#at least now i know how much i need to take care of my rib clients i’m so sorry for doing that to you

[torturedtypewritersdept]

https://www.tumblr.com/torturedtypewritersdept/782292128610107393/i-really-cant-wait-for-your-next-work-about-our?source=share

ohh actually i have one!! dr rafe taking care of reader when she suddenly gets a nosebleed while cooking dinner with him and she feels quilty that he has to take care of her on his free day and he comforts her <33

The bleeding had stopped — at least, the visible kind. But something in the air still pulsed red and raw.

The towel lay limp in your lap, freckled with blood that had dried to rust at the edges. You could feel the stickiness beneath your nose, the faint pulse behind your eyes still beating like a drum in a storm. And Rafe — he hadn’t moved far. He hovered the way only a man with a surgeon’s hands and a grieving heart could. Reverent. Haunted. Certain that if he let go for even a second, the earth might slip out from under both of you.

“I’m calling Jenni,” he said. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it — a kind of trembling rage at the world for touching you in this way.

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words withered in your throat. He had already risen from his crouch, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the living room — backlit by the low amber glow of the floor lamp, like a sentinel.

“She needs to run labs,” he muttered to himself as he reached for his phone. “Check your hemoglobin. Your platelets. Your vitals. Everything.”

He paused — just for a second — thumb hovering over the call button as his eyes flicked down to you. He looked at you like you were something fragile in a museum case, glass already cracked, and he was the last one allowed to hold you before you shattered completely.

“You should’ve told me about the headache,” he said, quieter now. “You didn’t have to bear that alone.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you whispered, voice raw. “You’ve done so much.”

He scoffed softly. Not in mockery — but disbelief. As if the very thought that you considered your pain a burden gutted him.

Then he dialed.

“Jenni? It’s Rafe.” His tone shifted into something colder, clipped and clinical — all surgeon now, no softness, just precision. “It’s for her. Sudden epistaxis, ongoing headache, pallor, hand tremor. No fever. No trauma. But it came on fast. I need eyes on her. Tonight.”

You sat there, small and still, watching his profile — the sharp line of his jaw, the way he clenched it like he was trying to bite down on panic. The way his other hand remained braced on the arm of the couch, as if to steady himself on you.

“She’ll come,” he said after hanging up. “She’s on her way.”

“Rafe…” You swallowed thickly, throat raw from blood and unshed tears. “You don’t have to worry this much. I’m okay now.”

But he dropped to his knees again, cupped your cheeks with both hands, and tilted your head toward him so you couldn’t look anywhere but into the ocean-storm of his eyes.

“I don’t do halfway when it comes to you,” he said, voice breaking open like thunder beneath your ribs. “You’re not just someone I treated. You’re not just my patient. You’re—” he stopped himself, breathing hard. “You’re mine to protect. If something’s wrong, I need to know. I need to fix it.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, silent and hot, carving a path through the dried blood near your jaw. He caught it with his thumb before it fell — always catching, always careful.

“I hate this,” you whispered. “I hate that you have to see me like this again.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I’d rather see you broken than not see you at all.”

You didn’t even realize how badly you were trembling until he pulled you forward into his arms, pressing you into the curve of his chest, and the world stopped spinning. His hand cradled the back of your head, holding you there like a secret, like a prayer. And for a long time, you just breathed together.

In.

Out.

In.

His chest rose beneath your cheek — warm, solid, dependable. The scent of him — cedar soap, clean laundry, something faintly antiseptic from the hospital — grounded you in the now.

“You scare me,” he murmured into your hair. “Not because you’re fragile. But because I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t save you.”

The doorbell echoed moments later, but he didn’t rise right away. He held you for another breath — one last heartbeat — before gently lifting you from the couch, as if your bones were made of spun glass and sanctity.

“I’ve got you,” he promised. “Always.”

[lazylittledragon]

got my ribs tattooed today and i cannot stress enough please do not get them if you value your life

[shaiyasstuff]

wilted promises | sylus | chapter 2

synopsis : Sylus once vowed to love and protect you, but love, like flowers left untended, withered beneath the weight of silence and duty. In the hollow halls of your shared home, he watched as you faded—slowly, quietly—until the day you collapsed, slipping between life and death like a ghost of the woman you once were. content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, self-loathing(?), ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers, sylus is a noble. - "The saddest moments come when we realize the time we’ve lost cannot return." - unknown.

parts : one | two

“I promised to protect you, to love you, to stand by your side—yet here you are, shattered by my own hands. Tell me, how do I live with that?”

It had been years since that first promise—the one he made while holding a datura to you, vowing to protect you, to love you, for all eternity.

He still remembers the way your eyes shone with trust and belief.

But the weight of his family’s expectations and the harshness of reality have stolen those promises from both of you.

He never wanted it to be like this; he never intended for the love you shared to rot beneath layers of indifference.

He knows he’s been cold, distant and cruel.

But every word he says, every action he takes, was all to protect you.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

To Sylus, in some twisted sense of belief, he thought pushing you away, if he made you hate him, it’s because the world was cruel.

He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you hurt by its sharp edges.

He became cruel because he thought that would shield you from the storms he’s endured.

Because he would rather you hate him than face the reality of a world that doesn’t care about you.

He couldn’t bear to let you in, to let you see just how broken he’s become, how trapped he was by expectations that were never his to begin with.

Perhaps that was his biggest mistake.

Every time he saw you, he sees the woman who once believed in him, who trusted him to keep his promises.

And he dies a little more inside.

He promised you forever.

And forever, he will protect you—from the world and from himself.

Because for him, he never stopped loving you.

—•

The car screeched into the emergency bay, tires screaming as he barely managed to pull it to a stop.

He threw the door open, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as he pulled your frail form from the passenger seat.

You were too light. Too cold.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he carried you through the hospital doors, his grip on you desperate, his mind spiraling.

“Not like this. Please, not like this.”

“Help!” His voice was raw, the sharp edge of panic bleeding through as he staggered into the corridor.

A group of nurses rushed toward him.

“She’s losing too much blood.”

The words rang in his ears like a death sentence.

The gurney wheeled past him, hands pulling you away from him, and all he could do was stand there, frozen, useless.

A doctor turned to him, frowning. “Has she been unwell recently?”

His breath caught.

“She… she just started to paint,” he choked out, his own voice foreign to him. “She’s barely been eating, but I never—” His throat closed. He swallowed against the rising panic. “I didn’t think it was this bad.”

The doctor’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, signaling his team to move faster.

Minutes felt like hours.

The walls were too white. Too quiet.

Sylus stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles bone-white, watching them work on you.

His hands shook. His stomach churned.

“How did I let it get this bad?”

The doctor returned, face solemn.

“We’ve stabilized her for now, but she’s in critical condition. She’s severely malnourished, and there’s internal damage from the blood loss.”

The words hit like a hammer.

“We need to run tests, but it’s too soon to tell how this will play out.”

The words faded out.

“Can I see her?” His voice was barely a whisper.

The doctor shook his head. “Not yet.”

The world blurred at the edges.

He could only watch you being taken away, limp and lifeless.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t deserve you.

He never had.

He whispered to the empty hallway, his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t protect you. I didn’t love you like I should have. But please—don’t leave me.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him, but he didn’t care.

He needed you to know.

He needed you.

—•

Sylus watched as you consigned your art to the flames.

Your movements were steady, calm in a way that unsettled him.

He remembered how you used to speak of your paintings with quiet passion, how your eyes would glow with pride as you lingered over every brushstroke.

He’d thought the portraits were your sanctuary, the only place you could escape him, escape this life.

And now, you were burning them.

“Why?”

The question left him before he could stop it, rough and strained.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t pause. Another painting slipped into the fire, its edges curling, the flames devouring it.

“Because I don’t need them anymore,”

Your voice low, steady. Final.

“They were only ever reminders of what I could never have.”

Your words struck harder than any accusation.

Sylus felt something twist in his chest, a confusion that spiraled into guilt.

He wanted to stop you.

Wanted to pull the paintings from the fire.

Wanted to say something, anything.

But he stood still.

Frozen. Watching.

Your voice was cold, resolute.

“Everything can burn for all I care.”

The flames crackled between you, licking at the remnants of what once was.

And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if you meant more than just the paintings.

If you meant him, too.

But he said nothing.

Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

—•

Sylus sat in the sterile waiting room, staring blankly at the door to your room.

His fists trembled at his sides.

The weight of everything—his mistakes, his cruelty—pressed down on him, suffocating.

He felt helpless, unable to undo the damage he had caused.

“What have I done?”

The question repeated in his mind, mocking him.

His guilt was overwhelming, gnawing at him like a constant ache.

He had pushed you to this point, broken the woman he loved with his pride, his anger, his neglect.

And now you lay there, unconscious, fighting for a life he had destroyed.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising as he fought back tears.

“Please wake up.”

He was desperate.

He couldn’t lose you—not like this, not after everything.

His regret gnawed at him, bitter and relentless.

Every moment of your marriage felt like a failure now, a cruel joke played on both of you.

When the nurse appeared, her calm demeanour only made him feel worse.

“She’s stable,” she said, but it didn’t matter.

Stability wasn’t enough.

He collapsed back into the chair, his chest tight. All he could do was wait, pray, and beg for forgiveness in silence.

Then the phone rang.

He didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know who it was.

“Where in the world have you been?! You haven’t been answering your messages,”

His mother.

“And what’s this nonsense about your wife? You need to pull yourself together.”

His father’s voice joined in, colder than ever.

“You’ve made a mess of things, boy. Marrying her was a disgrace to this family. A commoner. We raised you better than this.”

He hadn’t thought about their disapproval in weeks.

The shame they’d cast on him for marrying someone beneath their social status, their constant insistence on duty and legacy, had been a constant pressure from the start.

“She’s not just a commoner,” Sylus muttered, but his voice faltered, barely a whisper.

The words felt hollow, like they didn’t even matter anymore.

The reality was, he didn’t know what he had expected from them.

Understanding?

Compassion?

But instead, all he received was disdain.

“You’re throwing away your life for someone who can’t even stand on her own two feet!” his father barked.

“You owe it to the family to move past this and fix the mess you’ve made.”

Sylus’ hand tightened on the phone.

His knuckles were white, and for a moment, he felt his anger flare.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

They didn’t know the woman he’d married—the one who had filled his life with colour, with warmth, with purpose.

“Watch your tongue,” he growled, his voice raw.

“Do not act like you know me.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“This charade cannot go on. If she remains in that state, then tell me, what purpose does she even serve?” She didn’t even pretend to care.

“You will be at the family gathering next week. I will not ask again. Do not make me come find you.”

The line went dead.

He sat there in the oppressive silence, the phone still pressed to his ear, staring at the empty room around him.

They hadn’t cared about her, or about him, in years.

Everything was about status, about their own wealth and image, and he had foolishly believed they could ever understand the depth of what he had with her.

His stomach turned as the reality settled over him.

The love he had once taken for granted now felt like an isolated island in a sea of cold indifference.

He wanted to scream, to shout at the void, but he just sat there instead, feeling small, helpless, and utterly alone.

Tears threatened to fall, but he swallowed them back, blinking them away.

How did we get here?

The silence that followed was deafening, and he could feel the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down on him.

In the end, they didn’t care.

His marriage, his life, none of it mattered.

It was all about the name, the title, the legacy.

Could he fix what he had broken?

Could he?

The weight of his family’s expectations was suffocating, a constant, invisible force that had shaped every decision, every move he made.

They had built a future for him, a legacy he was expected to uphold, to continue.

Their voices, their unyielding demands, had always been in the back of his mind, a chorus of what he should be, who he should become.

But in the quiet of the hospital room, as he frowned at your unmoving body, lifeless and vulnerable, he realized the cost of it all.

The life he had imagined for both of you, the woman he had once loved so deeply, had been crushed under the pressure of his obligations.

The weight of his family’s approval had turned him into someone who could barely recognise himself.

He had traded your warmth, your love, for the cold, suffocating grip of duty.

He had always told himself that the sacrifices he made were for you, that he was doing it for your future, for your happiness.

But now, seeing you in this state, he understood the truth.

He had destroyed everything you once had, all for the approval of people who would never understand what he had lost.

The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, as he held your hand, praying you would wake up.

Every breath you took felt like a thread he was desperately clinging to, and in that moment, he hated himself.

He hated what he had become.

He had let his family dictate his choices, and in doing so, he had ruined the one thing that ever truly mattered—you.

“I failed you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Sylus sat by your bedside, his hand trembling as it rested lightly on yours.

The sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of machines, the bright, harsh lights above—it all felt so foreign, so wrong.

His mind was a mess of thoughts, of guilt, of sorrow.

Sylus buried his face in his hands, the overwhelming weight of his regret threatening to crush him.

“Why can’t I stop hurting you?”

His breath came in short gasps, his chest tight as though the very air had thickened with guilt.

“Please, stop,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “Please, just stop.”

But the memories didn’t listen. They flooded him, relentless, suffocating.

He saw you again, standing in the garden, your hands trembling as you held a single datura flower.

“..stop..”

The plea, broken and fragile, echoed in his ears like a haunting song.

He could hear it over and over again, your voice shaking as he crushed your beloved flowers.

“…please..” you had begged him, and he hadn’t cared.

He wanted to hurt you.

The image twisted in his mind.

He saw you crumpled on the floor, the broken flower petals around you, your heart shattered like the fragile stems you’d nurtured.

“No!” Sylus shouted, slamming his fists into the armrests of the chair.

But the memories surged forward, unstoppable.

He saw your pale face in the dim light of your home, the hurt in your eyes as he had spat those cruel words at you.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

He remembered you recoiling, the pain flashing across your face as the reality of his cruelty set in.

But instead of stopping, he had hardened, refusing to let you see the cracks in his own heart.

He clenched his fists, a shudder wracking his body.

“I didn’t see you,” he whispered to himself.

“I didn’t see… what I had. What I was losing.”

His mind flashed to your wedding day, your first slow dance in that abandoned chapel, the way you had glowed with joy.

You had believed in him.

“I will always protect you,”

He had promised you.

But somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the weight of that promise.

The memories were suffocating, choking him.

“Stop, please… I can’t take it anymore.”

But they didn’t stop.

They kept coming.

Every word, every action, every moment of cruelty.

He could feel his heart breaking with each one.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked as the memories flooded him, his words slipping into the empty room, as if hoping you could hear him, that you could somehow know he had finally realized the truth.

Then another memory.

“I’ll cherish this datura until I die.”

The voice of the girl he’d once known—the one who had laughed easily and followed him everywhere, her joy as bright as the sun. The girl who had trusted him without question.

“You’re the worst!”

The memory strikes like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Back then, he had only laughed, dismissing your words as playful frustration—a harmless jest from the days when love was simple, unburdened by the weight of what was to come.

It had been routine.

You would pout, he would tease, and the world felt lighter, wrapped in the warmth of childhood’s fleeting innocence.

But now, the memory feels different. Heavier. Bitter.

There is no laughter, no teasing, no safety in the past. The words that once meant nothing now cut deeper than any blade.

Because now, he understood.

He really is the worst.

The worst man to stand beside you.

The worst person to bear the title of the one who was supposed to love and protect you.

And worst of all, he had let it happen.

“Enough.” His voice cracked as he sank deeper into his hands, as it would block them out, the guilt, the shame.

But you cannot turn back time, can you?

He wondered when exactly that promise had been broken—when the boy who vowed to protect you became the man who let you drown in the depths of his cruelty and neglect.

The weight of that memory pressed against his chest, suffocating and relentless.

He had promised to save you, and yet, there you were, drowning in the coldness he had wrapped around you like a shroud.

And he had stood by, he watched, doing nothing.

It wasn’t just the past that haunted him.

It was the knowledge that somewhere along the line, he had stopped being your saviour and had become the very storm pulling you under.

But it was too late now.

Too late to reach out. Too late to offer his hand.

—•

The dim light from the single lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the studio, and Sylus felt the weight of it all.

The suffocating air of regret and remorse clung to the walls like a heavy fog.

Your paintings, once a reflection of your love and joy had turned into a grotesque reflection to your agony, each brushstroke a cry he had never heard until it was too late.

The thought of how far you had fallen because of his cruelty tore at him.

His gaze fell on the last canvas you’d worked on, the most twisted of them all.

The datura’s petals stretched like fingers.

Your blood, now cold and dried, had splashed all over it.

He could almost hear you cackle in his mind, a hollow, sarcastic laughter, mocking him.

“Do you like it? Is this what you wanted?”

The question lingered in his mind, reverberating with every beat of his heart.

His fingers twitched at his sides, he wanted to destroy the canvases, to rip them down, to erase the painful reminders.

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

He already tore your flowers apart once.

“..what..what did you..”

He ran his hand over his face in despair.

“…what did you see in me…?”

His voice cracked beneath it all, as he stared at the countless datura piled in the studio, the cacophony of red laughing at him, mocking him.

His gaze then fell on something different, something that stood out starkly against the sea of dark red.

A sliver of light caught his attention, something vibrant, full of life.

The colours of warm oranges, soft purples, and golden yellows seemed to glow in the dimly lit room.

The contrast was so jarring that it felt as if the painting was screaming at him, begging him to see it.

When he finally pulled it free, his breath caught in his throat.

Two figures, so young, so full of hope.

The field bathed in the golden light of a sunset, the two of you standing side by side, hands intertwined, holding daturas in your hands as you smiled at each other.

The painting was a reflection of everything he had lost—before the cruelty, before the distance, before the world he had shattered.

The sharp contrast of the vibrant colors against the oppressive, angry reds of the daturas surrounding it was almost painful.

The innocence, the love, the peace of that moment—it was all gone now.

His breath hitched as the tears began to rise, each one like a wave crashing against his chest.

“I… I remember this,” he whispered, his voice raw.

“I remember us. I remember you.”

You had stood before him, radiant, as though you had stepped out of a fairy tale.

The way the sunlight caught in your hair, turning it into a halo of gold, it made you seem almost otherworldly.

Your eyes had met his, blinking slowly, as if they were the galaxy themselves, deep and endless, drawing him in.

It was as though he was gazing into the very heart of the universe, lost in the infinite expanse of your gaze.

Your scent, soft and sweet, had been like honeysuckle, delicate and intoxicating, the kind that made him forget everything but you.

He could still remember how your presence had made the air feel lighter, brighter, as if nothing could ever go wrong when you were near.

Your laughter.

Your smile.

You.

That was before everything had begun to unravel.

That was before the cruelty, before the silence, before he had destroyed the one thing that had ever made him feel whole.

Now, the memories of that day were a painful reminder of the cold, broken silence that had replaced your presence.

The pain of losing you, of realizing how deeply he had hurt you, had settled into his bones like a permanent ache.

And all he could do was remember that look in your eyes, the way you had smiled at him like he was the center of your world.

He had believed it too, back then.

But now, he was left with nothing but the haunting emptiness of what he had destroyed with his own bare hands.

The tears fell faster now, unstoppable, as he sank to his knees.

He clutched the painting to his chest, the only remaining piece of you he could still hold onto.

“I was supposed to protect you,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

The words were barely audible, but they clawed at his throat, sharp and suffocating.

“I promised you the world. And I…” He faltered, his breath hitching as his chest tightened with the unbearable ache.

“I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything.”

Every word, every moment of regret, felt like a blade twisting deeper inside him.

The daturas around him were tall, suffocating, like a field of poison that seemed to encircle him, their dark beauty a constant reminder of how he had poisoned your love.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his remorse.

His entire body trembled with the grief that overwhelmed him.

“I’m sorry for every word, every moment I hurt you. For every time I… I pushed you away.”

He could hear nothing but the deafening silence of regret, the oppressive weight of the daturas closing in on him, each one a grim reminder that the love he had once had was now buried under a sea of thorns and poison.

And as he sat there, clutching the painting tighter to his chest, he realised it.

Nothing could bring you back.

Not the apologies, not the tears.

All he was left with was the haunting reminder of his failure, surrounded by the overwhelming, mocking presence of the daturas.

He had created this hell, and now he was trapped in it.

He wept.

The sobs racked his body, raw and uncontrollable, each one like a jagged shard of agony lodged deep within him.

His chest heaved with the weight of it, the pain too great to contain, too great to silence.

Tears poured from his eyes like rivers, hot and relentless, each drop an excruciating reminder of the destruction he had wrought.

It wasn’t just you he had lost.

He wept for the shattered man he had become, for the love that had once bloomed between you, now choked under the crushing weight of his mistakes.

The tears were an outpouring of everything he had denied—guilt, regret, longing, and a deep, gnawing sorrow for what was irreparably broken.

This was the last thing he had of you, the only remnant of the woman you had been before the darkness had consumed you both.

If only he could reach back into those moments, pull you back to him, make things right.

But he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped through his tears, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand unspoken apologies.

“I’m so sorry… for everything… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you. Please…”

The room felt colder, darker, as if the very air had thickened with his regret.

The bright contrast of the painting only amplified the emptiness around him, so full of life once, now nothing but a hollow echo of what had been.

The memory of you, once so vibrant, now faded, buried beneath the weight of his sins.

The memories were cruel.

The day of your first dance came rushing back—the soft echoes of your footsteps in that abandoned chapel.

He remembered the warmth of your hands in his, the joy on your face when he’d finally gotten the steps right.

“You’re terrible at this, Sy,” you giggled back then, your eyes sparkling.

“I’ll get better,” he’d promised, holding you close. “As long as you don’t let me go.”

But now, he chuckled bitterly to himself, tears running down his face.

“But I let you go, didn’t I?” His voice cracked.

“God, I let everything go.”

—•

Sylus woke to the sharp sting of daylight piercing through the room, and for a long moment, he didn’t move.

His body ached with exhaustion, weighed down by the weight of his emotions and the remnants of his guilt that clung to him like an unbearable fog.

The floor was cold beneath him, and as his blurry eyes focused, he realised that he was still on his knees, the stillness of the room almost suffocating.

His hand instinctively went to his face, feeling the roughness of dried tears, the lingering evidence of the storm that had raged within him the night before.

His chest tightened, his breath shallow.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this hollow.

The guilt was a constant ache in his chest, an ever-present reminder of how he had broken the one person who had meant more to him than anything.

You.

It was painful, the weight of his failures pressing down on him.

His heart clenched at the thought of you.

The woman he loved, the woman he had torn apart with his pride, his cruelty, his selfishness.

The thought of living the rest of his life knowing he had destroyed the woman he loved, knowing he had caused you so much pain.

It was unbearable.

“What now?” he asked himself, the question hanging in the air like a cruel, unanswered prayer.

He thought of you, still lifeless in that sterile hospital room.

The silence around him was deafening, a constant reminder of the space you no longer filled.

He was waiting for something, some sign, some miracle that would pull you from the void you had fallen into.

He could still see you in his mind’s eye.

Your face, pale and tranquil, the softness that had always been there now lost behind a veil of uncertainty.

When would you wake up?

Would you even want to look at him?

These questions rattled in his mind, each one more suffocating than the last.

“Please,” he thought, almost as a silent prayer, though he couldn’t find the words.

He couldn’t escape the gnawing fear.

That you might never return.

—•

He sat in his study, the cold glass of whiskey heavy in his hand, the amber liquid swirling lazily within.

The burn of the alcohol down his throat was a familiar, fleeting solace—a cruel balm to the wounds that festered in his chest.

His thoughts were scattered, his mind a blur of regret and self-doubt, but the sharp sting of the drink helped him forget, if only momentarily.

Time stretched on in the dimly lit room, the silence thick and oppressive, when a voice—soft, haunting—slipped into his consciousness.

“You promised.”

At first, it was just a faint whisper, a sound barely louder than a breath, but it made his hand falter.

He froze, the glass poised before his lips, his entire body stiffening.

The voice came again, this time clearer, more real.

“You promised me.”

His heart stuttered, the glass slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor with a shattering thud, but his mind was focused entirely on the voice—your voice.

He could hear you.

He could your presence like a faint caress, reminding him of the promises he had made long ago.

The world around him seemed to tilt, his vision blurring as he closed his eyes, fighting to hold on to the fragile reality he knew was slipping away.

“No…” he whispered to himself, a desperate denial, but the voice only grew stronger.

“You said you would protect me. You said you would never leave me…”

The words cut deep, their weight sinking into him like an anchor.

He staggered back, his breath ragged, as if he had been struck. The guilt surged again—unrelenting, suffocating.

The cruel truth of it, too much to bear.

His trembling hands reached for the desk, gripping the edge as he bent forward, staring down at the empty space before him.

“I promised… I promised and I—”

The words died in his throat, a raw ache strangling his every attempt at expression.

For a moment, everything seemed to still.

The fog of regret, the numbness from the alcohol, it all began to fade away, leaving only the undeniable clarity of his failure.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but it was enough.

The voice in his mind grew faint, but still, he could feel it, still lingering in the shadows, soft and fragile, like a thread connecting you across the space he had destroyed.

He wanted to deny it.

Wanted to escape it.

But the past was a ghost he could never outrun.

His thoughts strayed to you, to your laughter, to the way your eyes glistened under the sunlight.

He could still picture it so clearly.

The two of you, young and hopeful, in the meadow, surrounded by flowers you loved so much..

You had been alive then. Together.

Now, all he had was emptiness, and the broken pieces of the person he had become.

The ghost of his regret came again, softly.

“You can’t undo the past.”

But Sylus shook his head, trying to shake the noise out.

“No, but I can start over.”

“You can’t.”

“I will be better,” a tear ran down his face.

“You destroyed them.”

“N-No..!” His voice cracked.

“You killed her.”

“I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us.” He was desperate.

“She’s never coming back.”

“…no…”

[crossingthedreams]

medication — gregory house x f!reader

a/n: posting this late, as always, for @angstober day 06 — medication. this is inspired by a real life scenario that happened with someone I know. please, if you’re suffering through any sort of violence, reach the authorities. I am not, nor will ever be, specialized help, but I am available to listen in my dm’s should anyone need to vent. always, always, always put your safety and well being first. 

summary: you meet your former lover once more, but in the worst possible scenario. 

word count: 584

warnings: domestic violence. angst. horrible relationship dynamics. mentions of family death. abortion. mentions of past relationships. reader is injured. 

TRIGGER WARNING. Domestic violence. Abortion. Please proceed with care. 

“You should leave him”.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at the man at the door. Instead, you kept your gaze fixed on the medication falling in small drops from the transparent package into your veins. 

Hospital rooms had such a surreal vibe to them. Nothing seemed real, as if the words you uttered in there weren’t important and would have no impact on your actual day-to-day life. 

It was why you brought yourself to say, still not taking your eyes from the clear medication. “I wish I could”. 

You heard his steps approaching, hitting the floor rhythmically with his cane. 

His staff must have been so confused when he decided to be the attending doctor on your case. It was almost funny imagining the reactions, even though you never met the three young doctors working under his wing. 

You weren’t a mystery, and your case was just boring. You fell down the stairs and broke a couple of ribs, and got a black eye in the process. Nothing much, right? 

Wrong. And Gregory House saw right through you. 

He knew very well you didn’t fall, and he knew that black eye was a result of a very specific injury. 

In all the years he’d known your family, he never would have imagined you would lie for a man who was hurting you. 

The thing is, he didn’t know the whole story. The nuances, the finances. The reasons why you couldn’t just get up and leave. You didn’t deserve to leave.

You turned your face towards him. He was close enough now, so much so you could see the specks of light green in the baby blue of his eyes. He put a folder carefully on the movable table in front of you, and seemed to ponder on what to say next. 

You didn’t want to hear it. “There’s a lot of strings attached”, you simply said, hoping this would end the matter once and for all. “You knew my father and you are a smart guy, you can figure it out”.

“You’re pregnant.”

“No, I’m not.”

He tilted his head. “Sorry, who is the doctor here again?”

You shook your head, as if the motion itself could stop reality. Your eyes filled with tears, but you didn’t want to cry. Not here, not in front of him.

“You don’t have to go through with this. And I mean both the pregnancy and whatever hell you are living back home”, he said in the sweetest way he knew how. He took a small bottle from his coat and held it out in front of you. “Take one pill, and he’ll never know. Doctor-patient confidentiality”.

You smiled a little, mostly because of his tone. House never tried to be funny, but at least he was trying to lighten the mood.

“Your father was a terrible man, and I hated him almost as much as he hated me. Of course, he didn’t sleep with my daughter, so there’s that”.

You rolled your eyes, which hurt due to the bruises. But still, the small smile lingered. House brought up the torrid affair you two shared before your father passed very rarely, and never without a motive.

“You should leave him, kid”, he repeated. Your smile faded, and your face showed only pain. “If you ever need anything, you have my number, my work address and my home address. Call me”. 

He left the bottle of medication on the table before leaving. Confidently for once, you took it. 

[smallestapplin]

Wing cleaning

Predaking x gn!aerial Cybertronian reader.

Warnings : none, just fluff and wing cleaning with Predaking. I just need fluff 😔

-

-

Predaking’s displays of affection were slightly odd to you, he stays in his alt mode more often than not making seeing his face limited, but he curls around you for cuddles centering you in the middle of his hoard to keep you safe. In his alt mode kisses are usually nuzzles or him licking your face or even your wings, no matter how much you tell him not to.

His purrs are at least soothing, you suppose, always so deep and rumble so nicely it makes for good white noise to sleep to.

“Preda, this isn’t necessary.”

He only answers with a huffed growl making you sigh deeply and accept your fate. His large ribbed glossa crosses the top of your helm, making you face scrunch up at the new wet feeling. Predacons, still had much more animalistic behaviors, which, fair, you didn’t see a problem with, until it’s your face plate being licked. He wants to take care of you in a way that is familar to him, you know this and love him for it, but sometimes you wish he’d take it easier around your wings, or makes you squirm from the intensity.

“Stay still, you are filthy.”

A pack bonding activity, he said.

Only mated pairs help clean the body, which is why he is so sure and determined to lick your wings clean, which granted you know your wings aren’t in the best condition from thousands of years of not being able to clean them properly.

But this feels….weirdly intimate to such a level it’s overwhelming.

Predaking purrs loudly as he licks over the center of your left wing, sitting proudly in his draconic alt mode as he cleans you up, tail lazily swiping across the den floor, so happy his chosen mate is finally letting him clean their wings without issue.

you sigh, body twitching and jerking when he licks too firmly or starts getting close to you wings joints, those are the worst spots, but also the most sensitive.

“Hey, maybe don’t get there yet, please?”

The con makes a confused hum, before moving his head over your shoulder to look at you, noting how nervous you seem to be.

“But you are having rust build up there, they need to be cleaned.”

“I know, I know! But…I just…hnn.” your wings droop, looking up at him with a pleading gaze, but it doesn’t work on him.

“Please, My King, it’s just overwhelming, no one has touched my wings in so long, I-“

“Turn, face me.” His deep voice cuts you off, before he retracts.

You hear him transforming back into his base mode just before you turn around, now your optics meeting the imposing mech. you squeak as he grabs your waist, picking you up and placing you on his lap. your arms instinctively go around his neck, as you still have to look up at him, wondering what his plan is.

“Hold onto me, I will clean your wings this way.”

you hesitate, your optics glancing around the hoard, noting him grabbing one of the fancier looking clothes he stole from who knows where. But he waits, waits for you to get comfy, his yellow optics tracing up your body as he waits for your orders.

Small scars and scratches here at there adding to your already impressive frame, such a small mech, at least small to him, able to withstand so much, so strong, perfect for defending the nest.

you hype yourself up, knowing if your wings don’t get cleaned soon it could lead to transformation issues, or flying issues in general, but still it’s so deeply personal.

But they trust him, as rough around the edges as he is, he’s saved and protected you countless times, and is always waiting for your words and orders, only listening to you and waits for you to give him the okay.

You sigh, trying to relax before leaning against his chassis and fanning your wings out so he can reach better. Predaking purrs loudly, nuzzling his helm into the top of yours as he gets to work.

He’s happy now to have stashed polishes and cleaners from that one flashy red bot, who knew it would come in handy? you tenses feeling his touch, feeling the damp cloth touch your wing joint as he rubs it in slow circles, applying gentle pressure to get anymore dirt and grim from your wings.

He doesn’t speak, letting his purrs echo in the cave to soothe his little mate, occasionally nuzzling his helm against the side of yours.

Who knew such a big brute could be so gentle? But for you, he’d burn this planet for you.

[shiny-jr]

not my world [ prologue ]

– Summary: One day you wake in a foreign world with nothing to your name except the clothes on your back. A talking cat named Grim, gives you your only lead to return home. Seek out the seven gods and pray they answer your plea.

– Warning: Yes, this series is a yandere thing, although this post really isn't. Gender-neutral reader.

– Characters: Grim.

– Note: Think of this like a test, just to see how it's received. Yes, this is based off that outlander post I made a while ago. I was thinking I could make this a long-lasting series. However, it really depends how y'all like it. There's not too much going on here, because I'm trying to set the scene and I wrote it all fairly quickly. However, it's just a small taste. So, let me know what y'all think.

– Pages: 11

“So… you’re saying that you woke up here on this beach with no explanation, but you’re from another world so you have no idea where you are? You fell asleep in your own bed, in your own home, and now you’re here, with no way to go back?” 

As far fetched as it sounded, you could only grimly nod. A dream, this should’ve just been a nightmare. But that was confirmed to be false when you pinched yourself multiple times and tried to splash yourself with the nearby ocean water. Everything felt so real, from the sand between your toes to the breeze in the air and the sunlight drying the water off the surface of your flesh. You wanted it to be nothing but a dream, especially when you found a talking cat with a forked tail and blue fire in his ears. 

This was your third attempt trying to explain things to this impish but rather harmless little furball, and each time he seemed more puzzled than the last. His little black nose twitched as he sat in front of you, his paws digging into the sand as those strange eyes of his studied you closely. His voice was grating, high-pitched, speaking with a tone of doubt. “You don’t look like you’re from any of the seven nations. No pointed ears, no beast features, not even a magestone to your name! Well, it makes sense. A nobody like you obviously wouldn’t have a magestone anyways.” 

That was probably meant to be an insult, but considering you didn’t even know what a magestone was, you didn’t really take any offense at all. Pointed ears, beast features, magestones, annoying talking cats– you really didn’t care about any of that. “Because I’m not from whatever seven nations there are. I already told you where I’m from.” 

“Yeah, well I never heard of wherever it was you said. So get lost, would you, human? I’ve claimed this beach alrea–” 

A low growl rang in the air. Swiftly you scanned your surroundings, fearful that you were about to be attacked by some mythical beast. However, when you looked back to the feline who now looked quite ashamed, you realized the noise came from his stomach. Actually, the little fellow seemed pretty scrawny, and you could just barely make out the shape of his ribs poking out of his sides. 

Standing up, you brushed off the sand clinging to the oversized t-shirt you fell asleep in. Thankfully, you at least had sandals, which was better than waking up here barefoot. With one look around, there didn’t appear to be anyone for miles, and no sign of civilization here. Leaving the cat as your only option to turn to, as jarring as it was to be speaking to a cat. “Er… Look, if you could at least help me find people, a shelter, a city, something– then I’ll see about getting you something to eat. Deal?” 

“I don’t need your help! But… I’m curious, so I’ll follow anyway.” 

“Great…” You sigh, as you decide to follow a path that leads away from the shoreline and into woodlands. At the very least, you were not completely alone. This would be much more terrifying if you had woken up and there was absolutely no one around. “So, do you have a name or are you, like, feral?” 

“I’m not feral!” It hissed as it walked in tandem beside you, keeping up with your steady pace. “Since I am so great, I will allow you to know my name. I am the all-mighty Grim! One-of-a-kind and destined to one day become strong, powerful enough to defeat even the seven gods!” 

“Seven gods…?” Was this some sort of fantasy setting? It had to be. First he mentioned pointed ears and beast-people, and you were having a conversation with a talking cat! Maybe seven gods were the least outlandish thing you’ve heard today. “Well, I’m (Y/n).” 

“You’ve never heard of The Seven? How stupid could you be?” 

You frowned at his toothy little grin as he ridiculed you for your knowledge on a place you just ended up in. “Well excuse me for not knowing anything about this place I just ended up in!” Tearing your gaze away, you saw a cabin up ahead. It appeared abandoned, so there wasn’t any hope of seeing another person yet. Still, there may be something useful inside, so you approach. 

Trying the knob, you found the lock jammed. The wood of the front door was rotting, some of it in splitters and the windows were shattered. With a few strong kicks, the door became dislodged and finally gave way beneath the pressure. 

“You’re excused– hey! Tuna!” You didn’t even bother stopping the feline when he rushed into the abandoned cabin, sprinting after the few cans of tuna he spotted on an old table. At least he would get to eat. 

You didn’t particularly care for canned fish that’s been sitting there for who knows how long. In practically a blink of the eye he had devoured three whole cans of the stuff and licked the remnants off of his whiskers. 

“Okay, okay, since I feel so bad for you, and because you found these tuna cans, I’ll be your guide. That way, I don’t owe you nothin’ after this! Maybe one day, if you’re still around, you’ll see me ascend to the ranks among the archons and you can brag like I knew him! Isn’t Grim so cool and praise worthy? I might even remember you and accept your prayers! You can thank me now.” 

At his smug expression, you squinted incredulously as he began walking down the path in the middle of the woods once more. Following hesitantly, thankful there was daylight and this seemed like a particularly nice forest, save for the very depths of it further away from the road that were dark due to the cover of leaves and branches above. However, the trees closest to you weren’t so dense, and the sunlight filtered through the thin foliage. The dirt road was wide, but slightly covered with scattered blades of grass and underbrush, as if no one had used it in a long while. Squirrel-like critters darted about in trees, strange fruits hung on low-branches, and foreign flowers sprouted alongside little ponds. 

“I’ll thank you after an explanation and a little help. So, what’s this about gods?” 

“Let’s see… I’ll put it so simple that even a baby can understand! There are seven nations, and each one has a god. These gods are super-powerful! I’m talking crazy-strong, like they can level mountains and raise the sea type of miracles!” 

As he strolled beside you, his forked-tail swished back and forth. For now it seemed like he knew where he was going, so hopefully that was a good sign. Right now, you had no idea what to do or how to get home. However, if magic existed in this realm, then surely there would be some way to get back. There had to be, for your own peace of mind. 

“Maybe if you pray to one, you’ll get an answer. But the chances of that are pretty much zero, because only idiots rely on the gods since they almost never answer. You’d have a better chance trying to actually meet one of them and try to talk to them in person, but good luck with that!” 

As the road neared a cliff, you caught a glimpse of the scenery. It was a kingdom, a whole city that began right at the edge of a vast meadow. The rolling valley ended at a river, across a wide stone bridge where the city began. Miles and miles of cobblestone roads lined with two to three-story buildings, and rising above it all was a white palace with red conical roofs that pierced the very sky. It looked fantastical, like something straight out of a peculiar little story book, especially considering how unnaturally bright the flowers were and how there was the occasional mushroom as tall as a tree. 

Never before in your entire life had you ever seen a single place like this. Some stupid naive little part of yourself had hoped that perhaps you were still in your world, but this was simply proof that tore that little shred of hope to bits. “What is this place…?” 

He paused to scratch a spot behind his ear. “That’s the capital city of Heartslabyul. You see that big palace all the way over there? That’s where the god of fire lives. One day, I’m gonna live in a place even bigger, grander, than that! My worshippers will build, brick by brick, a towering temple that reaches the very heavens! It’ll make that palace look puny in comparison!” 

Dumbfounded, you nearly get left behind in your stupor once the feline begins to walk down a rocky slope again. You follow, as Grim yammered on and on, “Fire is harsh, just like that place. Trust me, I tried staking a claim there, but I was kicked out! Can you believe it? Me! They just threw me out as if I were nothing! Anyways, I already forgot what you were looking for, but whatever it is, you’ll probably find something there––” 

“A way home?” You reminded him, a tiny bit irked that he seemed to forget so easily. For such a haughty little beast with nothing to his name, he was very conceited. 

“Ooh yeah, right. That. Gods have all this magic and wisdom from their years and stuff, so they gotta know something. But if I were a god, I wouldn’t answer you, to be honest.” 

Grumpily you point out the obvious. This cat-like creature was far from the divine that you were currently picturing. “You’re not a god.” 

Yowling in response, Grim shot back with irritation, “Yet! Not a god yet!” When he spat, a small puff of smoke and a spark of flames he tried to aim at the dirt caused his blue ear flames to flicker stronger until one stray flame popped like a hot scorching coal. It went flying directly at your face, and all you could do was react quickly enough to try and step back while your arms and hands covered your face. 

However, no pain ever came. “How are you doing that?!” 

“Doing what? And you need to watch it with––” When you began to lower your arms, you saw it. When you had shielded yourself, your knuckles had been against your cheek and so your palm was facing outward. Floating in your open palm, was that small spark that came from his ears and nearly burned you. Immediately your eyes widened, and the surprise didn’t end there. As if fluctuating with your shock, the fire became a small yet harsh monetary crackling burst that caused both you and the feline to yelp and stumble back in disbelief until your palms were normal once again. 

“You big fat liar! You do know magic! Where’s your magestone?” 

Seeing his gray fur stand on edge, you quickly answered, seemingly just as confused as he currently was. “I-I don’t, I swear! I don’t even have a wizardstone! That has never happened to me before! This, magic, stuff like that, talking cats, huge mushrooms, none of this is supposed to be real!” 

“Magestone! Not wizardstone! M-A-G-E!” 

“Same difference, what do I care?” You had to double-check your hands, wanting to trick yourself again into believing it was something that could be easily explained. Yet this didn't seem like that. This was something else entirely that didn’t make sense, it couldn't be explained. Not while you were still reeling and staring at your own two hands in utter disbelief. “What the hell was that…?” 

Sniffing the air around you, Grim paced slowly around you as his whiskers twitched with each sniff. After several rounds circling you, he plopped down in front of you and peered up at you quizzically. “I really don’t smell a magestone on you… but you used my fire! It was blue! Everyone knows you can’t use magic without one! Wait a moment… this is perfect!” Immediately brightening up, the little creature gave a toothy grin as he declared, “From now on, you will be my servant! One day when I am a god, I will make you a demi-god! Everyone knows the great gods have divine or mystic servants of some kind! So you will be my henchman! Count yourself blessed, human.” 

“What…?” For now you didn’t even want to touch anything, especially yourself. What if you just tapped something and it was set ablaze? Although you felt fine physically, you were not completely okay. Mentally your mind was scrambled with trying to comprehend everything going on and being said, and now you had the additional burden of accidentally burning everything you touched. 

“Maybe it has to do with the fact that you aren’t from here, so this world’s rules don’t even apply to you… yeah, that’s it! This is great! Does this mean you can wield other elements? We should try! If it storms tonight, we’ll stand at the highest cliff and wait for lightning to strike!” 

“Definitely not!” You screech in reply, currently trying to prevent yourself from panicking and having a destructive mental breakdown all at the same time. Keeping your arms away from your body and fingers spread apart, you tentatively try grabbing stones and sticks and blades of grass to test the ability and see if anything would be set ablaze. And yet, nothing happened, so you slowly began to relax, as much as was possible in that moment. 

Grim watched with great intrigue, hoping, wishing, to see you burn something straight with your hands. However, when he saw not a single spark or sign of smoke, he sighed, “Don’t you realize the possibilities! A small chosen few can wield magic like that, and even then, it’s only one element! This means that you might be able to do more! We’ll be legendary, beating every foe we come across!” 

“Woah, woah, woah, who said anything about beating foes?” Cutting off that idea right now before it would get out of hand. It had only been a few minutes, not even an hour, and even you could see that Grim was a handful. “I am no fighter. If I magically somehow have these weird abilities now, doesn’t mean I want to fight with them. Are you insane? The most I’ll do is like… instantly heat up my food or make a light in the dark. That’s it. Actually, that first one sounds pretty useful…” 

Angrily throwing his paws up in exasperation while falling back on some patches of grass, he groaned, “Ugh, but that’s so boringggg! Where’s your creativity? You could become a god among gods!” 

Choosing to ignore his less than enthusiastic response, you proceeded, drawing his attention back to something he recently mentioned. Awkwardly you grip your hands, twisting your wrist between your fingers, yet nothing hurts. Everything felt normal, as if you hadn’t just wielding fire a minute ago. “You said a god of fire resided over there in that city, right?” 

“Yeah, you’ll fit right in with all those hot-headed fire-breathers now that you have a bit of magic.” 

As the two of you neared the bottom of the cliff and approached a smaller section of the forest that would lead directly to the road that branched off into either a vast meadow or the gates of the kingdom, the world seemed to stop when a loud rumbling rang through the air. The birds ceased their singing songs and the squirrelish creatures paused their chittering chattering. The ground shook and in the far distance, miles and miles behind the palace where there looked to be nothing but untamed wilderness, balls of fire spewed forth from what you had thought were mountains but were actually volcanoes. Seeing the smoke pour out from the peak, you debated running right back to the beach which was in the opposite direction of the rupture in the earth. 

While initially startled, Grim quickly relaxed and began his walking again just as the sounds of nature resumed their tune. As if by some miraculous work of magic, the volcano stopped its rumbling just as quickly as it began, and the smoke receded as well. Like a pot popping on a stovetop and simmering over with water, but its vapor and contents contained by a top, that’s how rapidly it started and ended. Grim proceeded to walk in front of you to lead the way. Sensing your question before you even voiced it, he called out over his shoulder, 

“Don’t look so panicked, we’re not gonna die. That happens like once a week. It used to be more sparse but… well, like I said, all the humans in the kingdom are a buncha hotheads. Especially their king! Everyone knows the god of pyro has the worst temper of all the seven, that’s why the volcanoes go off when he’s all angry! All you gotta do is gather up the courage to ask him what you want to know, and pray that he doesn’t incinerate you where you stand.”

[moonstruckme]

Hi love, can you write a james x reader fic where james is having a bad day or smtg and went to the shower and reader follows him afterwards knowing that he needed the comfort. Just two person showering together, intimate, innocent and fluff.

Thanks for requesting!

cw: non-sexual nudity

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 659 words

Steam rushes to warm you as you pull the curtain aside, stepping into the tub behind your boyfriend. 

“Angel?” he turns around, suds already in his hair and creeping down his neck to his shoulders. He always uses too much shampoo; if it weren’t the least expensive thing in your shower, you’d give him a harder time for it. “You shouldn’t get your hair wet, you just washed it yesterday.” 

“I don’t care,” you say, though you do a bit. Just not nearly as much as you care about him.

You wrap your arms around his slippery shoulders, giving him the hug he’d rushed on his way in the door. James is good at comforting people. He’s had plenty of practice at it over his life, but not much practice being comforted. He doesn’t know how to ask for help when he’s upset. You suspect he secretly thinks that support is something he’s predestined to give but not receive. 

His hands settle on the small of your back automatically and he places his chin atop your head. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

You hum. “It was enough to make you sad.” Water runs in rivulets from his head to yours and drips off your chin. “That’s not nothing.” 

James doesn’t reply, but you can feel his ribs expand and contract in a big breath. The dull ache that had begun forming in your chest when he’d walked the door throbs in protest. 

“Want me to wash your hair?” you ask him.

There’s a brief pause, and then you can hear the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “You gonna need me to sit down for that?” 

You shy. “You don’t have to—” 

“No.” He backs up, squeezing your upper arms fondly. “That sounds nice, sweetheart, thank you.” He moves just out of the spray and folds his legs under him, a surety about his movements—even on the slippery bottom of the tub—that you envy.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you tease. “Let me know if I catch a tangle or anything, okay?” 

“Mhm.” He closes his eyes as you tunnel your fingers into his hair, one big hand reaching back to the closest thing he can reach—your foot. If he weren’t having a hard day, you’d have to shriek and shake him off, but for now you try to take it as the affectionate gesture he intends. 

You start at the nape of his neck, fanning out your fingers and pressing the tips gently into his scalp. James’ hair is deceptively soft, not fluffy but velvety, each strand thick and smooth under your touch. He’s had it cut recently, so even weighted down with the water and shampoo it curls just above his ears. You scratch your nails lightly over his scalp, and James sighs, leaning into your touch. 

“Really giving me the princess treatment, huh?” 

“You’d make a great princess,” you say, bending over him to press a light kiss between his brows. 

His eyes open, water clumping his lashes, and he smiles at you. That ache in your chest retreats slightly, warmth filling in the gaps. “M’not complaining.” 

You return his smile, though perhaps yours is a bit smaller. “Want to talk about it?” you ask lightly, your shampoo-slick hands migrating south to massage his neck and shoulders. 

James groans, rolling his big shoulders and closing his eyes again. “Not really. This is so much better.”

You grin even though he can’t see, working your thumbs into the twin muscles on either side of his neck. Bubbles spread across his tawny skin and run down his back in clusters, disappearing down the drain.

“Okay,” you promise him. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I put some of the good hot chocolate to simmer on the stove just in case.” 

This time his smile comes like a slow sunrise, spreading across his face golden and beautiful. “Angel, you’ve read my mind.”

[augiewrites]

“care package” - harvey

summary: the farmer drops off a care package for harvey

pairing: stardew harvey x farmer

word count: 855

The light smell of antiseptic enveloped the farmer in a gentle embrace as they pushed through the clinic door. Before moving to the valley, that smell would have made their stomach drop and their heart jump up a tempo. Now, their pulse still sped up, but it surely wasn’t out of fear.

Maru wasn’t the person they were hoping to see smiling at them behind the counter, but the girl was a welcome sight nonetheless.

“Good morning!” Maru gently closed the manila folder in her hands. “What brings you here?”

The farmer lifted the wicker basket hanging in their grasp, “Care package for the doc. Is he in?”

”He’s in his office—you can go on back,” Maru smiled and raised a knowing brow, “you know the way, right?”

”I’ll let you know if I get lost.” The farmer grinned at the girl as they shouldered the swinging door open.

Approaching the back of the clinic, the farmer smelled the coffee brewing before they heard the steady drip of the machine.

”You know it tastes a lot better when you brew it yourself, right?”

Harvey’s gaze turned toward the doorway, and the doctor sat up a bit more straight when he saw who was standing there.

”Hm, well, the machines are taking over, as you know.” Harvey pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he took in the farmer. “How’s your side? Is everything healing okay since we took out your stitches?”

The farmer sat the basket on Harvey’s desk, excitement lighting up their features as they lifted up their shirt, exposing the right side of their abdomen. “Oh, it’s fine. I considered those scar patches you told me about, but I think it looks kind of cool, no?”

Harvey examined the jagged pink scar running from just under their rib cage toward their hip bone. A light pink dusted his cheeks.

”Well, it looks as ‘cool’ as any scar can, I suppose.” Harvey’s mustache twitched in a smile for a split second before he cleared his throat and turned serious.

”You’re very lucky. Any deeper and that cut could have—“

”But it wasn’t.” The farmer dropped the hem of their shirt and busied themselves unfolding the cloth laying on top of the basket. “It was shallow, and I had the best in the valley here to patch me up.”

”We call that survivorship bias in my field.” The blush dusting his cheeks turned crimson at the compliment. “You really need to be more careful.”

The farmer smiled at his concern. “I know,” they spoke softly, “thirty days with no incident—a personal record.”

Harvey’s brow furrowed. “Your accident was well over thirty days ago.”

”Anyway, I brought you a few new products I’m trying out at the farm for you to try.

Harvey knew better than to push, so he turned his attention to the basket.

”Cranberry wine,” the farmer began, holding the green bottle out like a trophy, “I kept the blueberry for myself since you don’t like it as much. Hmm…let’s see. Oh! I’ve got pickled bok choy—I tried a new method this time—truffle oil, some roasted coffee beans, and I also threw in my old French press because you have got to stop relying on that thing.” The farmer gave the old coffee pot a look of distaste.

Harvey felt overwhelmed by just how much thought the farmer put into their gift, and he felt his admiration for them swell.

“I’m going to need the basket back, though. Hot commodity…” The farmer trailed off, finally looking up from said basket only to find Harvey already looking at them.

A wave of insecurity washed over them and they cleared their throat, darting their eyes down to the floor and back to the doctor’s.

Harvey snapped out of the trance he was in. “Th-thank you. You are far too kind.”

”Well, you did save my ass,” the farmer scratched the back of their neck, “I kind of owe you.”

”Oh, never.”

The farmer smiled at him. “It’s the least I could do, anyway.”

”It’s wonderful. Thank you, sincerely.”

Harvey and the farmer held each other in their glance, their eyes betraying a million words left unsaid.

The farmer parted their lips to speak, but was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom letting Harvey know his next patient had arrived.

”I’ll let you get back to it, then.” The farmer smiled nervously. “Sorry for interrupting your work, Harv.”

Harvey returned the smile, standing from his desk. “You could never.”

The two stood, neither moving toward the door.

”Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?” Harvey wondered who asked the question for a moment before realizing that the words came from him.

“I would love that.”

”It’s a….date, then.”

”It’s a date.” The farmer confirmed softly.

The pair moved toward the door, the farmer giving him a small smile and a wave before leaving the clinic.

The sun warmed their already burning cheeks as they headed for the dusty road back to their farm.

I guess a trip to the doctor doesn’t always have to be bad, they thought.

[itsmerelliwellie]

You Think Too Loud | S. Asakura x Reader

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For this pretty over here

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12.) "If you’re gonna patch me up like that, I should at least get a warning before you get THAT close.”

Prompts

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Warning(s): Nothing much

Important Warning: Not... yeah... keep reading

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There’s blood on your hands. Most of it was his.

Shin sits stiffly on the edge of your bed, shirt off, ribs bandaged in a rush job from your go-bag. Now, under soft lighting, you’re gently undoing that temporary wrap to redo it properly—with care this time. With intent.

And he doesn’t know where to put his hands. Or his eyes. Or his brain, because it’s currently betraying him with every single breath you take.

He hears it again. That thought.

Please be okay. I hate seeing you like this. You scared me, you absolute idiot.

He swallows hard.

You don’t say it out loud. You never do. But Shin hears it—echoing in your mind like it was shouted.

You dab antiseptic along the cut, your fingers brushing skin that’s still warm from exertion. You don’t notice the way he flinches—not from pain, but from proximity.

His mind is trying to be calm. Logical. Professional.

But your mind is saying;

He never flinches. Not when he’s shot at. Not when he's bleeding. But now he’s shaking, and it’s just me and my hands and this silence and—I want to kiss him but I won’t, I swear I won’t—

“Stop thinking that,” he says, voice rough.

You pause, eyes flicking up. “Thinking what?”

Shin flushes. “…Nothing.”

He can’t say it. He can’t say it, because then you’ll know he’s been listening. Not just tonight. Not just now. Always.

You smile faintly, but there’s a shadow of worry behind it. “I didn’t say anything, y’know.”

“You don’t need to.” He tries to sound annoyed. He ends up sounding breathless.

Your hands press the fresh bandage to his skin, wrapping it around slowly, carefully. Each pass grazes your fingers over the toned line of his torso, and Shin’s whole body goes rigid.

You’re so close.

So warm.

So devastatingly kind.

The little thoughts leaking out of you make his head spin:

I shouldn’t want this. He’s hurt. He needs rest. But he’s so beautiful, and I’m right here, and I love him so much I think it’s going to kill me.

“If you’re gonna patch me up like that,” Shin mumbles, barely audible, “I should at least get a warning before you get that close.”

You blink, looking up at him with a confused smile. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Shin stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“No! I just—” he scrambles, rubbing the back of his neck, face on fire. “I’m not used to… this.”

Your smile softens. You finish the bandage, tucking the end neatly. “This?”

“Being taken care of like I matter.”

The words leave him before he can stop them. Your mind goes quiet. He panics.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

You lean forward before he can finish. Close. Too close. Your hand finds his cheek, your thumb brushing just under his eye.

“You do matter,” you whisper, and Shin feels it. Not just through your voice, but through the storm of affection roaring through your thoughts.

You matter so much to me. You always have. Even before I understood why. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met and it kills me that you never see it.

Shin sucks in a sharp breath.

"I—stop,” he says suddenly, grabbing your wrist.

Your eyes widen. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he breathes. “You didn’t. You’re just—saying too much without saying it.”

You tilt your head, unsure of what he’s saying.

“Your thoughts,” he mutters, closing his eyes. “They’re so loud. So real. I don’t know how to… handle that.”

You don’t move. Your hand stays cupped around his jaw, fingers warm and steady.

“Is it bad?” you ask, voice quiet.

“No,” Shin says. “It’s everything I want.”

Your heart stutters, he can hear it.

You lean in closer. He’s trembling now—not from pain, not from exhaustion—but from every unspoken word you’ve never let yourself say out loud.

“I think about kissing you all the time,” you admit. “But I was scared it would ruin something.”

“It wouldn’t,” he says. “It wouldn’t ruin anything.”

You press your forehead to his, so soft, so slow, and Shin hears it again.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

His hands, finally brave, come up to hold your waist.

“Please,” he whispers, desperate to actually hear it. “Say it out loud.”

You do.

“I love you.”

Shin exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the day he met you. He kisses you.

It’s shy at first—soft lips, awkward angles, a little too desperate—but when you breathe his name against his mouth, everything changes.

He deepens the kiss, fingers curling into your shirt like he’ll fall without you. And the thoughts spilling from your head are an overwhelming flood of warmth and need.

Stay here. Don’t disappear. You feel like home. I want to touch you until you stop flinching from kindness.

You don’t realize you’re in his lap until he shifts, groaning quietly. “Too much?”

He shakes his head, dazed. “Not enough.”

You grin, and he feels how happy that makes you.

You kiss again. Longer, slower. Your hands trail down his chest, fingertips memorizing every scar, every muscle. He shudders under your touch.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs.

“So are you,” you say, smiling. “Under all that broody sarcasm.”

He rolls his eyes, but you can feel it. His whole mind radiates affection.

I want to stay like this. I want to give them everything. I want to protect this—for once, I want something to last.

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth. His jaw. His throat. He tilts his head, exposing more of himself, so willingly it nearly breaks your heart.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper.

“You already are,” he replies. “Even when I don’t know how to let you.”

You guide him down to lie back gently, crawling beside him, arms wrapped around his chest. He buries his face in your shoulder.

There’s no chaos or fear here. Just two people tangled up in each other, emotionally naked and finally safe.

And through it all, Shin hears it—over and over again.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

He closes his eyes, breath catching in his throat, and finally thinks it back.

I love you too.

---

A/N: Owki...

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[d3cay1ngst4tic]

— snarling won’t make you grow fangs.

contents. satoru gojo x gn!reader. dark themes. ANGST ANGST ANGST. grotesque imagery. satoru being emotionally constipated yes. mentions of blood. some implications of yandere!toru.

★ jiah’s notes. ah yes its toru’s need and me against the world. c: (someone sedate me.)

“baby,” satoru calls out.

you don’t listen.

or at least, you try not to— the word reaches your ears but you simply shut it back down, snarling at it to just go away and leave you alone.

(it’s still faint enough to slither in through the cracked edges of your bones, so you hear it anyway.)

“i can’t do this,” you rasp. eyes wide, knees shaky. oh, satoru’s heart stutters in his chest. what a beauty you are, aren’t you? like a deer caught in the headlights of his eyes. rendered so painfully speechless that your heartbeat’s reduced to a mere, panicked whisper. so naïve.

(it’s okay. he knows best. he always does.)

“but you can,” he croons, and a hand reaches out to cradle your face; so warm and large against your cheeks. “of course you can, my baby.”

(like red hot needles pricking into the ice of your skin. you want to scream.)

“d—don’t—”

“why?” satoru cuts you off, his soft voice now cutting through your tendons like a rusty knife. so, so marred from love that he all but licks off the blood from the sharp blade, not caring— never caring that it sticks a finger into an open wound of his.

“why?” you take a small step back, and satoru takes one forward, “i love you, don’t i? i—i care for you. i love you.”

(of course he loves you.

why can’t you see?)

“satoru, please,” you’re acutely aware of the way your voice cracks, but satoru beats you to it again— snatching the broken pieces from your hands before you could blemish your precious skin.

“no, i won’t. i—i won’t. i love you. i lo—”

satoru thinks that he’s saving you.

from yourself? from himself? both of you aren’t sure.

(but i’m saving you, his ribs creak.)

“i love you,” thunderous eyes stare at you again and you feel like you might be sick from how loud they are. seeping, no, invading your skin like some sort of parasite— forcing its way inside to devour any semblance of ground, any semblance of control. “i love you, dammit. it’s okay. it’s—”

(it’s okay, the little voices in the tendrils beneath your eyes say, it’s okay, he loves you. don’t you see?)

but you don’t want to.

you don’t want to see how much he loves you. you don’t want the frightened shiver in his shoulders every time you turn your back to him to do something, you don’t want the nudge of his nose in your nape the moment you try to sleep.

you don’t want this— this rusty knife with both your blood and his, too anxious, too terrified by the aspect of losing you to something that hasn’t happened yet, something that you’re not sure if it exists or not.

(satoru wraps a pretty ribbon you like ’round your neck with trembling hands and calls it love.)

“it’s not okay,” you cry out, tears lacing your eyes like forbidden crystals, “it’s not okay, satoru.”

satoru pauses.

(and suddenly, he’s a lost boy again, too godlike to be human and too human to be god.)

an unloved child, who thinks all he’s good for is need. need that settles into bruises over his heart and gives them purpose, need that stings the scars on his skin and makes him feel worthy.

need, need, need.

(oh, what is satoru gojo without need?)

“but i love you,” he says again, and you only barely register how. . . small he sounds. clinging to the same words with sweaty hands, using them again and again and again until he’s got the toy which he so desperately wants.

“i—. . . love you,” satoru swallows.

(a broken record of need on his tongue.)

he wipes away the blood on your face which his fingers had left, brows pinched and the thunder in his eyes so, so panicked that they’ve broken something too fragile.

(frantic hands trying to fix broken china with bloodied fingers.)

“i love you,” his voice is but a rasp, “i— you love me, too, right? you love me too—” his knuckles brush away the decay off your cheeks, and tremble when all they do is stain your precious skin even more.

“no, no, no, no, no— hey, hey, sweetheart,” satoru swallows and you close your eyes, “look at me, please, look at me. you love me, yeah? you love me. you love m—”

clammy hands wrap around you before you fall—

— and a lost child with bloody hands and bewildered eyes cradles your face, oh so tender with the way he holds on so tight.

(what good is it, really, the love of a sheep in wolf’s clothing?)

@stxrysnow on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works.

[scar-lie]

Omega Pt. 18 (Natasha)

Summary : you're annoyed at Natasha and took some memories with your family

Pairing : Alpha ! Natasha Romanoff x Omega ! Fem Reader

Warning : Cut, bruises I think that's all

Word count : 2,132

Series Masterlist

Cherrylemontober

{OMEGA PT. 17} {OMEGA PT. 18} {OEMGA T. 19}

NO one has permission to repost my work anywhere, if you see it please let me know.

“Does it still hurt? "You gently sat besides her while she's busy tending to her wounds. You felt bad when she was quickly sent out for a mission when she got home; her bruises and her ribs weren't fully healed when she was called out for a day mission, and now there's cuts added to her already beaten body.

Of course she talked to you first before she was sent off, reassuring you and making sure that you're fine before she leaves again.

“Not much, but it still stings a bit.” It's been 2 days since she came home from the mission, and it hurts you every time you see her cleaning her wounds that Natasha tries to avoid showing you her bruises and wounds.

“Let me help you.” You took cotton balls and rubbed alcohol to clean the area of the wound on her right waist.

“I can do it, you know.” Natasha didn't stop you but watched you closely, but you shook your head determined to help her.

“I know, but I still wanna help you,” Natasha winces when you dab the cotton with rubbing alcohol on her wound.

"Sorry,” you whisper, but still continue with her hissing at the pain of the alcohol. Once you're sure that the area of her wound is properly clean, you dab a Povidone-iodine with a cotton ball on her wound. After that, you patch her up, moving to the next wound, and do the same until she's all done.

“Thank you,” she whispers, putting on a shirt. She groans when she stretches her limbs, but a sudden frustration gets into you, making you roll your eyes at her.

“What? "Natasha asked, catching your sudden change of mood and turning to face you.

“Tell me,” she whispers, taking your hand and giving you a small smile.

“Nothing, I’m just annoyed,” she said, moving forward, sitting in front of you, and looking you in the eyes.

“Why are you annoyed? ”You close your eyes and look away, thus making Natasha chuckle at how cute you are.

“Don't look at me like that; I can't stay annoyed at you.” You cover your face with your hand.

“Then look at my face, love; I don't want you to be annoyed at me.” She slowly peels off your hands, and you pout at her with a frown.

“Tell me, why are you annoyed? ”You sigh and move to her lap, resting your head on her shoulder, and Natasha quickly wraps her arms around you.

“Cause you're reckless, you always come home with injuries—not just some injuries but serious injuries,” you whisper, scolding her, and she runs her hands through your hair.

“I’m sorry, I promise, I’ll be more careful next time,” you sigh in relief, closing your eyes and turning your head so you're smelling her scent.

“Guess who will be going to the carnival? "She whispered, and you frowned, leaning back to look at her.

“Who? "She gives you a peck and squeezes your hips.

"Us,” she smirks, but you frown, not loving the idea.

“But you're injured; we can't walk around the carnival in your state, plus who will be looking for the pups? ”You start to play with her baby hair at the back of her neck; that gives Natasha some comfort.

“Don't worry, I’m good to walk around and do some activities; Helen approved, plus the team will be with us; they offer to look after them.” You're still not convinced, so she keeps stealing a kiss until you're chuckling.

“Stop, ok, ok, but still you need to take breaks once in a while, ok? "She salutes you, and you roll your eyes at her.

“Yes, whatever my love said and commanded,” you smile and peck her.

“Ok then, jno extreme rides, even the bumper car, you also need to sit at least 10-20 minutes." Natasha quickly makes a sour face, but you ignore it and keep looking at her.

"Ok, that's fair,” she mumbles with a pout, and you smirk at her when you remember one thing you need to forbid her.

“And no haunted house,” her eyes quickly went wide and looked at you.

“No haunted house? "You hum while nodding, but she still can't believe it.

“No haunted house for you! "You bump her nose with your pointer fingers, and she sighs in disbelief.

“But that's the best part and the only thing that makes me occupied since I’m not allowed in any rides except the carousel and ferris wheel,” she whines, but you shake your head.

"Then we were not going to the carnival.” You stand up and turn to walk away, but before you could turn around, she took your hips and made you stay.

“No, fine, fine, fine, I’ll do it,” she sighs in defeat, and you kiss her cheek.

“Thank you,” you softly whisper, and she smiles quickly, hugging you and resting her head on your stomach. You smile and comb her hair with your fingers.

“Anything for you, my love, anything,” she whispers. You smile, then look down at her.

You've never expected she'll be like this or your life will be like this, but all you know is that this is one step forward for the life you wanted for your family.

“I told you to get it easy! "You scold her and help her sit down on the bench, Wanda and Vision following behind you two, strolling the stroller, single stroller with Wanda and double stroller with Vis.

“You shouldn't push your body; Nat, Dr. Cho, give you permission, but still, your body isn't fully healed.” Wanda follows, then gives you a bottle of water, and you hand it to Natasha.

“No internal injuries nor stitches being ripped, just elevated breathing.” Natasha rolls her eyes on the two, and you glare at her, making her look down while calming her down.

She's been walking around for hours, trying rides when she gets the chance—when you're with pups, in the bathroom, or just her making excuse to go somewhere while you rest your feet—and as a result, her body was hurting, especially her wounds.

She hates to admit it, but she regrets not taking your words, and now you’re annoyed at her, and instead of you two having fun, your here scolding and glaring at her.

“I shouldn't have said yes earlier; you think I wouldn't know about you sneaking on rides.” You scold her while dumping the towel a little harsh to try off her sweat, then give her a painkiller that Dr. Cho prescribes.

Now Natasha is like a lost puppy, sitting besides you, head low, hands on her lap while she plays with her fingers and staying quiet, not wanting to add fuel to the fire she makes.

“I’m sorry, they are tempting,” she mumbles, for only you can hear, and you sigh.

“Were good here, Wands, Vis? Thank you, though. We'll have the pups later, for now you can go have fun,” you said to them with a smile, and they nodded at you.

“You sure, we wouldn't mind if we stayed here a little bit.” You shake your head and kiss the pup's forehead.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” With that, they bid their farewell, and once they are out of sight, you turn to Natasha.

“Stay here,” she nodded. You took your bag and went to the food stall to buy some food and brink for the both of you.

Once you get your order—burger, fries, two slices of pizza, and soda with a bottle of water—you get your tray with food to the table Natasha was sitting in.

“Here, eat it all.” You put her food in front of her, and you sat beside her and started eating your food.

“Eat now, Natasha, so you have strength,” you said when she's not touching her food and keeps looking at you.

“I’m sorry.” You look at her and sigh, then lean in, cupping her face and kissing her lips.

“It's ok, I understand, but I would appreciate it if you listen to me next time.” Natasha quickly peppers you with kisses, and you giggle.

“I promise,” she then lands the kiss on your lips with a smile.

“Now eat your food, so we can stroll around with the pups and get some pictures,” Natasha smiles, loving the idea of a family picture.

“I love that idea,” Natasha mumbles, and you smile, seeing the sparkle in her eyes that you've never seen before.

“So eat your food and rest your legs so we can walk around.” Natasha quickly finishes her food, too excited to take photos with her family, especially with her daughter.

“That's fast,” you comment, finishing your burger, then sliding your pizza and half fries to her.

“I’m full; I can't eat that anymore,” Natasha says, clicking her tongue five times, then looking at the food you push towards her.

“You shouldn't have ordered a lot if you can't finish your food; it's bad to waste food.” You pout at her, but she still took the food, but she sends you a knowing glare.

“I’ll eat this, but next time, get the only thing you can finish, ok? "You nodded while drinking your soda with a straw.

“I understand,” then you reach her face and kiss her lips with a smile.

Natasha sighed, then took a napkin, then started to wipe your face and mouth. You have some crumble around your lips with some sauce, then you have sweat on your forehead.

Once Natasha finished your food, you two quickly go around looking for Wanda, and you found them on the carousel. Wanda and Vis had the two boys, and Yelena has Natasha's princess. Then Kate and Peter are the ones in charge of guarding the strollers.

“This is a good spot to take a picture,” you point to the left of the carousel. Natasha quickly holds your hand and goes to Kate, knowing the ride will end soon.

“Kate, Peter, could you take us some photos over there?"Natasha asked, pointing to the camera on Peter's neck.

"Yeah, sure, Ma'am,” Natasha drags you to the spot, and she positions herself behind you.

“We will be having a family photo after their ride too.” You inform Peter, and he gives you two thumbs up.

“In count to three,” Peter informs, then Natasha quickly puts her arm around your neck, tilting her head to the left, then you hold to her arm and smile.

“1...2...” Peter counted, and Natasha smiled, putting her lips to your ear.

“I love you, my love,” she whispers to you, and your body quickly reacts, looking at her with a smile and adoration in your eyes, and that's when Peter presses the shutter, taking a complete, perfect picture.

“That's gorgeous.” Peter jumps with excitement when he sees how good and how you could feel the love in the photo he took.

Your eyes widen and you blush at the compliment Peter gives you, and when you look at him, he's showing Kate the photo, so you hide your face with your face.

“Don't be shy; you're really gorgeous, honey. One more picture, what do you say? "You look up at her and nod.

“But please, I want a decent one; just stand beside me; no more cheesy comment,” she chuckled and nodded at you.

"Ok, ok... Peter, could you do one more? "Peter smiled and nodded.

“Yes, whenever you're ready,” you wrap your arm around her left arm while she holds your other hand and leans in, smiling, then resting your head on her.

“That's sweet,” Katae awes; that's when the three with a pup come smiling.

“There they are,” you smile, taking one, then Natasha took the two boys.

“Come on, Peter, another one.” Peter quickly gets into position while the three pups are giggling, and he quickly snaps a photo once you two are ready.

“Is it good? "You ask, and he quickly opens the photo and goes to you.

"Yes, it is,” he shows you two, and you're mesmerized at the photo.

After many photos, the team decided that it's best to go home when the clock hits 7 p.m. They want the pups to rest peacefully, plus they are exhausted from all the rides, games, and walking. Of course every member has a picture memory; you all even took a photo in front of the carnival.

So here you are at the passenger seat, fast asleep while the pups are sleeping too in their carseat at the back, and Natasha is smiling, looking at the back, and to you, her hand is resting on your thigh, squeezing it.

She can't get rid of her smile no matter what; she just loves this day and is happy that the four of you are here.

[octuscle]

Hotel room: filthy chav tf

It was an imposition. An absolute imposition. Having to spend the night in a youth hostel was unbelievable. But in a triple room? Without your own bathroom? Using a communal shower room? That had to be a joke. Yes, his company had to cut costs. There was a new travel policy that banned five-star hotels and business class flights. All well and good. But a youth hostel?!?!?!?!! He called the travel agency and insulted his colleague in the worst possible way. She just replied dryly that everything else was fully booked because of the trade fair and that she had even written Alexander an e-mail asking if the booking was okay. And he had replied with a curt "yes". Unfortunately, there was nothing more she could do, he was still on the waiting list for two hotels. But if there was no answer by now…

Alexander moved into his room. It smelled like a lad's changing room in a community school on a council estate. Of course, he had no idea what it smelled like. But that's how he imagined the stench. Without greeting or acknowledging the teenager lying on the bed playing with his cell phone, Alexander went to the window and pulled it open. "Oi, did someone crap in yer head, mate? Shut that window, innit?" the chav yelled at him. "I don't understand a word you're saying," Alexander replied and began to unpack his suitcase. I don't know how the chav could live like this, he thought to himself. He needed order. He then changed into his bedding, which he saw as a further humiliation, and lay down on the bed. The chav was listening to music so loud that Alexander could clearly hear the bass. He found it more than annoying. But he tried to ignore it. He put on his headset and called his fiancée. Alexander assumed that the chav lying in the bed above him couldn't hear anything, as loud as he was listening to music. So he complained without a care in the world and blasphemed about the young man with the disturbed relationship to personal hygiene and the impossible haircut. "Honey, I have to stop, I have to get out of here and have lunch somewhere civilized." Alexander ended his phone call. He looked up. And he was looking at a dirty white sock.

"Oi, I'm Callum, but me mates call me Cal. So you call me Callum. Did ya just say my smell's botherin' ya? I thought posh gits like you love the scent of real man's feet." Alexander almost threw up. Without saying anything, he jumped up, grabbed his coat and left the room. He had a lunch date with an old school friend at a trendy steak restaurant. It was supposed to distract him and save the evening as much as possible. As he stood in the subway, he wondered what the devil had possessed him not to take a cab. It smelled almost as bad here as in his hotel room. Suddenly he realized that the smell was coming from his armpits. Damn, had he forgotten the deodorant this morning? The journey seemed like an eternity. People wrinkled their noses. My God, that was embarrassing. In the restaurant, he went to the toilet first, wet a towel, took off his shirt and jacket and wiped his armpits. In the stress, he didn't even notice that instead of a white microfiber undershirt with a V-neck, he was wearing a worn-out, yellowed fine rib undershirt. The waiter eyed him a little disparagingly as he brought him to his table. His friend was already sitting there and stood up to greet him. Alexander gave him a fist bump. His friend looked irritated and returned the greeting. "My best man, what kind of ghetto attitudes are these? At least it goes with your casual footwear." Alexander looked at the floor. He was wearing rather expensive-looking sneakers. And white socks. He stammered something about a suitcase that had gone missing and that he'd been a bit stressed. His friend grinned a little disparagingly and poured Alexander a glass of red wine.

The conversation was somehow wooden. Marcus told stories from their school days. But Alexander couldn't remember any of them. The wine was quite tasty, the steak was too rare for him, but he didn't dare complain. With lots of ketchup, it was fine. When the waiter asked if he should pour more wine, Alexander replied with his mouth full "Oi mate, gimme a big beer, yeah? And some mayo with them chips." The rest of the meal passed in silence. All you could hear was Alexander smacking his lips. And after he had finished, a loud and passionate burp. Marcus looked horrified at first. Then he laughed uproariously and burped at least as loudly. "Blimey, mate! That was a good one. Now off for a fag and a fart outside?" "You can proper bet on it, mate. Got a spare cig for us?".

Marcus and Alexander had to put their last few pounds together to pay. The waiter looked disgustedly at the stale bills. "You got a problem, mate? Our money not good enough for ya? What's it gonna take for a blowie, eh? Would ya prefer that?" Alexander could barely stop Marcus from starting a fight with the waiter. He waved for security. A few minutes later, the two chavs were thrown out the back exit.

The evening was still young. Alex called Cal to see if he would like to have a beer in the pub at the youth hostel and watch the game. Cal replied that he had just taken a punter up to the room and had to fuck him first. Blimey, Cal was always lucky. Mack suggested he stand by the mess hall exit. Maybe you could pick up a customer there too. Alex looked in his wallet. He was broke again. He could do with a few pounds. They had at least managed to scrounge two fags from a passer-by. The evening was off to a good start. And at some point it would end with a hot threesome in their room.

Pics found @maennersneakersockenfuesseskins and @belgiquecuir

[bnny0rgnz]

The Catalyst Effect

The ride back home was silent. Not the kind of silence that brings peace, but the kind that sits heavy in your chest—suffocating and sharp. It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t restful. It wasn’t even numbing. It was painful. It was maddening. You felt like you were unraveling. You wanted to throw up and cry, to curl into yourself until the world disappeared. Instead, you stared out the window, watching the trees blur past. They were quiet, yes, but there was peace in their stillness—unlike the stormy atmosphere inside the car.

The gravel beneath the tires didn’t complain. It didn’t crack. It just endured—resilient. Unlike you, who felt like one wrong word could shatter you into pieces. The wind outside, swift and invisible, moved with grace. Unlike your heart, which thrashed chaotically against your ribs. You wanted to cry. You wanted to disappear again—just like in the beginning. And now, for the first time in a long time, you were asking why. Why did he suddenly start caring? Why did they all start caring? What made them finally look your way? What piqued their interest after all this time?

The ride felt endless, longer than the one to the lake house. You began to wonder if Bruce was driving slower on purpose—maybe he wanted to talk but didn’t know how. You couldn’t blame him. You could barely swallow around the lump in your throat. You wanted to apologize, to say something, anything, to ease the tension, but every time your gaze flicked to him, fear gripped you. What if he said something worse? So you turned back to the window, choosing silence over pain.

When you finally pulled up to the manor, the weight on your chest lifted—just slightly. At least here, you could breathe again. Alfred stood at the top of the steps, a folded dish towel in hand and concern etched across his face. He didn’t need to ask to know the trip had gone poorly. The silence and distance between you and Bruce spoke volumes. He sighed, gently shaking his head, and moved to grab your bags. You muttered a thank you and disappeared into the greenhouse, needing space, needing air. Alfred, ever the watchful guardian, took the opportunity to speak to Bruce.

“Master Bruce, I take it the trip didn’t go as hoped?” he asked politely, pouring him a cup of tea.

Bruce dragged a hand through his hair, his face weary, his voice low. “It was going well... and then I ruined it.”

“What happened?” Alfred asked, his tone calm but filled with concern.

“I opened my mouth. I praised the others. I talked about how proud I was of the Robins and Gotham and everything but her. I saw her face, Alfred. She was devastated. And she had every right to be.” He took a deep breath, his voice catching. “I got her to laugh a few times. She started opening up to me, trusting me... and then I wrecked it. We fought. I said things I shouldn't have. I told her Gotham needed me. And she—”

He stopped, choking back emotion. “She said she needed me too. And I didn’t know what to say. I’ve been so blind, Alfred. I’ve ignored her for years. I know I’m not perfect—she didn’t even ask me to be. She just wanted me to be good. And I haven’t even managed that.”

Bruce’s hands curled into fists. “It kills me that I don’t know her, not really. I know the others pretty well. I know their habits, their fears, their strengths. But her? She’s my own daughter and I’ve kept her at arm’s length for so long, I don’t even know where to begin.”

Alfred stood tall, the disappointment in his voice gentle but firm. “It’s good that you’re realizing this now. But it’s taken you nine years and seven days to see what’s been in front of you the whole time. And you chose last week to try to make it right—and then failed her again. You’ve spent so long talking about your sons and the girls that you don’t realize how much that comparison hurts her. You made weapons out of children who had nothing left, and in doing so, you pushed away a child who only wanted her father’s love after losing her mother.”

Bruce didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“If you truly want to fix this,” Alfred continued, “you’ll set boundaries but give her freedom. Show her you care by letting her live. Take her places she’s never been. Introduce her to your world, so she’ll feel safe enough to show you hers. Be better. Not just for her sake, but for yours.”

Group Chat - 2 BADDIES, 2 BADDIES, 1 CAR (and Lucian ig)

With that, Alfred turned and left the room. His words echoed in Bruce’s mind like a promise he knew he had to keep.

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You: Hey guys! I’m off grounded now!!

Darlene: Omg, you’re back! I missed you!

You: I missed you too!

You: Did you guys do a lot of training without me?

Darlene: Nope, Lucian decided to wait until you got off grounded but I can tell he’s been regretting that decision since we haven’t been getting any action.

You: Aw man, I’m sorry. I wish I was able to train and help you guys out, I feel so bad 🙁

Darlene: Don’t worry, girl! I’m sure Lucian doesn’t mind. Right, Lucian?

Darlene: Lucian?

You: Is he alright?

Darlene: Girl… he’s PISSED! But, I’m sure it’s fine :D

The very next day, the moment your grounding lifted, you rushed out the front doors. Excited didn’t even begin to describe how you felt. You weren’t just looking forward to training again—you missed your friends, missed feeling capable, missed having control.

You: Oh.. 🙁

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Of course, there was one major catch: you had to check in with Bruce or Alfred every single hour. That meant constant photos, proof-of-life calls, and keeping your location on at all times. It was invasive. It was frustrating. And worst of all, it risked exposing the location of your training sessions—and the truth about what exactly you were preparing for.

The moment you walked into the training room, Darlene let out an excited squeal.

“Omg, my bestie is here!!!” she yelled, practically tackling you into a hug.

You laughed, squeezing her back. “Missed you too, D.”

As you pulled away, you looked toward Lucian. “Hey—”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at you.

“Hurry and get on this mat,” he said, his tone clipped. “We have a lot to work on. And by ‘we,’ I mean you.”

His hands were already wrapped, arms crossed as he glared past you. You stepped onto the mat, feeling his impatience like a storm cloud looming above.

“Can you move faster?” he snapped. “Unfortunately, time didn’t freeze while you were on vacation. I hope you kept some of that energy, because you’re going to need every drop of it.”

Lucian dropped a wooden mannequin onto the mat in front of you. “Last time, we were working on enhancing your strength. Now, I want you to take this down—completely. Break it apart. Use everything you’ve got: your strength, your instincts. But most importantly, balance them.”

“Balance them?” you asked, cautiously.

“We haven’t practiced that yet...” you added, chewing your lip.

“No. We haven’t,” Lucian replied coldly. “But you’ll figure it out. You always do. Get your stance right and take it down.”

Gotham Mall was buzzing with activity. Families, tourists, teenagers—people from all walks of life packed the sprawling shopping center. But none of them knew what was coming. None of them knew that their afternoon was about to be hijacked by a team of criminals with one thing on their minds: chaos.

His jaw clenched, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

─────────ೋღ 🌺 ღೋ─────────

You, Lucian, and Darlene slipped through the crowd like shadows, unnoticed and silent. No one expected you. No one could’ve predicted what was about to unfold.

“Lucian, are we seriously doing this?” Darlene asked with a lopsided grin, twirling a star-shaped construct between her fingers. “You know we’re not official heroes, right?”

Lucian didn’t respond, his jaw tight as his eyes scanned the mall’s upper levels. A group of armed criminals had just revealed themselves, firing into the air to scatter civilians and stir panic. They were brutal. Efficient.

You didn’t flinch.

You were ready.

“Keep your head in the game,” Lucian snapped, noting your steady posture. His voice was sharp, but his eyes held something deeper—recognition. He knew there was more to you than you let on.

Darlene stepped forward, letting her star weapon hover midair. “Showtime,” she muttered with a smirk before flicking it toward a thug. The weapon shimmered gold as it flew, then exploded with precision, knocking the man flat. But that was just one. There were dozens more, spreading out, causing destruction.

Without hesitating, you lifted your hand. The criminals turned toward you. You could see it in their eyes—the moment they realized you weren’t just some scared bystander. They raised their guns.

You were faster.

The air around you pulsed. You felt it before you saw it—something within you unlocking, shifting. You snapped your fingers, and the ground beneath the attackers trembled. Cracks formed. A heartbeat later, massive roots surged upward, thick and twisted, wrapping around the criminals’ legs like living shackles and yanking them down hard.

Screams echoed. They struggled, but the vines held strong.

Your heart pounded. Your breath came fast. You had done it—summoned the roots. But it didn’t stop there.

The ground shifted beneath your feet. More vines curled around you protectively, forming a barrier. Your fingers glowed with a soft green hue. The power within you surged, wild and new.

“Lucian!” you shouted over the chaos. “It’s happening!”

Lucian turned mid-fight, knocking a criminal unconscious with a brutal kick. His eyes flicked to your barrier. He gave a short nod, a flash of something close to pride crossing his face. “Stay focused. Power without control is a threat. Use your head.”

You nodded, forcing your breath to steady. You had to own this. Guide it.

Darlene was in her element. Star-forged spears, fans, and disks spun around her as she danced through the chaos, taking down attackers with graceful fury. “Let’s see how these guys handle a taste of Nature’s Baddest Heroes!” she called out with a wicked grin, sending a barrage of star-arms into the fray. They exploded with force, scattering debris and bodies alike.

One criminal tried to sneak up behind her, but you spotted him. “Darlene! Left!”

She pivoted just in time, throwing a glowing star that expanded midair into a crescent-shaped shield, smacking the man across the jaw and sending him flying.

“Thanks for the save!” she shouted, winking.

But the fight wasn’t over.

A gunshot cracked. Pain burned through your arm. You gasped, stumbling slightly, but you didn’t go down. Clenching your fist, you channeled a wave of energy through the ground. It surged outward in a ripple, sending a cluster of enemies flying like rag dolls.

“Don’t stop,” you muttered to yourself. “You can do this.”

More attackers were closing in. You twisted your hand, and the roots answered, lashing out in defense. One wrapped around a criminal’s torso, slamming him into a pillar.

Meanwhile, Darlene conjured a pair of twin daggers made of cosmic light and leapt into the air, spinning with deadly elegance. The blades cut through enemy after enemy, her expression fierce and focused. Her combat style was unpredictable, fluid—a starstorm of power and precision.

Eventually, the last of the criminals fell.

Silence fell over the wrecked mall. Civilians slowly peeked out from hiding, eyes wide with fear and awe.

You stood among the wreckage, your breathing heavy, hands still glowing faintly. The power buzzed in your veins like static. You weren’t sure what you’d unlocked... but you knew it was only the beginning.

Lucian approached, brushing dust from his sleeve, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re changing,” he said evenly. “That wasn’t just instinct. That was evolution.”

You nodded slowly. “It didn’t feel like me. But at the same time… it did.”

He gave a curt nod. “You’re strong. But strength unchecked becomes a liability. Train harder.”

Before you could respond, the whine of sirens echoed outside.

“Great. Here come the fanboys,” Darlene muttered, rolling her eyes as news vans skidded to a stop outside the shattered mall doors.

A cameraman and a reporter rushed inside, breathless and eager. “Who are you?” the reporter asked, holding the mic toward you. “The city wants to know who saved them today.”

You straightened your posture. The camera didn’t scare you. You’d spent years performing under bright lights, smiling through interviews and competitions. This was just another stage.

Before you could answer, Darlene leaned forward with a cheeky grin. “We’re Nature’s Baddest Heroes, obviously!”

Lucian sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re not here for attention,” he muttered. “We fight for justice, not applause.”

The cameras didn’t care. Flash after flash. Question after question.

You gave a few clipped answers—enough to satisfy but not reveal too much. Still, deep down, something told you this wasn’t just a one-time thing.

This was the spark.

A month later. . .

And Gotham had just seen its first blaze.

─────────ೋღ 🌺 ღೋ─────────

The moon hung high over the ruins of Gotham’s old amusement park, casting twisted shadows over the rusting rides and faded carnival banners. You tightened your gloves and adjusted your mask, the night air cool against your exposed skin. You stood between Lucian and Darlene—Azrael and Celestique now, their names echoing in back-alley whispers and city chatter. The mall incident had made your trio infamous. The world didn’t know what to make of you—heroes, villains, vigilantes. Maybe even a little bit of all three.

But none of that mattered now. The plan was simple: stop the weapon trade happening tonight, shut down the rogue faction moving through Gotham, and disappear before the GCPD even got wind of it.

Only, you weren’t alone.

Your senses prickled the moment you stepped past the rusted ticket booth. You weren’t sure if it was instinct, your growing abilities, or something more—but something felt off.

Lucian froze. “We’re not the only ones here.”

He didn’t need to say who. You already knew.

A figure dropped down from the top of a tilted Ferris wheel—black cape, white eyes glowing in the darkness. Batman.

Before you could even process it, more shadows emerged from the corners of the park—Nightwing flipping over a collapsed game booth, Red Robin perched on top of the carousel, Spoiler and Batgirl flanking the sides. Orphan, Red Hood, and even Robin himself—Damian—closed in behind them.

It was the whole Batfamily.

“Told you they’d show,” Darlene muttered with a smirk, twirling her star-forged dagger in her hand. “Let’s just hope they’re not here to lecture us.”

But they weren’t here to talk.

Batman’s voice rang out across the lot. “Step aside. You’ve done enough.”

Lucian’s jaw tightened. “We’re here to stop the trade.”

“I said step aside.” Bruce’s tone was colder this time, commanding.

You reached a hand out instinctively. “Wait—”

That was when chaos erupted.

Red Hood launched the first attack—aimed not at you, but at one of the smugglers trying to slip through the shadows. You moved to intercept, but Batman stepped in your path. His cape whipped past your face as he knocked two criminals to the ground in a blur of martial precision. But every time you or Darlene tried to help, one of them blocked you off. Nightwing sent you spinning away from the warehouse doors with a flip-kick to the ground. Red Robin cornered Lucian. Spoiler threw flash pellets at Darlene.

They weren’t trying to work with you—they were trying to push you out.

“Back off!” you shouted, slamming your fist into the ground. A sudden pulse of energy rippled from your hand, cracking the pavement in a small radius. Your heart lurched. That... was new.

Lucian’s frustration boiled over.

He turned sharply, slamming his palm into the ground. A golden ripple flared from his boots, freezing Nightwing and Damian mid-attack—stuck in suspended motion, like frozen marionettes. Time itself had stopped... for them.

“Enough!” Lucian barked, eyes glowing like twin suns. “We’re not your sidekicks. We’ve been cleaning up Gotham without your permission. You don’t get to shove us aside because it’s inconvenient.”

You caught your breath, eyes darting across the chaos. Criminals fled in every direction, some engaging with Red Robin and Barbara while others scattered through the haunted house structure. You wanted to help. You wanted to fight.

But you also didn’t want to hurt them—your family.

And that hesitation cost you.

“Too slow,” a voice whispered behind you.

Orphan’s fist slammed toward your ribs, but you twisted just in time, letting the blow graze your side. You kicked off the cotton candy stand, flipping over her head and landing in a crouch. She turned, attacking again with brutal speed and precision.

You blocked, parried, ducked. Every move she made, you matched—until you didn’t.

You closed your eyes for just a second. The world slowed—not like Lucian’s time freeze, but like the rhythm of a dance. Her next move? A step-pivot-twist combo. You saw it before she did it. You moved like water, your ballet instincts kicking in with superhuman clarity. When she struck, you countered, grabbing her arm and flipping her onto her back.

Orphan blinked, stunned.

So were you.

Across the park, Darlene had her own chaos to handle. Spoiler and Batgirl had cornered her against the popcorn machine, but Darlene spun into action, her hands slicing the air as sharp, star-shaped constructs shimmered into form. She deflected Batgirl’s batarang, spun a crescent blade from pure light, and with a grin, slammed it into the ground.

From it, a cage of shimmering stars burst upward, locking both Batgirl and Spoiler inside.

“Nature’s baddest heroes!” Darlene grinned, saluting. “Catch you ladies later.”

Lucian gave her a withering look from across the field. “Please stop saying that.”

But he was smiling—just a little.

Thirty Minutes Later – Gotham News Channel

You exhaled, adrenaline rushing as you looked across the carnage. The criminals were subdued. The Batfamily was frustrated, and bruised, and worse—they had underestimated you.

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“Earlier this evening,” the anchor announced, “a coordinated takedown occurred at Gotham’s long-abandoned amusement park. The attackers? A combined effort between Gotham’s famous vigilante team—Batman and his sidekicks—and the city’s newest, rising defenders: the vigilantes unofficially known as Azrael, Celestique, and Aetherius. Surveillance drones caught footage of the battle, which is still being analyzed by the GCPD and city officials.”

The screen flashed to a clip of you vaulting over Orphan, Darlene trapping Batgirl and Spoiler, and Lucian freezing time.

“Who are they?” the anchor asked dramatically. “And are they heroes—or something far more dangerous?”

In the Batcave, every member of the Batfamily stood around the monitor.

Bruce’s arms were crossed, his face unreadable—but his jaw was tense. “I thought we would be able to stop them.. They’re too hard-headed, they need to go back to where they came from.”

Barbara crossed her arms. “We should reach out. Make a connection. They’re clearly not amateurs anymore.”

Dick stepped forward. “We could arrange a meeting. No tricks this time. Just talk.”

But Damian scoffed from the side. “Why? So they can manipulate us? They’re arrogant. They don’t need allies—they need to be removed from Gotham.”

Jason raised a brow. “Says the guy who was kicked out of five team-ups.”

Damian sneered. “I’m serious. They’re going to become a threat if we keep treating them like allies.”

Bruce turned, his voice low and commanding. “We need more information. No more direct interference. For now—we observe. We wait. And if they cross a line... we stop them.”

With Bruce and the rest of the family too caught up with the troublesome trio, he continues to forget to check your location. Will he remember one day and find out who you are? Or, will he continue to disregard your location? 

[dh1k]

Morning w Hisoka

Summary: morning with your clingy boyfriend.

Note: my english not so good. May be some mistakes.

cw: fluff, clingy!Hisoka, cuddling.

Word count: 654

You wake up because you can’t breathe. You opened your eyes and discovered Hisoka literally lying on top of you. He half sprawled on top of you, throwing his leg over yours and his head resting on your chest.

“Hisoka” you said and shoving him a little bit.

No reaction. But you know very well that big, sneaky fox is faking it. It was every time when Hisoka got bored in the morning, he'd pounce on you with his whole body to wake you up.

“Hisoka... I know you're awake. Get off me" you once again hoped it would help.

The red-haired fox is overly tactile, especially in the morning. He never misses an opportunity to take you into his arms while the two of you are snuggling in bed. But sometimes there are days like this one, when he unceremoniously lies on top of you with no plans to get up.

At your voice and the rustling of the sheets, your little cat came running in. He sat down on the bedside table and watched you.

Looking at this little ball of fur, you thought about the fact that you have two cats living at home. Both of them always need attention and care.

Still, even though Hisoka's nature is more like a fox. In the morning, he's like a cat looking for affection.

You shifted your gaze back to him. You ran your hand through his hair and gently ran it over his scalp, massaging it lightly, knowing how much he liked it.

“Hisoka, you're awake. Get off me, or at least move over a little. You're heavy" the third attempt this morning was successful.

He got off you and lay down next to you with his arm resting on his head. His golden eyes stared into yours, and he had his usual smirk on his face. He looked at the cat sitting on the table for a second, and as soon as cat saw Hisoka looking at him, he ran to him.

You always wondered if he was more fond of Hisoka, though he's a little prankster, more like his master than his mistress. Sometimes the two of them look at you with their golden eyes with the same squint, and it's annoying.

“Good morning" you said, while Hisoka looked at you and stroked the cat’s ear.

“Morning" Hisoka said sweetly, as usual, but with a hint of resentment.

You knew he was going to act offended now, because he doesn't like it when you ask him to get off your back. While you looked at each other, the redhead had managed to settle at the end of the bed and fall asleep. Your silence was interrupted by a sigh from Hisoka, who turned away from you. It was a trivial action of his in the morning when you didn't want to cuddle with him.

With a sniffle, you moved closer to him, running your fingers along his broad back, crossing over his ribs and tickling him lightly. All you got from Hisoka was a hum. You both know it's just a little mockery of each other, but it feels different every time. This time, there's more tenderness in your touch and more playfulness in his sighs.

“Hisoka, turn to me" you asked, knowing he wouldn't.

You climbed over him and lay down beside him. He looked at you, pretending he was still hurt.

“Fine, I know how you want to cuddle and" you weren't allowed to finish your sentence. Hisoka rolled over to the other side along with you in a hug.

“Okay, shh. Stop talking”.

You rolled your eyes. And accepted your fate of being almost strangled in man's arms.

Your sessions of affection can go on into the evening, until you slap Hisoka's ass and tell him it's time to get up. And as usual, you'll get an unwilling face that will follow you to the kitchen anyway.

[gguk-n]

Mission- Cheer up Logan

I've just had a sad dream with Logan in it and I told him how much I love him and how important he is after watching all the shit Williams and Vowles have been doing. I need this to heal myself. I hope it heals everyone rooting for Logan too

Summary- Literal Logan fluff.

Y/N didn't dislike many people and hate would be a strong word in her dictionary but right now James Vowles and the Williams racing team made her hate them with the tirade they had going against her poor boyfriend which was pissing her off; worst of all, it was affecting Logan. Her happy puppy of a boyfriend was lost. He would either be at work or looking lost and depressed at home. They no longer had witty conversations going on or Y/N teasing Logan any and every chance she got. He would barely smile at her at times. So, Y/N took it upon herself to make her Logan happy.

It was one of those days, the weather was bright and sunny, Logan didn't have to go to work and the previous GP may have been bad but it was slightly better. It was around 9 and they were still in bed. Y/N woke up to Logan 'asleep' at least he pretended to be. She knew him like the back of her hand and every time he acted like he was sleeping his eyes would be shut tight. This habit of his made her smile. She looked up at him while resting her palms against his chest.

Y/N POV

"Good morning, baby boy" I whispered followed by a kiss on the lip which was followed by a grunt and covering his face with the blanket. "Babe, we need to good shopping, we're out of everything." I emphasised. "You can do that alone" he said, still under the duvet. "Yes but you know I hate shopping alone and I wanna show off my super hot racer boyfriend to the world, come on." I said while pulling the covers off. His big blue eyes met mine and I pouted my lips. "I won't take long, I promise. Pinky promise." I exclaimed while holding out my pinky. "You're hurting my ribs, babe." came a strangled cry only to notice my elbow jabbing his ribs. I giggled while apologising and dragging him to the bathroom. We were dressed in 20 minutes and out the door. As Logan started the car, he looked at me and said, "The only reason you're taking me along is so that I can drive you there, right?" I was appalled at the accusation but replied with a smile, "one of the reasons, babe." I said. He laughed asking, "Couldn't you drive there yourself?" "Why would I do something when I have a pro who can do it for me." Logan shook his head. "I have the hottest formula 1 driver at my beck and call so am not even allowed to show him off; is an atrocity I say." dramatically sighing. Logan let out a big laugh, one I hadn't heard pass his lips in ages. It made my heart flutter and tears spring up in my eyes.

The car ride was filled with singing along to songs playing on the radio which we hadn't done in so long. It felt nice to be able to have my Logan back. The trip to the grocery store was uneventful. Once back, I made quick work of putting every thing away. I went back to Logan sat on the couch in the living room and made myself comfortable on his lap, "darling, what would you like for dinner?" He was pulled back from whatever thought he had as I sat on his lap, "Pizza and Pasta" He said. I looked him in the eyes and asked, "What about we go on a date?" Logan looked at me quizzically. "It could be a home date, like the good old days. We could cook together and then dress up to have dinner together. I even bought a few dresses I didn't get to show you." I elaborated.

Logan's POV

In all honesty I couldn't care what we did. I didn't really wanna go out and getting dressed just to eat at home was such a waste of time. But I couldn't say no, when her face was literally hoping for me to say yes. She kept looking at me expectantly and I didn't wanna let another person down, so I agreed. The way her face lit was better than winning any GP. She leaned in and gave me the sloppiest kiss and pulled me to the kitchen to help her cook. I would never say I could cook when Y/N did all the heavy lifting. "Baby boy, you look lost in thought. Is there another woman that is occupying your thoughts?" she said in a southern accent while placing both her arms around my shoulder and wrapping them around my neck. It made my breathe hitch; the effect this woman had on me even after so many years was shocking to say the least. I placed my hands on her waist and replied in an equally fake southern accent, "Darling, there ain't no woman worth my time when you're standing in front of me." "You better." she said while leaving multiple kissed on my face making me laugh. The cooking ended quiet quickly for two people; where one of them couldn't cook and the other kept violating ever health and safety protocol by kissing and touching the person next to them.

Y/N POV

We were almost done with dinner and I asked Logan to go dress up. I would get dressed just before plating the food in the guest room because I didn't want Logan to see the outfit I had planed for him. About 15 minutes later, Logan was back at the table and I left to get dressed. It took me only 20 minutes which was a record. I wore a black lacy mini-dress which barely covered my ass and tits at the same time but it made me look hot and that's all that mattered. I stepped out of the room to an eagerly waiting Logan.

Logan's POV

My mouth was on the floor when I saw what she was wearing. "You don't plan on wearing this out, do you?" I said and then quickly added, "If you did, I don't mind. I can fight but I need this image burnt into my retinas." I ogled. She giggled and walked towards me, "You can take it off, once dinner is over." She whispered in my ear. Dinner was done in record time. We headed to the bedroom so that I could hold her to her words.

While cuddling, Y/N said, "You know, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me." I cut her off because she was the best thing that has ever happened to me. Y/N shushed me, "Right now, I'm talking and you're gonna listen. I love you Logan Sargeant more than there are words that I can use to express myself. I'm so happy every day to wake up next to you and support you in achieving your dreams and aspirations. I hope you remember how good you are and deserve everything you've worked towards. A couple fuck ups don't undermine the talent and hard work that is Logan Sargeant. No matter what anyone says, you are the most handsome and talented driver that deserves to be in F1. Those assholes are blind to not be able to see your pure raw unfiltered talent. I love you baby boy." She finished her speech. There were tears in my eyes that had started flowing which Y/N wiped away with a kiss. I pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'm so lucky to have you. Thank you for sticking with me. I promise I won't let you down or let anyone make me feel like crap again." She smiled while drawing a heart on my back. We fell asleep wrapped in each others arms.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

In Love and War Pt II

Summary: Warlord!Rhys takes his mate back to his mountain camp and Tamlin's!sister!Reader has to decide the best way to try and escape

Content Warnings: Morally Grey!Rhys, talks of violence

Part I

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We ride for hours. The first two riders I’d seen join us after the first; they too have wings, tucked tight against their backs. Under different circumstances, I might be tempted to ask why they bothered with horses at all when they can simply fly, but thought better of it. The less I learn about them the better. All the easier to keep them in my mind as some faceless evil so I feel a little less guilty about putting an arrow in their eye when I escape. Rhysand has foolishly left me with my weapons, I'll put that mistake to good use when the time is right. 

By the third hour, we’ve left the bog and the forest behind, riding through what was once a sprawling plain but is now nothing but weeds. There is no magic left to keep this place fertile and thriving. Hybern’s Cauldron backed powers have stripped most of the land of its power, leaving ruin and famine behind in its wake. Little has managed to grow since, he’s been using the Cauldron to make sure a majority of the crops grow in his fields, where his slaves can tend them and ensure he gets the bulk of the harvest. There's nowhere to run out here.

Especially not when the rest of the riders regroup. There are twelve of them in total, all falling behind my captor as his great, midnight black stead takes the lead. 

I haven’t ridden a horse in a long time, could not afford to keep one, but the ones that I had, back in my youth, had never been this graceful. Even with my added weight the horse gallops like it has wings, swift as the wind, its blue-black mane trailing gracefully behind it. I almost don’t mind the ride, minus the circumstance and company, as the sun begins to set ahead of us, the sky a symphony of purple, orange and pink.

Eventually, we come to a river, flowing with large chunks of ice from a not yet frozen ice flow further upstream, where they stop to water their mounts. 

My captor dismounts first, large, gloved hands gripping my waist to help me down. By the Mother, his hands are so large against my hips! I’m suddenly very aware of my own size. 

“Don’t try and run,” he warns.

I glance around to my lack of escape routes and roll my eyes. “Darn, I was planning on throwing myself into the river.”

One of the others, the male I’d spotted first I think, snorts beneath his hood. 

Rhysand grunts out a warning before leading his horse to drink and filling a canteen he had tucked in his saddle bag. His back is, foolishly to me, I could easily draw my knife and stab him right here, but a quick glance around tells me that really would end with me taking a trip down the river. All his men carry swords and knives and there’s one with a wicked looking dagger strapped to his thigh; I barely reach the chin of the shortest among them, and that doesn’t account for at least a hundred pounds of muscle difference between us. I know that I have thinned, my ribs poking out beneath the heavy, hole ridden sweater. Some days I feel… brittle. Today especially. I’m not winning any fights against one of them, let alone twelve.

No, I just need to be smart. Wait for an opening, steal a horse, and run as far away as possible. So far, whatever this monster thinks I’m supposed to be to him has saved me from harm, I don’t plan on sticking around to see how long that protects me. Even if I did believe in mates-- as if the Mother ever cared enough about me to give me a soul tie to anyone--I’ve seen the worst in people enough to know it didn’t mean much in the end. What’s a mate but someone obligated to be a breeding mare? What’s a bond if not a magically induced aphrodisiac? I have little doubt that I’m actually safe here; just alive and conscious because it’s too much of a hassle to try and drag my limp body around.

My scheming comes to a grinding halt as Rhysand returns with the canteen, water sloshing the edge as he holds it out for me. It hasn’t occurred to me just how dry my mouth is until I see that water. 

Of course, I’m not going to let him know that. “No thanks.”

“I’m not going to poison you,” he returns.

“Poison's the least of my concerns,” I retort.

He grabs my hand and pushes the canteen into it. “Drink.”

“Bite me,” I snarl.

His men chuckle at that, which must upset him because his wings twitch behind him. He draws a deep breath before saying, “Ask nicely, mate.”

I should dump the water directly on his head, and my hand twitches around the canteen as I debate it, but in the end I decide against it. This male murdered half my family in cold blood, whatever thin amount of protection I might have remains only as long as he doesn’t think I’m a threat. To escape, I need to be smart.

On that subject, does he even know who I am? Does he remember riding into our camp that night, sword drawn, slaughtering my people as they jumped from their mats? Or were we just another blurred face in the mass of lives he’s taken in the name of conquest? He’s as bad as Hybern. Even if he has forgotten, I won’t.

I twist the lid back on without drinking anything, ignoring the way my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“Don’t say I didn’t try,” he growls as he takes it back and slides it into his saddle bag. There’s a rolled up sleep mat, a blanket, and another sword all tied neatly to that bag. Nothing too heavy, meaning their encampment can’t be far. I need to find a way to get away before they reach it; there will be too many eyes there.

“Your bow,” he says, holding out his hand. 

My hand tightens instinctively around the belt across my chest, the leather worn and cracked from years of use. “No.”

“You can’t ride into camp with them.”

“Great, then you can just leave me here.”

It takes him two steps to be back beside me, and I’m embarrassed to admit how easy it is for him to snag the strap and yank it over my head, despite my best efforts to keep that from happening. 

“Give that back!” 

“The knife can stay, as long as you don’t do anything stupid,” he says like I’m a misbehaving child. 

He keeps his back to me as he ties my bow and quiver up next to his second sword, my stomach rolling at the sight of my things next to his. 

Rhysand orders his men to mount up as he turns back to me, and I get the impression he’s looking me over for more weapons beneath the hood. I still have no idea what he looks like. Ugly and scarred, like most warlords are, I imagine. I’d never gotten a good look at him that night, had only seen those three stars on his hood and that giant sword between his wings, dripping blood. 

“You won’t need any weapons,” he says, in what sounds like it’s an attempt to be gentle, but falls flat. “You’re safe with me.”

I’d have been safer with the kelpie. But I don’t say it, I don’t say anything at all as those large hands lift me back onto the horse, or when he swings into the saddle behind me. I don’t say anything when we cross the river, icy water biting through my thin pants, making my teeth chatter, or when the wind whips relentlessly at us as we leave the grassy plains and head into the mountains. The chill feels like a thousand needles being jammed into my skin, but I will bear it silently. He will not get the satisfaction of seeing me weak; will not be gratified by any sort of conversation for the duration of our journey.

Or at least, that was the plan. 

“You’re shaking,” he says, one hand gripping the reins as he uses the other to slide his cloak off his shoulders and over mine.

The material is thick, lined with fur inside, so startlingly warm between his own body heat and the fur that when it settles over me I give a little sigh of relief. The sleeves are too big, swallowing my hands as I try to pull it more fully over my body. “Thanks.” It slips out of me before I can stop myself.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he replies as he settles around me again.

The smell of him, jasmine and citrus and the sea invades all my senses. I want, more than anything, to get it out of my nose, to keep the knowledge of him far, far away from me, but yet, despite my mind’s protests, my body burrows deeper into it. 

There’s still no encampment or settlement on the horizon, the horses moving deeper and deeper into the mountains as night falls around us. As long as we’re not stopping to make camp, I think I’ll survive. 

“And you haven’t told me yours.” If there must be a conversation, best I can do to buy myself time is steer all conversation away from me.

“I’ve had many names, but most call me Rhys.”

Most called him Death Incarnate amidst a number of things that would make a sailor blush, but I don’t think I’d ever heard anyone call him Rhys. That was entirely too normal. 

“Ok, Rhys,” it tastes like bile on my tongue, acknowledging him as anything other than the monster he has always been called back home. “Where are we going?”

The moon shines bright above us, illuminating the slender path we take through the mountains, a steep drop off on one side of us, nothing but sheer rock wall on the other. 

“Home,” he replies. 

I can’t help the scowl that escapes me, but at least he can’t see it. “And where is home exactly?”

“You’ll see soon,” he replies as he expertly guides his mount up a rocky path. There is no hesitation in his movements; he’s ridden this path many times.

I run a hand over my forehead. “I don’t remember coming this far out.” It slips out of me. If he knows this path then we’re close to the Illyrian borderlines, where his warband can make a semi-permanent encampment. These are grounds I’m not supposed to be anywhere near, nor did I think I was. 

“Where were you headed?” 

My brother’s made his claim through the Grasslands, the ground barely fertile to feed the livestock in the summer. With winter coming fast, he’d tried pushing his boundary lines into the forests near what had once been the Human Lands. I meant to go through the woods, skirting around Hybern’s slave camps and slip into the Uncharted Territories to find some game. I must have skirted too far past the slave camps when I’d lost my map running from those Highway Men.

“The Uncharted Lands,” I say because I honestly can’t come up with a lie that doesn’t make it look like I belong to Hybern or Amarantha. The boundaries between the warbands shift too often, encroaching too close. Sometimes I can barely tell who’s who and this is the only world I’ve ever known.

“Why?” He asks as we crest an incline and lead the men over a long, smooth plateau on the mountain’s western face. The wind is worse here, snapping at us like whips and before I can even burrow into my borrowed cloak, he’s drawing the hood of it over my head.

His arm tightens around my waist as he barks at his men to start riding single file. 

“Was looking for food.”

The horse’s hooves echo between the valley of rock beneath us as we press forward, the precariousness of our situation buying me time to figure out my lie. If I’m not hunting for my brother, what am I doing out here? It’s been a long day; a long week honestly. The rumbling of my stomach and the wind at my face and the warlord at my back seem to occupy the limited space in my quickly tiring mind. The hood of the cloak doesn’t help. It is embedded with some sort of magic, because even though it makes everything dark and warm, I can somehow see right through the fabric, right where that cluster of stars are, as if they’re eye slits. Magic items are rare these days, and expensive, I could probably buy out the Grassland’s market of deer jerky for this item alone.

Eventually the plateau dips, taking us down the other side of the mountain, into the misty canyon below. If I didn’t know where I was before, I really don’t now. Mountains are Illyrian territory, as forbidden and unwelcoming as the Imperial City Hybern had erected in The Middle centuries ago. I need to be paying attention so I know the way back; my eyes are sharp, sharper than most, I should be able to make out a deer path or trail easily, even in the dark, but my eyes are so heavy.

I give myself a little shake. Gotta be paying attention.

The swaying, even gate of the horse reminds me of being a small child, sitting in my mother’s rocking chair as she reads me to sleep. She and my father had always loved telling us stories, my father his made up theories and tales from the road, my mother her books and poems. I try to sit up and adjust my position in the saddle so I’m not slouching forward.

“You do not ride often,” Rhys says, his grip pulling me back more solidly against his chest, so I can feel all the hard planes of him. He’s got to be freezing without his cloak, even if he is still wearing long sleeves and gloves.

“No,” I bite back the rest of the story; how my people had suffered with the loss of my father. How Tam hadn’t been able to organize our survivors in the aftermath, how he’d been unable to store enough food for us that first winter and many of our rider’s had deserted. How he’d had to decide if keeping our stables full was worth the price of the lives hunger was stealing from us; how we’d been forced to eat and sell a few of them, my father’s prized war horse included. 

“We’ll change that,” he says, half to me, half to himself. “I think I like having my mate ride with me.”

I bite the inside of my cheek until it bleeds. At least I’m awake now. 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

The mist settles around us as we step into the valley, even as the path ahead becomes nearly invisible, he doesn’t slow or get down to walk the horse. He knows where he’s going, has done this so many times he could do it blind. A rare gift many of our traveling cities don’t receive. Envy swells in my chest. I have never had  a place secure enough to set up a permanent camp. The Grasslands are our borders sure, but we move through them daily in fear of an attack, keeping ourselves vigilant for whenever Hybern or Amarantha decide they want more than they’ve already taken from us. Always changing our paths, our camp layout, always moving. How come this monster gets this luxury and my people don’t? 

“You are so hesitant to give it,” he muses, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Do I know it already?”

Shit.

“No, that can’t be right. Our bond is too obvious, I would have remembered.”

He’s as clever as he is quick on his feet, unfortunately.

“So I will know you by association, is that it?”

I should just fling myself off the horse and try to lose myself in the mist. If I’m lucky, maybe one of his men will trample me by accident and this horrible nightmare will be over. At least, if I’m dead I will not have to explain my failure to Tam, or face the alternative of being this male’s breeding mare. Neither is a future I wish to meet.

It is only then that an alternative solution occurs to me.

Tam said I couldn’t come back without food; I’d made a nuisance of myself back home and had swiftly suffered the consequences of it, and with winter coming in fast, my brother has to know he sent me on a fool’s errand. Perhaps intending to keep me out of his way for a while; or to finally get me to bend the knee and submit to his authority as warlord. I hadn’t been of age to take father’s mark, and my allegiance had fallen through the cracks in the years after. Until I was integrated, Tam couldn’t marry me off, as I suspected he wanted to do often, and was probably using this opportunity to try and make me see reason. A future I also loathed to picture. Perhaps, if I played my cards right here, then I could find something more useful than a deer to bring back. If I played along with this little mates concept, what could Rhysand show me? Couldn’t I use any knowledge he gave to my advantage? Surely Tam would find other uses for me than marrying me off with this sort of leverage. My brother was known for his grudges, if I found a way to offer up his enemy on a silver platter, perhaps I’d never have to worry about being married off again.

My stomach twists as the plot plays out before my eyes: This fool taking me into the lands my people had never been able to access before, convincing him to let his guard down, to show me where his people were vulnerable. I could get my hands on camp movements or their supply lines; I could count the fighting men or the horses, make list after list to take back in the place of a few meals I know deep down I’d never be able to find before winter. 

My parents faces flash before my eyes. My mother, so gentle and…sad. She had been sad long before my birth, always missing a home she couldn’t go back to because of Hybern. But she had always tried to be there for me. To sing to me and hold me. She had been good and kind and if she knew where I sat now… what I thought I might do…

And my father. He was cruel and cold and I’d spent a long time wondering if he’d ever loved me at all, but he had been a good leader. He had inspired the men, even on days that had been bleak. He’d been willing to shed whatever blood was necessary to ensure the survival of my people. If this opportunity had been presented while he was alive, he would have tossed a collar around my neck and dragged me to Rhysand’s doorstep himself. 

As for Tamlin, well if he so much as saw Rhysand’s arm around my waist as it was now he would have torn him to shreds. He would hate it, but I think my brother was as calculating and ruthless as my father had been. His protective nature could be overruled by what he deemed necessary to keep us alive. 

I’d need to play my cards right, if I was to make this work. “Yes,” and I force my voice to a whisper, my shoulders hunching in feign defeat. I will have to find ways not to look so utterly revolted about this male touching me; will have to bury all my base instincts to run and claw and fight every time he calls me his mate. But I can do it.

I will do it. For vengeance. For my angel of a mother. For the survival my father died for. I’d damn myself a hundred times over for a chance Tam had never found. 

He rests his chin on my shoulder, thinking and it takes every inch of willpower I possess to not shrug him off. A few hours together and this prick thinks he can just touch me so casually? As if I have no say in the matter because he is my mate and therefore owed whatever affection he sees fit to grant me?

“You can tell me, I promise I won’t hold it against you,” his voice is… gentle. Far more gentle than a man in his position should be and I have no idea how to respond to it. 

“My name is Y/N,” I saw softly, like I’m scared the wind will hear me. “Tamlin is my older brother.”

He stiffens behind me and I find myself holding my breath. This is it.

“He never mentioned he had a sister,” he says more to himself than me.

I almost audibly let loose a massive sigh of relief. “Yeah, well he isn’t too fond of me at the moment.” Never mind I didn’t know that he and Tamlin had ever talked on a mutual basis. Sometimes, usually over a mutually beneficial wedding ceremony, did rival camps come together and exchange weapons, food and sometimes training. If I remember correctly, I think there might have been times when we’d done so with the Illyrians, but never did Tam mention that he knew Rhysand personally. Rhysand was always a name whispered like a curse, as if saying it too loud would bring death and destruction upon us. 

“He sent you out here? Alone?” That last bit comes out like a growl.

“Banished, is more of the term he used,” I say under my breath, hoping the tone conveys embarrassment. 

“For what?” He hisses, his tone promising violence. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Now what would convince Death Incarnate that I was something meek and fragile and in need of protection from my big, bad brother? If we really were mates, it would be in his nature to want to protect me, from both physical and emotional harm, but I needed to be careful. Too extreme a lie and I was likely to restart the war between our camps that had cost me my parents. I needed something to pack enough punch to convince him he needed to keep me close, to be looked after, but not so bad that it sparked a fight.

Perhaps my best bet was to appeal to the bond. “He wants me to take his mark,” I twist the sleeves of the cloak between my fingers as I speak. “So he can reap the benefits of marrying me off to one of Autumn’s commanders.”

Rhysand has gone still as death itself behind me and every nerve ending in my body feels like it’s on fire as whatever dark power lives within his skin comes to life. All my instincts scream at me to run, hide.

“But Eris is… cruel and I told Tam I couldn’t do it.” Eris was probably too old for Tam to try, but there had been talks, even when I was a girl, about how my father had wanted an alliance with Autumn, and Eris had his own history with the Illyrians. “He told me I needed to sort out my priorities and when I didn’t, he threw me out.”

“That’s just like him,” Rhysand snarls.

I bite down on my tongue to keep from snarling all the things I’d rather say in my brother’s defense. 

“How long have you been out here on your own?”

“About a week, I think,” I could say longer, but on the off-chance he has spies that could check that sort of thing--and I’m fairly certain the stories about Illyrians and their shadow agents are not far off--I’d rather play it safe. 

He brings his mount to a brief halt as two, looming carvings in the mountain’s face appear through the fog. The touring statues sporting the same great, talon tipped wings as Rhysand, stand guard over the pass ahead of us, their hewn sword held aloft. Sleeping wyverns lay at the base of each statue, their carefully carved eyes at eye level with us as the men fall in line behind us. The air is tinged with magic--overly sweet and oppressive-- as we approach, some sort of shield.

“From here,” he says softly in my ear, the mask still shielding the lower half of his face from the wind rough against my cheek. “You’ll never have to worry about being alone again.”

I’m going to be sick!  Play it safe. Play the game. For Tam. For Mom and Dad. I will myself to picture their faces again, to keep reminding myself what is at stake. 

Rhysand kicks the horse into motion again, passing through the shield with a flick of his gloved hand, soft ripples of magic parting for us like someone had pulled back a curtain. I’ve never seen anyone use magic so casually, so fluidly. Once all the riders have passed through, I feel the shield fall back into place behind us. No turning back now.

Ahead, the path begins to widen. At the far end of the path, still shrouded on either side by the mountains, sit two torches, the light guiding the way. When we reach them, the path dips dangerously into a valley, all filled with large, midnight black tents. More torches and bonfires light the cloth city, the sounds of drum beats and revelry beckoning from beneath us.

“I see the party started without us,” one of the men says from behind us.

“Devlon must have had a good run,” Rhysand muses as he takes us down into the valley. 

As the lights draw closer, I can start to make out the tribal markings and depictions sewn into the sides of the tents. There’s singing to go with the drum beats, all in a language that makes no sense to me, just like the markings. Something from the Mountains none of my people had ever been privy to. 

When we reach the outskirts of the city, we are greeted by two towering males, wearing little other than loose, dark paints and a smattering of blood red paint along their bare chests and faces. Each holds a spear, a dagger strapped to their muscled thighs. 

One barks something at Rhysand in Illyrian, his slate colored gaze fixed on me, still wearing the lord’s cloak. I’m grateful they cannot see my face, the fear I know will be clear in my eyes. It is hard enough to hide the trembling in my hands.

Rhysand dismounts to greet them, still speaking in Illyrian until they retreat into the maze of tents beyond. Despite the raucous laughter and music coming from the center, the rows of tents are organized into clear streets and sectors, some dancing bodies visible in between the rows, though most of the camp seems to be in its heart at the moment. 

He runs a gloved hand over the horses neck as he turns to face the men, their mounts dancing beneath them. “We will strategize in the morning.”

That is apparently dismissal enough, as his men bow their heads and kick their steads into motion around the outskirts of camp, soon disappearing into the darkness. My stomach drops as I realize I’m alone with my enemy for the first time all night. My anxiety only heightens as he takes the reins and guides the horse forward without a word of where we’re going.

I’m too scared to ask either.

Staying on the edge of camp means I cannot see any of what is happening within, though I glimpse bonfires and revelry often enough to guess. It is not unlike our own celebrations, even if the music is different.

Rhysand still doesn’t speak as we pass another group of sentries and head up a well worn path in the heart of the valley. The grass is lush here, would be up to his knees were it not for the cleared stretch lined by torches. It is quieter here, the music distant.

Overhead, the stars glitter like a million little diamonds, all the constellations I have memorized a stark contrast to the dark shadows of this hidden mountain world. We’re surrounded on all sides by mountains, shielded from view and harm by stone. It is so different to the rolling hills I am used to, it is nice to know that the stars, at least, have not changed.

The path leads to a secluded circle of larger tents, still black but stitched with stars not unlike the ones on the cloak I’m still wearing.

We pass yet another group of sentries as we approach, and only once we’re face to face with the largest tent in the circle does Rhysand finally stop.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

I should have run. Should have thrown myself into the river. Should have risked a quick death trying to fight my way out of this than subjecting myself to this.

Rhysand grabs my waist again and lifts me off the horse as if I weigh nothing. Compared to his size, I’m sure I do. In the torchlight, this is the first time I’ve managed to glimpse his face. I’d been drastically wrong about his appearance. The monster that haunted my nightmares was not some old, scarred thing as I had pictured, I wasn’t sure he was even older than Tam. A young lord, his features sharp, but clean cut. Some of his raven black hair fell loose around his sun kissed face, framing a set of violet eyes so bright they practically glittered like stars in his head, the rest was braided with strands of blue and purple thread. By far the most beautiful male I’d ever seen in my life and I think I hate him a little more for it. 

“You must be tired,” he says finally.

I don’t know what to do or say, so I just nod, which I think might be a mistake because now we’re heading inside the tent and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears because I have made a terrible mistake!

By some magic trick, torches flair to life as we enter, the soft orange glow cast in eerie patterns against the sleek black leather walls. On one side of the tent is a bed large enough to accommodate someone with such massive wings, piled with furs and pelts of various animals. On the other end, a table with some chairs and various weapons and books and trinkets scattered about the top of it. There’s chests piled in the corner, locked and dusty like they haven’t been opened since they’d been moved in. The floor is covered in a dozen different rugs, all overlapping in an attempt to make the place feel cozier but the patterns and colors are all so different that it looks like a whacky patchwork quilt. Clearly a layout chosen by a male.

“I apologize for the mess,” he begins as he takes off the scarf tied around the lower half of his face and places it over the back of a chair. “I… was not expecting to come across anybody out there, let alone bringing anyone back.”

“What were you doing out there?” My voice shakes too much for my liking and I’m convinced I asked that far too quickly to not be totally obvious, but it’s too late to take it back now.

“Scouting,” he says with no further explanation as he tosses his gloves onto a heap of more gloves on the edge of the table. 

My muscles stiffen as I watch him warily. If he starts undressing I might really change my mind and try to run for it.

I am prepared to do what is necessary for my people, but that is a line I cannot cross yet. Not tonight.  

He steps closer to where I stand dumbly in the center of the room, drowning in his cloak, and he nudges the hood off my face with his knuckles. 

I have to remind myself to stop biting my lip as the fabric slides off my head. Even fully clothed, standing this close to him, with those violet eyes drinking me in like that, I feel very exposed and vulnerable. 

“You’re shaking,” he says softly, his hand drifting down the side of my cheek.

I hate that I shiver under his touch. Hate that my eyes go to his full lips and how soft they look in this torchlight. I hate that I find him beautiful, hate that I do not pull away as he cups my cheek. I hate myself for putting myself in this position in the first place. 

“I…” this is not an act, I really don’t know what to do or say here. My chest aches with the way he’s looking at me, like maybe there really is some strange, mystical thread linking us together and it’s coming awake the more he has his hands on me. Yet my mind balks and screams all the same and I cannot tell which of them is supposed to help me do this. “This is a lot.”

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he assures, his voice low and husky, a tone I think might be better suited to the bedroom. “You are safe with me.”

Safe.

As if he could ever make me feel safe.

His thumb rubs circles in my cheek, the calluses along his palm from years of sword play scratching pleasantly across my skin. Violet eyes rove over me, studying the plains of my face like he’s cataloging every detail. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

I let loose a breath as he heads back to the tent flap, where his horse is still waiting.

“For now, it would be best if you stay here. Don’t go anywhere without me. At least, not until you take my mark.”

And then he’s gone, finally leaving me alone for the first time in hours, but even if I wanted to do some snooping, I can’t. All I can do is stand there as my stomach rises in my throat. 

His mark.

How the hell was I supposed to go home bearing Rhysand’s mark? 

I rub my temples with my fingertips. I need to find something useful to take back to Tamlin and get out of here fast, because if I don’t, I may never be allowed to go home again.

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