him, you seemed to have run out of abusive comebacks. He quickly applied the Band-Aid and turned away so you could button your jeans.

The snap of his latex gloves while he removed them was intentionally noisy. He wasn't sure about you. Hell, he was so used to not trusting anyone that it made him kind of angry that he wanted to trust you.

"I guess you're right," you whispered, almost inaudible.

"Hmm?" He had his back to you, cleaning up the table and packing up his box.

"This isn't a real secret."

Eddie leaned back, craning his neck behind him. You looked almost sad.

"Not exactly. But that's okay. I'll be one of your secrets, too."

☾

That was Hollywood nights In those Hollywood hills It was looking so right It was giving him chills In those big city nights In those high rolling hills Above all the lights With a passion that kills

☾

(song lyrics credit: "Hollywood Nights" by Bob Seger)

TAGLIST for this series if you would like to be notified when I post new chapters!

[cal-writes]

polls can only go 24 hours or a week but im impatient and the trends looking 👁👄👁 so enjoy

-

A simple wooden bench around the corner surrounding a simple square table.

On it sits a terrarium and inside a giant snail… thing. It looks at him with huge soulless eyes, its mouth weirdly human like as it munches on greens slowly and deliberately. If it didn't consume the food in its mouth, Law would think it was fake.

They stare at each other until Law can drag his eyes away, trying to ignore its existence. Following that corner brings the door out to the cockpit and the deck. On the next wall is a bump out with a folding door big enough that it might hold a small bathroom.

There are a few shelves on the wall and a dresser, a few odds and ends lying that looks like cleaning equipment before the thing that was a couch earlier, is now the bed Law is lying on.

Law shuffles off the mattress and swings his feet over the edge, hitting his shoes right next to it. His arm twinges with every movement. Law has to resist the urge to pry the dishtowel rags away and check on the wound. The skin around the makeshift bandage doesn't feel hot or worryingly tight so it's probably fine for now. He is keenly aware that he has some painkillers in his backpack that he could be taking.

He can't see it anywhere here so he slips into his shoes and stands.

The rock of the boat takes him off guard again, making him flail his arm to keep his balance before he trudges over to the door and opens it.

The wind his him straight to the face like cold water. Fresh air and the clean smell of the ocean invigorating him more than the few hours of sleep had.

There is also nothing on the horizon but ocean.

Zoro sits on a worn down leather chair behind the helm, not even looking in his direction.

"Where's my bag?" Law asks, his voice rough.

Zoro points over his shoulder with his thumb to where it sits in the corner of the helm. There is no more glass shards around and all the frames are free of left over debris. He must have been busy while Law took a nap. "It didn't stop ringing. Figured you'd need the rest." He says and as if on cue, Law's bag does indeed start to ring.

Or more accurately his phone.

He curses under his breath, quickly crossing the short distance and rummaging through to grab his phone. The lock screen informs him that he has been called several times by both Pudding and the hospital and another colleague of theirs, several text and most disconcertingly a few numbers he hasn't saved. Before he can make up his mind of whether of not to pick up, the battery dies.

Law really should have gotten a new phone, the battery life of this one had been shit for months.

"You don't happen to have a charging cable, do you?" He asks.

"Don't have a phone."

Law presses the edge of his phone against his forehead, muttering to himself before dropping it back into his backpack so he can rummage around to find the blister of painkillers buries somewhere deep int here. "Where are we?" He asks.

Zoro sniffs. "Ocean."

Law drops everything so he can turn to glare at Zoro's back. He waits for him to crack and elaborate but no. That's all the says. "Can you be a little more specific?"

"East Blue."

Law lifts his hands to strange at the air behind Zoro's head.

Zoro snorts. "Couple hours out from Blanca Neigh. Going to meet up with a shop boat in-" He leans forward looking at a small screen embedded in the console next to the helm. "-around 45 minutes."

Law's fingers close around the blister of pain killers and he lets out a breath. He nods his head.

He stares at the inside of his backpack, the crumbled shirt and pants he wore earlier today before work, his insulated water bottle still half full, his wallet and phone at the bottom and the book from S. K. with a new dog ear in the corner of the cover.

"You're not going to drop me off back at the island, are you?" Law notes with detached dread.

"Wasn't planning on going back." Zoro tells him but before Law has time to protest. "We're going to Baratie Markets. You can get a ship back from there. I'll pay for it so. Don't worry." He explains and if Law didn't know better he'd almost sound apologetic. He looks over his shoulder but only sees Zoro's back.

It's covered by a white long sleeved shirt, worn soft. The collar is fraying along the edge. Zoro's leg is propped up next to him, dark jeans discolored by the occasional stain and a black boot resting on a little ledge. The dark leather scuffed despite the obvious care that has gone into it. Law wonders how old the boots are, the clothes. This ship even.

"What's with the snail?" Law asks instead, popping a pill from the blister and washing it down with the lukewarm water in his bottle.

"It's a denden mushi." Zoro says and Law almost chokes.

"What?" He croaks out.

Zoro turns his head to look at him weirdly. "What do you mean what?"

"Aren't denden mushis like, phones?" Law asks.

Zoro lifts a brow. "Yes?"

"That's a snail." Law tells him and Zoro just keeps staring. "You're using a snail to call people?"

Zoro looks at him as if he's stupid for an uncomfortably long time. "Yes. That's what a denden mushi is. Have you never been to the Grandline?" He asks.

"I flew over it." Law tells him and Zoro turns back to the ocean with a groan.

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that Law doesn't catch. He seems to pinch the bridge of his nose before settling his hands on the steering wheel.

"The Grandline messes with most phone signals, the dendens are the most reliable way of communication when you're sailing and they work without electricity." Zoro explains with only a hint of exasperation.

Law has the distinct theory that he's being made fun of. "Right, sure." He's pretty sure he would have heard about it if there was a snail that worked like a fucking phone but okay. The immortal found his sense of humor somewhere between the chaos from the shoot out. Whatever.

[dawneternal]

Just a Favor | pt 5 | Gwynriel

✦ Hopefully the description of the temple makes sense! If not, I'll do a little doodle of it lol I love thinking up places and things that might exist in Velaris

✦ Warnings: all fluff my dudes

✦ Word Count: 1.6k

✦ AO3 Link

✦ Masterlist

Gwyn stood in the training ring, moving through positions with a wooden sword. When she arrived in the ring early and found it empty she had been too nervous to stand still. So she’d kicked off her lovely satin slippers and began practicing any movements that her fancy clothes would allow.

Nesta had leant her a nice dress, a simple teal silhouette with a layer of embroidered gossamer over top. She’d worn her sea-glass earrings and swept her hair back with a matching comb. She knew she looked pretty. But it only served to make her more nervous. Maybe she was overdressed.

But as Azriel appeared at the far edge of the ring, all of those worries dissipated. He had dressed up too, in a black sweater and black pants. Shiny boots not yet worn from training and fighting, and little gold hoops in his ears. His hair was slicked back from his face, and as nice as it looked, she missed his usual messy curls. At least he looked as unsettled as she did, hands shoved in his pockets as he made his way toward her.

“Hi,” She whispered, unsure if he would even hear it.

“Hi,” He said back, a smile spreading over his face, “You look beautiful. You didn’t have to dress up for me.”

“Who said it was for you?” She asked with a smirk, and Gods he wanted to kiss her right there.

“I don’t see anyone else waiting to whisk you away,” He chuckled.

“Are you whisking me away, shadowsinger?” She straightened, eyes glittering with interest.

“If that’s okay. Winnowing or flying?”

“Winnowing,” Gwyn said quickly, swallowing hard, “Definitely winnowing.”

Azriel waited for her to slip her shoes back in and then offered an arm ignoring the humming of the bond in his chest as she tucked her hand into his elbow. He winnowed them away into the heart of Velaris.

When Gwyn’s vision stopped swirling, she found herself standing in front of a tea shop. Fae-light lanterns swung in the breeze, hanging from the faded awning. Potted plants lined the sidewalk in front of the sparkling windows, some she recognized as tea plants. Then Azriel was leading her inside. It was cozy, lovely art covering the walls and mismatched tables and chairs tucked into every corner. A rich and spicy smell filled the air and it made her relax a little.

Azriel nodded to the woman behind the counter, who winked at him as he led her to the back of the building. A few doorways led in different directions, one most likely to the kitchen. The shadow singer opened the middle door, revealing a stone staircase lined with fae-lights.

“What is this?” She asked, peering down the dark stairway.

“Something you’ll like,” He said, placing a hand on the small of her back to urge her forward. She hoped he did not notice her shiver.

Gwyn swallowed her nerves and started down the stairs. As they descended, she realized she could hear the bubbling of water. When they reached the bottom and their destination was revealed, Gwyn paused with a gasp. They were in an alcove cut into a small cliffside above the Sidra. Mossy stone made up the walls and arched ceiling, candles and lanterns hung from above to give them light. Water trickled down in little man-made waterfalls, running through carved swirls in the walls and into little pools in the floor. A carved railing separated them from the churning river below, and a few benches sat before it. Beyond the bank across the river, the city glowed and hummed with life.

“What is this?” She asked again in a whisper.

“It’s a temple,” He answered, smiling at her awe, “To the spirit of the Sidra.”

He turned her around so she could see the mosaic behind them, depicting a river spirit among swirls of fish and water. Then he moved to sit on one of the benches, beckoning her to follow. She sat beside him and gazed down at the river, illuminated by the lights of the city.

“It’s beautiful,” She murmured.

“I thought you’d like it,” His smile grew to a grin, “You fit right in.”

She smiled up at him and that anxiety returned, filling her stomach with butterflies. His eyes looked as wild as they had that morning, and she swore he took a deep breath. She found herself blushing, though she wasn’t entirely sure what caused it. Maybe his handsome features, carved out of the moonlight and the lights of Velaris. Maybe the fact that they were alone in such an ethereal place. A place meant for telling secrets.

“I’m sorry again for flying away,” Azriel swallowed hard. His smile had faded.

“That’s the third time you’ve apologized,” Gwyn chuckled.

“And it’s still not enough,” He shook his head.

“I think you’ve made up for it, shadowsinger,” She whispered, daring to let her eyes lock on his. She watched his lips part, his breath catch in his throat.

That kiss was worth it all, she thought but didn’t say.

“I have to tell you a story,” Azriel said, his voice low and soft. His fingers twitched, like he had almost reached for her hand and decided not to.

“Tell me,” She gave him an encouraging smile, though she was barely able to hear her own voice over the thundering of her heart. Azriel turned his gaze toward the water and drew in a long breath.

“A few years ago I met a very brave girl. Sometimes, selfishly, I wish that I had met her on a different day. At a different time. So that I wouldn't know what it was like to see such pain in her eyes. But since then, I have watched her claw her way out of the darkness and I have only ever been in awe.”

Gwyn stared at him, lips parted and tears in her eyes. He did not have the courage to look at her yet.

“And then she went into the Blood Rite,” Azriel’s voice broke, pained from the memory, “And I worried I'd never get that chance to tell her how incredible I think she is. But I should've known better because not only did she make it out but she won the whole damn thing.”

He could not help his grin, the beaming pride in his eyes.

“But that made me lose all of my courage completely. I'm not worthy of her. Not in the slightest. So I gave up any idea of telling her how I feel. She is beautiful, and kind, and fierce, and full of so much light and love. And I know I'll never compare. I still live in the darkness. I'll probably stay in the darkness.”

The shadowsinger swallowed, still gazing down at the river. Gwyn watched him speak, the moonlight kissing his features. Her heart was so full she thought it might burst and she wanted to tell him he was wrong. That he was the one who was beautiful and kind and fierce. But he had more to say.

“And then, a few days ago, she asked me to kiss her. And I said yes because I am selfish and I wanted any affection I could get from her. And I never imagined….” He trailed off, a lump growing in his throat.

"I wanted it to be you who kissed me,” Gwyn whispered, “I was never going to ask anyone else. I guess if you said no, I would have eventually. But I always wanted it to be you.”

Azriel finally met her eyes.

“Gwyneth,” He hardly ever said her full name anymore, but she loved the way it sounded on his tongue. Smooth like golden honey.

“Yes?” The world stopped, time frozen as she waited for him to continue.

“I flew away because I was surprised. Because I felt the bond snap.”

Gwyn looked down, heart leaping into her throat. The words she had not let herself imagine. The thing she had hoped for but would not name. Her future had been teetering close to the edge and it had actually fallen the way she wanted it to. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were full of tears.

“I can't comprehend why,” He croaked, "I can't explain why. Part of me wants to apologize and tell you I'm sorry that it's me. And part of me just wants to ask you to accept me anyways, even if I don't deserve it.”

“Azriel,” Gwyn reached for his hands and held them, “You are one of the most incredible people I've ever met. You are the only one who sees yourself as this broken thing. And I am not so whole and complete myself, but I can love you with every piece of me that I have.”

“You could love me?” Azriel's chin wobbled as he stared down at their joined hands.

“I think I already do,” Gwyn whispered.

Azriel pulled his hands from hers and brought them to her face, holding her gently. He studied her for a long while, memorizing the exact moment she had said the most wonderful words he'd ever heard. Gwyn wrapped her hands around his wrists, smiling up at him as she let him digest what she'd said.

“You don't have to accept the bond today,” He said, “When it snaps-”

“I know,” She gave him a shy smile, “I…I think I need to consider whether I'm ready for that. But I want you to know that I will accept it. I will be your mate.”

“I didn't dare hope to hear you say that,” He whispered, pulling her closer, “Ever.”

“I'm full of surprises,” Gwyn grinned at him with eyes full of starlight. Then she leaned in and kissed him.

[coffeecoloredpages]

Meet Me Halfway Ch 1 Pt 8

By Wordwyrm on ao3

Professor McGonagall hurried down the length of the table to where Sirius and the other boys sat, stopping behind him and Remus. “Mr. Lupin,” she waited until Remus had twisted around to meet her eye. “I will need to see you in my office before you join the rest of your classmates. Follow me, please.” Remus nodded and swung his legs over the bench, following McGonagall out of the great hall ahead of the rest of the students.

James nudged Sirius from behind, “what could he have done to get in trouble already?” He whispered. “Dunno,” Sirius muttered back, but I ‘spose we can ask him when he gets to the common room. Come on, we’d better hurry before we lose our prefects.”

Sirius, James, and Peter followed the crowds of students exiting the great hall, and quickly located the Gryffindor prefects ahead, joining their housemates as the prefects lead them through the halls. Up moving stairs, through corridors, and finally to what seemed to be a dead end at the end of a hall. There was a large painting of a voluptuous lady on the wall, and she looked down expectantly at the two prefects leading the way. “The password for Gryffindor tower right now is ‘diebus fatalibus.’” The tall girl at the front paused. “Remember it, but do not write it down. We don’t want the other students knowing what our password is. If you forget it, you’ll be stuck out here until someone who does remember it comes along.” With that she turned and faced the painting. “Diebus fatalibus,” she spoke clearly. “Correct,” the woman in the portrait responded, as her frame swung forward, revealing an archway into a warmly lit room behind.

Passing through the arch, Sirius found himself in a large, round room with an inviting fire crackling in a massive fireplace to his left. The room was filled with squashy red couches and armchairs, gold and red pillows littered throughout. His feet sank into the plush red and gold rug which covered most of the worn wooden floor. Across from the archway a set of staircases wound up to the right and left, respectively. The prefects the boys up the right staircase and to their dorm. Sirius gazed around the room that would be his home for the next seven years. The same sort of rug covered the floor here as it did in the common room. Four beds, two against each opposite wall, stood surrounded by red curtains and were covered in what looked like gloriously warm comforters. Sirius spotted his trunk at the end of the second bed on the right, and immediately flopped heavily onto the soft mattress of his bed, sighing contentedly.

“Where’s Remus?” Peter’s squeaky voice asked from the other side of their dorm room. Sirius sat up. “McGonagall wanted to see him in her office. D’ya know what that might be about? You’re friends with him, right?”

“Yeah, but we only met a few weeks ago. He came with me and my mum to go school shopping. Is he in trouble, do you think? Maybe your cousin from the train told on him?”

“Nah, that can’t be it,” Sirius responded. “I’d be there too if that were the case, for punching Snivellus.” He paused for a moment as a thought occurred to him. “How will he find our dorm room? And who will tell him the password? The prefect said the only way to get it was from someone who knows already, he might be stuck outside all night!”

“I’m sure McGonagall will help him get to our common room,” James reassured Sirius, “but I don’t know how he’ll know which dorm room is ours…” A mischievous glint came into James’ eye at this. “Can you two keep a secret?” Sirius and Peter both sat up, curious, and nodded eagerly. James knelt in front of his trunk and pulled out something made of silvery fabric. The way it moved made Sirius think of a river. James shook it out, revealing a large cloak.

“This,” he announced proudly, “is my invisibility cloak. Well, my dad’s cloak technically, but he lent it to me for the school year. Made me promise not to tell my mum too.” Sirius gasped, and came over to take a closer look. “I’ve never seen a real invisibility cloak before. Some of the books in our library at home talk about it, but they're very rare, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” James responded proudly, “this ones been in our family for ages. My dad says he got it from his dad, and so on. Look,” he swung the cloak onto his shoulders. The fabric shimmered briefly, but as it settled James’ body disappeared, giving the illusion of his head floating unattached. James laughed at the shocked faces of his friends. “With this we can wait outside the portrait without getting caught and make sure Remus doesn’t get stuck outside. There’s plenty of room under it for the three of us.”

Peter looked unconvinced. “But the professors might be able to sense us still, right? I don’t want to get in trouble on my first day.”

“Don’t worry, Petey,” James reassured. “My dad used this loads when he was here, and nobody ever caught him, not even ol’ Dumbledore!” Peter still looked unconvinced, but nodded and joined Sirius and James under the cloak. Together, the three boys shuffled carefully out of their dorm, down the stairs, and through the portrait hole.

They didn’t have long to wait. From around the corner they heard Professor McGonagall’s stern voice. “Go down this hall and through the portrait hole. The password, I believe, is ‘diebus fatalibus.’ Your dorm will be up the right hand stairwell. Goodnight, Mr. Lupin.”

(this is only a small bit of my fic, read more on AO3 username Wordwyrm)

[eirian-houpe]

Dies Irae - Chapter 1

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Wicked Witch of the West | Zelena, Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Grumpy | Leroy, Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Grace | Paige (Once Upon a Time) Additional Tags: AU, Angst, Violence, archeology, psychic questing, Religion, spirituality, Magic, Supernatural - Freeform, Romance, Smut Summary:

A strange man confronts Doctor Belle French after one of her lectures, and claims to need her help. He also claims to know that she is troubled, and can offer her protection. When events transpire that lead Belle to take up that offer, a desperate search begins to find a series of ancient artifacts, and Belle and her friends - both old and new - face increasing danger as they try to secure the artifacts for the powers of good before they can fall into very wrong hands, and possibly threaten every living thing in Storybrooke and beyond!

Chapter One: Ēvincere

Etymology of the English word evince (v.) c. 1600, "disprove, confute," from French évincer "disprove, confute," from Latin evincere "conquer, overcome subdue, vanquish, prevail over; elicit by argument, prove," from assimilated form of ex "out" (see ex-) + vincere "to overcome" (from nasalized form of PIE root *weik- (3) "to fight, conquer"). Meaning "show clearly" is late 18c. Not clearly distinguished from its doublet, evict, until 18c. Related: Evinced; evinces; evincing; evincible.

"And I cannot stress hard enough…”

He didn’t move.  While all around him in the lecture hall, those gathered in unspoken conspiracy seemed to squirm and shift uncomfortably in their places on the long, hard wooden benches, he remained immobile.

“…that if you are coming into archeology with dreams of… fame and fortune; of glory even, then you have been sadly misinformed.”

He sighed - perhaps the first sign of life since he entered the hall - and moved his hands with slow, measured precision, to turn to collar of his black, woolen trench coat up as if to defend against a unwelcome draft. He’d heard this before, several times, and as she continued, almost syllable for syllable, matched her litany.

“Treasure comes in many forms,” he muttered as she spoke, “and it isn’t always - is rarely as a matter of fact - gold or precious artifacts.” He recitation was lifeless and without the passionate inflection with which she spoke.

“But is something more precious still…” She gave a pause then, and in his line of sight, the watcher could separate those that had been caught in her spell, and those that were merely along for the ride. The former leaned, slightly, toward the front of the lecture hall, where the diminutive Doctor Belle French held court, and finished with all the mysteriousness it seemed that she could muster, “Knowledge.”

If she might have continued, he would never know, as the bell signaling the end of the alloted time sounded, and the ever impatient students began stuffing backpacks and tote bags with notebooks and textbooks; wooden boxes full of sharpened pencils and depleted ink pens, and hurried to rise and leave.

Still, he sat immobile, one booted foot up on the desk-like shelf in front of him, the other splayed slight to the side, toward the aisle.  Others along his row shifted impatiently; pointedly waiting for him to take his foot down at least, so they could sidle, inconvenienced, past this apparent miscreant. He didn’t move. He didn’t even respond to the irritated murmuring; never once took his eyes off French as she too began packing away the lecture notes into folders, then the folders into piles on a table already replete with books and other papers.

“Are you gonna move y’foot, mate?”

Apparently, the patience of the nearby attendees had worn thin, or at least their courage had thickened, one or the other.

“Go around,” he said, his voice low and full of gravel, as well as gravitas. It was all he said, and neither did he make any attempt to remove his foot from blocking the way. 

After another moment of immobility, and with the press of other students behind him, the one that had spoken tried again, more threatening this time as he grumbled, “I said move yer foot.”

With the grace of a highly trained dancer, and turning as he did indeed move his foot to stand, he turned to face the student, towering over the younger man as he said quietly, and with patience that somehow held a deadly quality, “And I said, go. Around.”

The student opened his mouth to make a third protest, but as he shifted slightly, something seemed to change the younger man’s mind and, muttering something not quite audible, but he was certain was unlikely to be very complementary, did indeed turn, and pushing the other students ahead of him, moved and exited the row from the other side.

The students were already forgotten though, and he turned his attention back to Doctor French. She was slowly clearing the table in front of the podium of all the books and papers littered there, packing them away in her already overstuffed messenger bag, paying absolutely no heed to the room around her, nor - he guessed - the energies in it. 

When he felt the moment was right, just as the light descended enough to case a beam across the lecture hall and illuminate the dust that had yet to settle, he spoke.

“It isn’t true, you know?” he said. Though his voice was still soft he pitched it so that the acoustics of the hall carried it clearly to the professor. She started slightly, then looked up at him, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the light that concealed him.

“I beg your pardon?” she shot back, her voice terse, a challenge.

“Granted,” he said, and began to slowly descend the steps that flanked the tiers of seats.

“No, that’s not—” she began, slightly flustered, before annoyance got the better of her and she demanded, “I’m sorry - who are you?”

Once he reached the floor, he strode across to her, his trench coat almost billowing, cloak-like behind him, and once close enough held out a hand in her direction.

“My name is Jefferson,” he told her, “And I need your help to do something that I can’t.”

-------------

Belle blinked, then with a slight scoff, and ignoring his still outstretched hand said, “Well you have a very strange way of showing it!” Then she returned to packing her bag.

“In return,” he continued, apparently unmoved by her response, “I may be able to assist you.”

“I don’t need your help,” she snapped. The tone in his voice made the small hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. Had he been watching her?

“There are powers in this world, Doctor French, who have no regard for the living, nor respect for the dead. I suspect you know the type, if not the very ones of whom I speak.”

She looked up at that, fixing her eyes first on his face, undeniably handsome, but clearly more than a little haunted behind the seriousness of his expression, and then traveling the length of the sombre-clad figure that stood before her, seeming to know more about her than a stranger should.

She couldn’t help but notice the small pin that graced his otherwise unadorned lapel: an equal armed, red cross, their width narrower at the center than they were at the ends, set against a white background that was stark against the black of his coat.

“Now you listen, Mister Je—.”

“Just Jefferson,” he corrected.

“I don’t know who you are, or where you came from,” she tried for indignation, but even to her own ears, the tone spoke more of fear, “or even why you’re here, but—”

“I told you,” he said, his voice soft, “I need your help.”

She frowned, and couldn’t muster an answer, just stood and shook her head.

He raised his long forgotten, outstretched hand to her again, and as if by magic, though she was certain it was slight of hand, he produced a velum business card and held it out to her, clasped between his index and middle finger.

“There’s a man, his name is Mister Gold,” he said. “If you have cause to change your mind, all you have to do is go to him. It’s very important you tell him what’s been going on. He can protect you, but you must tell him exactly what’s been happening. He’ll know what to do.”

He nodded then, just once, to the business card he still held, and hesitantly, she reached for it, and glancing down at it, saw the words that graced the center of the otherwise unadorned card.

“Gold - Antiquarian,” it said, and then in relief around the edges, words that she had to turn the card one way and then the other in order to read. Latin words.

Non nobis Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam.

When she looked up, Jefferson was already gone.

[baileys-3]

Secret Dating Era Chapter Chapter 46 now Online on AO3

The Mid-Wilshire-Team goes to a restaurant. And yes it goes how you think it goes. Or not?

Sneak Peak:

Nyla had reserved a table for their group at a restaurant that offers a mix of good Mexican food, exclusive bar service, tasteful decor, and a cozy atmosphere. In the end, they all arrived together as the group had been waiting for Lucy outside a paintball arena, even though she took the longest to get ready – all thanks to his revenge shots. Oh, he's definitely going to be in trouble for that; he can't wait – because nobody was about to leave her behind and head to the restaurant. That's just not how they do things, 'cause, you know, teamwork and all.

The host greets their little Mid-Wilshire family at the entrance and leads them to their table. They walk through the massive space that was cleverly split into many small areas using room dividers, plants, and various decorations. The real showstopper, though, is the large U-shaped bar located roughly in the middle. The walls are filled with various bottles of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. Behind the counter, even though it's still early, the joint's already buzzing with two bartenders working their magic, crafting cocktails, and putting on a bit of a show.

They finally make it to their table, made from reclaimed wooden planks that clearly have seen some action in their past life. It's got its fair share of dents, grooves, and scratches, but that only adds to its unique rustic charm. Four benches surround it, all in the same style and decked with comfy cushions.

Celina trails up behind the waitress so she's the first to reach the table. She runs her hand over the worn wood and can't help but gush, "This is freakin' awesome. Turning something old into something new? The energy here... dang, it's off the charts."