#cold water filter system

[aquanutech]

For the best hot water dispenser faucet and instant hot faucet only, visit AquaNu Tech.

[arolesbianism]

I've been chipping at a new oni save recently and I have to say I have gotten way less ambitious with my teleporter planet over my past few saves. In a lot of my earlier saves Id dive right in there, but nowadays I find myself ignoring the teleporter for a good while before dipping in to set up some basic utilities there before leaving again and continuing to stall lol

[writingsonsaturn]

Tim's fiancee gets arrested when a cop (let's say Lucy or someone) (this is after they are rookies) arrests her because she looks like a suspect they already caught, his fiancee told them she was engaged to Tim but they didn't believe her and Tim gets mad at the officer - <3

wrong place, wrong time - tim bradford

{ masterlist }

🪐: very sorry about how long its taken me to write, had a lot of stuff to do this week lol! this ones a little short <333

word count: 850

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

Waking up with Tim being gone was normal, even after he had left the military his day continued to start at 6 am sharp. Although on weekends he would cut himself some slack to hold you until you were ready to get out of bed and begin with your various tasks you two needed to get done.

Today didn’t start off any different, waking up only a few hours after Tim had, at a ripe 8:30am.

Rubbing your eyes you flung your legs to your left, your warm feet chilling almost immediately at the cold wooden flooring of you and Tim’s shared bedroom. A shiver shot through your nerves and up your spine, you sighed lightly at the shift in temperature and made your departure to the bathroom.

The spring air seeped into the sunlit room, the fresh morning breeze filling your soul with flowers and bright colors. Music filled the house whilst you finished your morning routine making breakfast and feeding Kojo.

You started out your afternoon deciding to head to the local library, wanting to return a book you had borrowed before you were charged with a late fee. 

The library wasn’t full since it was the afternoon and school was still in session, “hello! i’m here to return a book” you said in a chipper but quiet tone. The librarian smiled and took the book, checking it back into the system and sending you on your way.

Your next stop was a supermarket, you had only a handful of items that were needed. Tim had run out of coffee filters this morning and you needed more shampoo, you also opted to get a new water bowl for Kojo, not that he needed one, you just thought it was cute.

As you walked out to your car you were stopped with a taser pointed directly at your torso, “get on your knees with your hands up!” a woman yelled.

Your confused manor caused your reaction to be delayed, causing the police officer to yell once again. “Get down on the ground with your hands up, now!” you immediately get down to your knees and put your shaking hands up. 

“You got the wrong person, I swear! Call Tim Bradford, he's my Fiancé!” you pleaded, the cop with the name ‘Chen’ on her shirt just scoffed and laughed you off while stuffing you in the back of her squad car.

The ride to the precinct was uncomfortable, the cuffs were digging into the skin of your wrists. “Officer please, I'm not whoever you think I am. All you have to do is call Bradford, he’ll tell you exactly what I'm telling you know” you tried to plead your case once again, but it fell on deaf ears.

“Tim doesn’t have a fiancé, he was my T.O, i think i would know a big detail like him having a girlfriend” she laughed, feeling as though it was ridiculous to even entertain your words.

As you were brought into the station to get your picture taken and be put into holding, Chen passed you onto another officer and went to tell Grey about her catch. 

To Lucy’s surprise everyone had already been packing up the evidence and started paperwork, “what’s going on?” Lucy questioned, “we caught the killer, she was at her parents place shooting up when we got there” Tim explained. Lucy was confused, “so if you caught the killer, who do i have in holding?” the question hung in the air, Tim looking at her with perplexed eyes.

Lucy walked Tim over to holding and that’s where Tim saw you, “oh thank god!” you exclaimed seeing Tim. He hurried over to you taking your cuffs off and waving off the other officers. “Chen, why is my fiancé sitting here in cuffs?” Tim sternly asks, Lucy looks down, stuttering and trying to explain herself.

“Tim it’s fine, she was just doing her job” you did your best to defend Lucy, “No y/n, this is not okay, if it had been anyone else this would be a lawsuit” he turned his body at you but his tone was directed at Lucy.

“Tim i’m sorry, I didn’t know we had already caught the suspect and she looked exactly like our suspect” Lucy tried to explain, stumbling over her words.

“You are going to go to Grey and explain everything, lucky for you, y/n isn’t going to file a report against you” Tim assigned Lucy, to which she scurried away. “Are you okay? oh christ your wrists,” his questions and concerns came at you with speed.

“Tim, baby, I'm okay,” you smiled trying to calm him down. Tim held your wrists in his hands, and kissed them. He hoped his love would be enough to soothe your angry red skin, “i’m sorry, this shouldn’t have happened” he persisted. 

You shut him up with a kiss, “drive me to go pick up my car” your smile made him relax. “Yes ma’am” he laughed, telling Grey where he was going, and walking out hand in hand with you, still profusely apologizing.

[reasonsforhope]

"In drought-stricken areas, communities facing water shortages, or even in residential and commercial buildings eager to improve their environmental footprints, atmospheric water generators represent a new frontier in water production.

While it might sound like a tidbit from a science fiction movie, even the driest places on earth have moisture in the air that can be extracted and used for everyday necessities like plumbing and drinking. 

Unlike traditional dehumidifiers, which also pull moisture from the air, AWGs utilize filtration and sterilization technology to make water safe to drink. 

And while there are plenty of AWG companies out there — and the science itself isn’t novel — AWGs are becoming more efficient, affordable, and revolutionary in combating water scarcity in a myriad of communities.

Aquaria Technologies, a San Francisco-based AWG startup, was founded in 2022 to help provide affordable and clean drinking water in areas most affected by climate change. 

Using heat exchange and condensation, Aquaria’s generators draw air into their systems, cool that air below its dew point, and as it condenses, capture that water and filter it for consumption. 

As the cycle continues, the generator’s refrigerant vaporizes and goes through a process that cools it back into a liquid, meaning the heat transfer cycle repeats continuously in an energy-efficient and self-sustaining system.

“I’m sure you’ve had the experience in the summer, you take a glass of a cold drink out of the fridge and then water droplets form on the side of the bottle,” Aquaria’s co-founder and CEO Brian Sheng, said in a podcast episode. “That’s actually condensation.”

Sheng continued: “The question is, how do we create condensation? How do we extract water out of the air in large volume and using little energy? That’s what our technology does. We have created both active and passive cooling methods where we use special materials, and we’ve created heat exchange and recovery systems and airflow design, such that we’re maximizing heat exchange, and then we’re able to extract large volumes of water.”

Aquaria has created a number of generators, but its stand-alone model — the Hydropack X — can replace an entire home’s dependence on municipal water, producing as much as 264 gallons of potable water per day. 

Other models, like the Hydrostation, can provide water for up to 1,500 people at parks, construction sites, or other outdoor public areas. The Hydropixel can make 24 gallons of water per day for a seamless at-home application, requiring a simple outlet for power. 

“Atmospheric water generators present a groundbreaking solution to the global challenge of clean water scarcity, leveraging the humidity present in the air to produce potable water,” the company’s website explains.

“This technology is versatile, functioning efficiently across diverse climates — from arid regions to tropical settings. From rural communities in developing countries to advanced cities facing unexpected droughts, atmospheric water generators have a wide range of applications… transforming lives and providing secure, clean water sources.”

Considering an estimated 2.2 billion people lack access to clean water globally — including in American cities like Flint, Michigan, or Modesto, California — innovative solutions like AWGs are vital to maintaining the basic human right to clean water. 

The World Economic Forum has begun to dip its toes into this technology as well, implementing public and private partnerships to introduce AWG units in Arizona’s Navajo Nation, where the machines produce about 200 gallons of clean water per day.

“When combined with an appropriate level of community engagement and triple-bottom-line business (people, planet, profit),” a blog post for WE Forum said, “this model can be a powerful stopgap solution where few exist today.”

Similarly, according to New Atlas, Aquaria has a partnership with developers to supply its technology to a 1,000-home community in Hawaii later this year, relying entirely on atmospherically generated water.

The company also has a “Frontier Access Program,” which partners with water-related NGOs, community project developers, and sustainable development groups to deploy this technology in areas most in need.

Regardless of their use cases — in homes, in communities facing water shortages, or at aid sites navigating natural disasters — AWGs have a minimal environmental impact. Sourcing water “from thin air,” requires no plastic bottles, no large-scale plants using up loads of energy, and no byproducts that can harm the environment."

-via GoodGoodGood, August 27, 2024

[luveline]

HI MLLLL! I absolutely loved your fainting fic with James! Can you write like a part a part 2 or like a follow up where reader starts realizing that James isn’t as bad as she thought and she falls for him as he takes care of her bc he’s really worried? I love them sm 🥹

James takes care of you when you faint

James is acting weirder than usual… sort of… nice? fem, 1.2k

The days after you faint are just as hot, but you come into work. You can’t afford to miss it, and it’s not as though you’ll make the same mistake twice. 

The memory of what happened is hazy at the start. James had just opened the window, the breeze that filtered in cooling your hot skin. You’d felt sick, you’d tried to stand, and your head had gone blank. 

You woke with your face in James’ hand. You can remember it if you think about it enough, his head tilted down toward you, the sunshine on his skin, his soft smile. He’d felt like a different person. 

You’d felt different. 

“Can you send me that information from the lab, please?” 

You glance away from your computer, eyes tired. “Sorry?” 

“For the, uh, Mr. Nguyen?” James asks. “You didn’t send them to me. I can’t do them if you don’t send them.” 

“Right.” You blink away the phantom of his hand on your cheek. “Okay.” 

“Are you feeling alright?” 

That’s all he asks. Every day since you passed out, at various times and in various ways. Are you okay? Are you alright? Is it too hot in here? Do you want to swap desks with me? That last one had been a little patronising. You’d told him to leave you alone. Your desk is right next to the radiator in winter, it’s prime real estate, and you’re not giving it up just because you got a bit hot. 

“I’m fine,” you murmur, turning back to your computer to open outlook. “Just thinking.” 

“About what?” 

“About you not talking to me.” 

“Funny.” 

You drag and drop the paperwork for the tests he’d wanted. It’s easy to render an invoice but you hate doing it because it involves a lot of talking back and forth with clients. James, on the other hand, loves to talk. 

“There, sent it,” you say.

“Thank you.” 

Awkward. You pretend to be busier than you are for a few minutes, stealing company time without remorse. James types up an email beside you, the click of his keys quick and loud in your ears. 

Remus pops a pen lid across the way, scribbling onto a post it note that he sticks on his monitor. You know what time it is from the sounds alone. A half a minute later, Sirius slinks up from the front of the office to wrap his arm around Remus’ shoulders, sing-songing, “You’re coming with me, handsome.” 

“Are you coming?” Remus asks James. 

There’s a lapse of quiet. You stare at your computer, aware of a silent conversation, but not privy to its content. “I think I’ll stay,” James says eventually. 

“Okie dokie. Y/N, do you want to come, lovely?” Remus asks. “It’s not too hot.” 

“I’m fine,” you say, “thanks. Thank you.” 

You don’t feel like yourself since you fainted. You’d hoped it would go away once you had a better night’s sleep, flooded your system with cold water and good food, but you can’t kick it. You have no energy, no want to do more than turn up for work and go home again, and you know what it is that’s making you feel this way, but you can’t admit it to yourself. It crops up in your mind unbidden and you push it back down. 

“Sirius never used to act like that.” 

“What?” 

“Sirius. He was never like that when we were growing up. Love makes him pathetic.” 

Love is a tender touch. Sirius had laid his arm over Remus’ shoulder without any hug or kiss, but it was as loving as either. To touch someone like they need a kind hand. 

Like James had held your face. His arm behind your back as he led you to the break room. 

“Do you wanna come with me?” James asks. 

You hold in a second confused, What? He’s standing now, you hadn’t noticed him moving, his water bottle in hand as he pushes his chair back under the desk. 

“Don’t wanna leave you here and have you smash your head in when there’s no one around. Imagine the clean up.” 

You get up on impulse. You grab your drink, and the back of your chair, and you stand there wondering if you’re about to be dizzy again. Your chest feels tight, but that weight of unconsciousness doesn’t come. 

“Hey,” James says. “Seriously, are you okay? You’re not like you today.” 

There’s a softness in his voice you can’t believe. “Can I eat lunch with you?” 

You wish that you said it to avoid the question. James wrinkles his nose, your heart drops into the pit of your stomach, but then he says, “I just invited you first.” 

“I… have to get my stuff from the fridge.”

“Me too.”

You walk slowly, worried it’s a joke, another stupid joke, but James comes up behind you and his hand graces your shoulder with the barest pressure. You can smell something sweet and warm on him, like jojoba oil. Maybe argan. “Sure you’re okay? You look peaky. Is it the heat?” he murmurs.

“It’s supposed to rain tonight.” 

“You can’t answer anything, can you?” James laughs with a vocal fry that goes straight to your chest. “I could ask you how many fingers you’d have and you’d tell me you have two hands.” 

James walks with you to the kitchen, where you gather your food and warm it in the microwave. He leads you to the break room, and makes sure to choose a table with enough space for you, even while people he’s friendly with beckon him forward. They look at you with unashamed curiosity, but James pretends not to notice so you do too. 

You’re expecting a joke. Aw, look, we’re finally on a date. Or Wow, you know how to use a spoon, I had no idea you were so dexterous. 

“Did you see they’re making a new movie about those aliens? The ones who can hear you everywhere you go?” 

You squeeze your spoon. “Uh, no, I didn’t see it.” 

“It looks awesome. I’ll show you the trailer on my computer after lunch, it looks just as good as the first two. That actress, the one with the really nice eyes is in it.” 

You have no idea who he means. James talks to you like a friend. He offers you some of his papris and he passes you a napkin from his pocket when you get food on your hands. James Potter might actually be a really nice guy. All it took was for you to garner his pity for him to show it. How pathetic you must seem to need it. 

“How do you feel now?” he asks as you clip the lid back onto your Tupperware. “You look better. Do you feel better?” 

“I’m fine, James.” 

“You frown so much I can’t tell.” He butts his knee against yours. “Alright, batten the hatches, I’m gonna carry you back to your desk.” 

“Why?” you ask in a rush. 

“Can’t fall if you don’t walk.” 

“James, don’t try it. I’m serious.” 

“You don’t sound serious. You sound like you want me to carry you.” 

“I’ll report you to Human Resources.” 

“For what? Being helpful?” 

“Harassment.” 

“Fine, but I’m not gonna catch you this time.” 

[gingernut1314]

Turkey and Cheese ch. 2

Summary: On the run from enforcers, you collide straight into someone in your rush. Someone whose seafoam eyes take your breath away and all you want to do is spend a little bit more time with him.

Content: female reader x Silco, pre-season 1 arcane, first meeting, gendered terms, reader has water manipulation powers, young Silco, young reader, you share a stolen sandwich with Silco, slight Arcane season 2/League of Legends spoiler (Janna)

Word Count: 2.7K

A/N: The characters will age up, but the plan I have set up is reader meets Silco and the others when they are all still teens so there is only going to be like...one or two more chapters as teens and then we're getting aged up. I hope you all enjoy!!

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You got too much joy picking on the Enforcers that hang around the bridge that separated the shining city of Piltover and the not-so-bright Undercity. You stole their lunches and their coin, called them every name under the sun, and threw rocks at them from dark corners. 

It pissed them the fuck off making it prime entertainment for you.

Your guardian, Janna, disapproved of your shenanigans. The lectures were too long whenever you were caught. Lectures about reasonability and grace and blah, blah, blah . 

So, to avoid such mind-numbing lectures, you waited until Janna disappeared for days on end to let chaos ensue.

And this fog-heavy day was one of those days.

Your stomach growled, clenching and twisting in hunger as you knelt on top of one of the run-down tenement houses near the bridge. You watched four Enforcers walk out of the broader toll house, switching posts with the other four Enforcers standing before the bridge. 

You had been watching them for most of the night, counting and double counting how many Enforcers were on duty. You counted nine in total, which was one less than there had been last time you’d done this. 

Someone must be sick or had been fired or, maybe, they were dead. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter one bit to you. All you cared about now was earning a few coins and getting a homemade meal from someone's spouse for a late dinner.

You rushed into action after one last scan of the area, before rushing across the roofs. When you came to the end of this line of tenements, you hopped down onto the fire escape below, a small grunt escaping your lips before starting down the rusting stairs. 

Once on the ground, you yanked your hood up and shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket, trying to keep a low profile as you walked the short distance across the recently redone cobblestoned road. You disappeared into the large shadows the street lamps cast, walking along the smooth wall of the tollhouse.

“Beth just got accepted into that fancy college she wanted.” A gruff voice filtered out from a small, open window. 

“Well, shit--” Was the last of that conversation you heard as you climbed up a ladder around the back of the building. 

You stayed crouched low as you made way to the vent in the center of the roof. You had used this vent for years, but, as you quietly pulled the metal covering off and lowered yourself into the vent system, found it might be one of your last times. 

You were getting too big to fit in the vent.

This was a child's game, as unfortunate as it was to admit, and at the ripe age of fourteen, you were no child anymore. 

“We’ve been saving up--” And blah, blah, blaaahhhh . 

Enforcers rarely had anything exciting to talk about. It was always about someone's family or about whatever game they had gone to watch. It had nearly sent you into tears as you crawled through the vents. 

Where was the excitement? The danger? 

Didn’t Encforcer beat Undercityians up for fun? 

You finally made it to the vent in the locker room area. It was bland and hardly fit hardly enough lockers for every enforcer stationed here, but to you, it was a gold mine. 

You opened the vent, placing it slowly on the other side of the vent shaft, and hopped into the room, hitting the ground on near-silent feet and a held-in grunt. You waited a few seconds to see if anyone had heard you before starting on opening each locker and taking as many coin potches as you could find. The only good thing the last locker had to offer was a piece of gum instantly shoved into your mouth. 

Just as you opened the fridge and grabbed someone's paper bag lunch, the door opened. 

Your blood went cold. You've been caught one too many times over the years, but each time it happened it never helped ease your nerves. 

A younger-looking Enforcer saw you instantly, his eyes narrowing in something like confusion. You didn’t recognize this Enforcer from past interactions, so you assumed he was new. 

“Hey! Who the hell are you?” 

“No one.” You pulled on the most innocent look you could muster, hiding the lunch behind your back. “I think I might have taken a wrong turn.” 

“A wrong--” The Enforcer then saw the open and ransacked lockers. It clicked then, what had happened here right under his nose. 

Before the Enforcer had time to speak, you pushed past him into the small hallway. 

“Hey!” He shouted after you but you were already booking it into the office area where six enforcers sat. They noticed you almost instantly, rising from their seats in the blink of an eye. One tried to grab you, but you twisted out of his way and dodged another on-coming man. 

The front door open with a bang and all but threw yourself into the street, your gum falling from your mouth in the process. 

“Grab her!” One of the enforcers shouted, singling the four others standing before the bridge. Those four were too far away to do any grabbing, so you didn’t feel the need to be worried about them. 

You ran downwards, toward the looming city you called home. As you ran closer and closer, the air seemed to get thicker-- dirtier than that of the air by the bridge. This wasn’t anything new to you, your throat and lungs taking less than a second to adjust to the polluted air. 

The continuous shouting from behind let you know that the Enforcers were still hot on your tail. You would either lose them eventually in this maze of run-down buildings and streets or they would give up, finding they didn’t want to venture as far into the city as you were going to take them. 

Time would only tell which it would be, so you pushed yourself harder. 

You made the first sharp turn into a familiar alleyway, an enforcer that had been getting too close to you tripping and falling into a couple of barrels full of fish. You gave a sharp laugh, looking over your shoulder to watch that scene unfold in your utter glee.

And just as you made to turn back around, you collided into something solid and bony.

You and the person you’d just hit at full speed went tumbling to the ground, each giving own round of curses. 

A pair of blue-green eyes halted your escape. A pair of eyes that took your breath away…well, maybe it had been from the impact but your breath was differently stolen and these eyes--eyes like seafoam weren’t helping.

The blue-green eyes were attached to a thin, sharp face covered in skin that looked like it hardly got out in the sun. 

Though everyone down here always had that “hardly seen the sun” look about them. 

This guy was very attractive. Too attractive some might say. 

So attractive it almost had you forgetting about the four enforcers running after you. 

 The blue-green eyes narrowed up at you, completely pissed off. 

“Get the hell off--” 

 “She’s in there!” The enforcer that had just fallen into fish guts shouted to his coworkers. The boy’s eyes widened and he looked past you to find what you already knew was coming into the alley. 

“Do you have a canteen?” The boy snapped back to you, anger written clear on his face. 

“What? No--” You gave him an eye roll. 

Who didn't carry a water canteen with them? 

Well…you didn’t, but that was beside the point. 

“A flask?” You tried again.

“You ran into me and brought enforcers with you and you're asking me if I have a--” He gave a startled sort of sound as you began patting him down. You’d grown tired of his rambling. You found a flask in his jacket in an inner pocket and gave a little sound of triumph. 

“Thank you!” You sweetly spoke, pushing yourself off the guy who looked so bewildered by you it was cute . You turned your attention back onto the four enforcers blocking the exit. 

“Thought you could get away with it this time, girl .” One of them hissed through his mask. You recognized this man to be Rufus, an Enforcer that had been stationed on the bridge the longest. 

“But whatever did I do, sir? ” He gave a growl, taking a step forward that was meant to be threatening. 

“Give it back and we’ll forget this ever happened.” You knew that was a lie. As soon as you got close enough, they’d grab you and throw you in jail. 

“Promise?” Rufus was growing impatient, you could see it in his brown, tired eyes.

“ Promise .” He grit out. This made you smile. 

“Alright, mister.” You pulled the flask out from behind your back then. “Catch!” And the flask was tossed Rufus’s way. 

You let your magic flow through your veins and felt for the water in the alcohol. 

Rufus caught the flask with ease. He looked from it to you. 

“What is--” With great effort, you made the little bit of water in the alcohol explode. The flask broke into pieces, shooting up into his eyes. He gave a scream and that was your queue to leave. 

You snapped around, finding the boy standing there, shock on his face. He had a lean build and was very, very tall. It just added to his overall attractiveness. 

Focus!  

“Time to go!” You swiped the fallen lunch off the ground and grabbed for the boy in one go, pulling him further down the alley.

It only took the boy a moment to regain his right mind and in a split second, he was the one pulling you along.

You followed the boy, climbing up on top of the dumper closest to the broken fire escape. You let go of his arm so he could launch himself at the escape, slamming into the railing with a bang. Once he was over the rusting railing, you were quick to jump and slam into the escape.

The boy grabbed your wrist once your two feet were safely on the other side of the railing before continuing to drag you up stair after stair until you made it to the roof, which someone had been trying to grow some kind of plants on. Just with a quick glance at the spotting plant, you could tell it wasn’t going very well. 

Shouting from the enforcers below had you wiggling out of the boy's grip and looking over the edge, finding one had climbed up onto the dumpster while the others looked defeated. 

“If it's any consolation, you’ll be feeding a poor underling for a day or so.” You shouted down to them, waving the bag mockingly.

“Don’t think this is over, girl!” Rufus spat. You only gave him a cheeky smile. 

“Tell your wife she makes the best turkey and cheese sandwiches. I’ve been looking forward to it all month.” Rufus gave a growl before storming out of the alley. Slowly, the other enforcers followed after him, throwing you dirty looks as they left.  

The boy grabbed you then, whipping you around to face him. 

You weren’t always the best at figuring out how people were feeling, mainly thanks to being raised by a seemingly emotionless wind spirit, but you could tell in a moment this guy was angry. 

“If this is about your flask, I’m--” The guy was quick to not let you finish. 

“What the hell were you thinking, bringing enforcers to the Lanes?” He snapped. You merely gave him a very slow blink.

“I’m fully prepared to buy you a new one.” You finished, earning a frustrated growl from the guy. 

You liked what he had going on--this uptight, angry, authoritative thing. You liked it so much it made you want to tease him to no end. 

“Why I’m trying to get a child to see reason--” 

“Whoa there.” You held a hand up, further cutting him off. “You’re like--what, a year older than me?” He narrowed his seafoam blue eyes at you once more.

“You can’t be older than twelve.” 

“Nope! Fourteen.” The guy rolled his eyes.

“A child.” 

“Alright, mister-high-and-mighty. How old are you then?” 

“It hardly matters.” Your mouth fell open in disbelief, but before you could nag him anymore, he continued. “You realize they will be back.” You pulled out of the guy's grip again and began walking across the roof. 

To your surprise, the boy followed. 

“The reason I pick on those buffoons at the bridge is because I know their threats are empty.” You opened the brown paper bag and rummaged around until you found a foil-wrapped sandwich your stomach had been growling to get a bite out of. “Especially Rufus.” You took one of the halves out and extended it to the boy. “Want some? It’s the good stuff.” He looked it over for a moment, eyes still narrowed. 

You could tell he didn’t want to take it from you, not when he still looked so annoyed at you…so you gave it a little wiggle that pulled a sigh from his mouth. 

“Thank you.” He took it from you, his eyes finally softening. His fingers brushed the tiniest bit against yours, but it was enough to send sparks running through your every last nerve. 

You watched the boy as he took a bite from the sandwich. Watched as his eyes widened the slightest bit. It was so slight most wouldn’t have noticed, but you had been watching him too intently. 

“Right? It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten!” You gave him a bright smile. One you rarely ever gave--one that was genuine --before chomping down into your own half.

You hopped up on the edge of the roof, which overlooked the whole of the Lanes. From up here, you could spot the tops of the highest buildings and the smoke billowing up from the mines beneath the city. Smoke that danced and twirled upward, illuminating the lights shining from across the city. In the day, the smoke would cast the sky in murky shades of gray, depending on how bright the sun was shining. 

It was quite beautiful, despite its run-down and polluted nature. 

It was still your home. 

“I didn’t mean to bring the enforcers here…but maybe I gave someone the chance to get across that golden bridge--for them to seek their fortune or a fresh start.” You looked back to the boy who had jumped up onto the edge with you. He turned his gaze towards you, scanning you over with seemingly all-seeing eyes. Eyes that made your skin seem to burn.

“Is that what you want?” The question shocked you.

In The Lanes, most didn’t get too close to one another. Not unless they had to. It was a very lonely world, but you endured.

“No,” You scoffingly said. You wouldn’t even last a day over there. You were too wild, too much a part of the Undercity. You gave the boy a look over of your own, though much less all-seeing as his had been. 

“What about you?” You cautiously asked. Though you didn’t at all mind sharing things about yourself, you didn’t know how this guy was. All you knew is you enjoyed his company….and you didn’t want to be alone all over again quite yet. 

“No,” He replayed, looking back over the city. “There’s too much potential here.” 

You liked that. You liked that a lot . 

You took another big bite from your sandwich, letting the night air fill the quiet between you two. 

You swallowed, glancing back over him as you worked up the courage to speak again. 

And once that small bit of courage was wrestled up, you told him your name.

The boy turned his eyes back on you, his longish brown hair blowing slightly in the breeze. He seemed to hesitate too for a moment.

“Silco.” He spoke before finishing off his half of the sandwich. 

You liked his name. You liked it almost as much as you liked his face. 

“How did you manage to make my flask to explode?” You smirked, turning away from the boy, Silco , once more. 

“A lady never reveals her secrets.” Silco gave a laugh. It was a tiny huffing one, but a laugh nonetheless. 

You liked his laugh. You liked more than his name and face.

Previous | Next

[swordsandholly]

Fancy: The Rewrite

Chapter One: Here's Your One Chance

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | next | masterlist | Ao3

A/N: This fic has been haunting me since I stopped working on it. I just wrote myself into a corner and sped through the story far too quickly. Plus, I have some new concepts that I think really fill out the unfortunate issues with the original. Chapter one is the most similar to the original. I'm leaving the original up on tumblr for the hell of it, but I hope you enjoy the re-write as much as I am.

A permanent darkness rests over the city; dense and unbidden. Cold, too. Despite living here your whole life you’ve never quite adjusted to the artificial nature of it - to the shadow hanging above the miles and miles of city. The chill on your skin never lifts. It leaves a shivering underneath, nearly an ache these days. Something ingrained into your very nature by your surroundings.

Really, you aren’t meant to be here. This place isn’t built for humans despite the mass that live within the confines of the city’s dome. It’s purpose made for creatures - beings of the night that stalk and rule. The air has become rotten in the lower neighborhoods over a century of pollution and overpopulation. The constant cover of the dome cannot be broken to filter it - not even for a moment can the eternal night hanging overhead end. Your lungs will turn black before the age of five without proper protection. It’s worse it summer - at least the artificially created facsimile of summer - when the air warms and wets and coats your insides. When the pollutants find their way into the water supply. As if there is any point to the heat with so sunlight in return. Your nails always have a layer of dirt crusted underneath during those months.

The lower city is nothing but old buildings on top of even older structures; all moderately crumbling in some capacity. Apartment buildings are crowded and decent living conditions are hard to come by. Many have a waitlist longer than the human lifespan. Most operate on a dorm system - at least one person per room. Randomly assigned of course, based entirely on who can pay the rent. You’ve lucked out enough to earn a shitty studio to yourself. It’s cracked and crumbling but the locks are tight and it has a window - even if the view is just a building across the alleyway. Even if the smog has turned the tempered glass a semi-opaque grey.

The slippery polyester of your black dress smooths over your skin, just as artificial as everything else in this place. You tie your hair up to show off the double string of pearls on your neck. They’re the nicest thing you own. The most authentic, at least, and the only thing that makes you seem worthy of the upper city. The only thing that can project the image needed to get proper tips - to get what you need to survive. Red lipstick as a final touch, always. It’s corny, and leaves you cringing every time you glance at the damn thing but the vampire clients are always suckers for it. Pun intended.

This job is important. There can’t be a hair out of place; can’t be a single reason to cast doubt that you are inhumanly perfect while never losing that very humanity they crave so desperately. This is your chance. Your one chance to make enough money to get out of the slums and at least make it to the middle city. Once you ruin your reputation at a place like this… well, you might as well call it permanently. You can practically hear the grime on the sidewalk as you make your way toward the metro station. Dirt and debris so caked into the very air down here that you have to wear a respirator as you go. It’ll leave marks when you first take it off, but they usually disappear by the time you’ve made it from the depot to the club.

You don’t bother with sitting on the train. Hell will freeze over before you chance catching whatever new disease has grown in that Petri dish. Instead you join the rest of the patrons in awkwardly standing in the center of the cart, damn near falling over when the train lurches to begin its journey from the slums to the upper city. There are actual names for the two areas, but nobody uses them anymore. They died two generations ago.

The respirator makes a hissing sound as you remove it after stepping out of the train. The cool, clean air of the upper city fills your lungs. It’s satisfying in a way its sticky, filtered sister could never be. The faux fur of your cropped coat tickles at your neck as you walk, blown by that strange breeze that never seems to stop up here. The one that sends all the grime and smog downhill, leaving a fog so thick you can’t even see the building lights properly.

The club sits square in central downtown - bult into the underground level of a historical hotel. It’s an elegant building. Red with curled metal accents over the windows and doors. Modeled after the ancient art nouveau movement. At least that’s what the plaque in the lobby says. You had just long enough to change a glance at it while heading up with a client once. The fixtures sparkle underneath the artificial LEDs of the city - all signs and glowing windows. You can always tell where the humans are, catching glimpses of that unmistakable glow only a UV light gives off.

You duck down the alley behind the hotel. Grimy and dark, the complete opposite of the front entrance. Your heels clack on the concrete loudly - echoing off the hard walls of the building surrounding you. If it weren’t for the small glowing sign that marks the “Back Stage” you might never know it’s there.

It’s easy enough to slip into the routine of your job. Going back and forth to the bartender, carrying various drinks and placating the egos of cowardly men and the vampires they lie to themselves about being equal to. You can see the pity in the ancient creatures’ eyes when they look at their human cohorts posturing to appease them. You can see the hunger, in equal measure, when you tilt your head, exposing more of your neck to the light; when your wrists just pass their noses as you set down their glasses. It’s all purposeful, of course, maintaining the dance of remaining just out of their grasp, but close enough that if they really wanted to take you, they could.

It’s hard work, the dance. Long hours and more days of the week than you would like, but it pays enough for you to afford your little apartment and save some for your theoretical future.

“Hey! You!” The owner barks at you as you gently set your tray back into the stack to be washed.

You whirl on your heel. Shit, did you fuck up? Your mind runs through every interaction over the course of the night - every comment, every stilted moment. Every outcome of whatever mistake you made. Being thrown out into the city before you can even gather your respirator or coat. Choking on the air as you make your way home and praying you survive the symptoms after. Though, there wouldn’t be much point to surviving them without work.

“Y-yes, sir?”

“Need you as a Companion.” He stands in front of you, the pinstripes of his suit warping over his massive, crossed arms. The wrinkle in his nose makes his mustache twitch.

“C-companion!” You squeak. “I’m not-“

“We had a mix up. Need you to take the private booth in the back.”

Your eyes are saucers - heart beating so hard you almost can’t hear him. You don’t know what to make of this. His words are nonchalant and cut right though you, but the prospect they hold… so much opportunity and disaster…

“You paying attention?” He grunts.

Your voice shakes. “Just… why me?”

“You match their preference.” Its blunt. Uncaring. Not that you would ever expect much sympathy from the owner of a place like this - feeding girls to vampires and their kin.

Generally, you’re not the type to be preferred - too big and soft for most. It’s what kept you as a server exclusively, you’re sure. Companion is such a major step up, too. You haven’t had any training. You never thought you’d get there - only a few girls make it from Server to Companion. To have it by happenstance…

With a deep breath you remind yourself that this is temporary. Just for tonight. You are acting as a replacement, nothing more. If you pull this off maybe you’ll get enough extra cash to finally replace the air filtration in your apartment. Maybe you can even get an overhead UV light. Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely!

Another tray is shoved into your hands. Is this… actual gold? You turn it over in your hands briefly. Ornate designs line the outer rim - all weaving in and out of each other inlaid with iridescent mother of pearl. It’s cold on your skin and so shiny you catch your reflection in it before the bartender sets a bottle of wine and four glasses on it. You’re fairly certain between the wine and the tray you are holding upwards of ten thousand dollars a in your hands. It takes everything to keep your hands from trembling.

You slowly head for the back booth under the scrutinizing eye of the owner - just beyond the main floor of the bar. It’s far quieter here; the music from the floor muffled by the distance. There are only a few private booths and they are only ever occupied by the city’s elite. The top of the top. You pause at the heavy, velvet burgundy curtain separating you and your clients for tonight.

You just hope they aren’t the type to get rough.

Balancing the tray on one hand, you use the other the push the heavy curtain to the side - entire body alert and tense as your eyes land on the four men sitting at the rounded booth. Their eyes meet yours, and you freeze. A shiver runs down your spine.

They’re beautiful in that way only vampires can be. Untouchable. Marble-esque. Eyes clear and bright even in the low light of the booth - that sheen of night vision apparent. Lions staring down their prey and you, who walked into the den willingly. Their stares tear through you, seemingly pulling you apart at the seams. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think that hypervigilance leaned toward fear.

“Good evening.” It takes everything to keep your voice steady. To slip back into that comfortable service headspace you’ve curated. “I’ll be your Companion tonight.”

“What happened t’ Cherry?” The man on the outer right side of the booth asks, words slow and hushed. His arm is slung carelessly over the back of the booth, body too tense and words too stilted to sell whatever casual air he is trying for.

“She was unfortunately unable to come in tonight.” You say softly, carefully sliding the tray onto the table. “If I’m not to your standards-“

“Well, now, none of us said that.” A man with an imperial beard smiles. It softens his face - makes him look less like stone. “What’s your name, dove?”

“Fancy.” You murmur. It’s your chosen work name - based on a song your mother used to play from a century ago. All the workers names are single words. Easy to remember. Easy to request for returning quests.

“Fittin’.” The man to your left grins, bright blue eyes sparkling. His fangs catch the light - your hands tremble for a brief moment.

“Do you know who we are?” The masked man beside him asks. His voice rumbles through your nerves, all the way into your bones. You can hardly look at him - the skull covering the top half of his face makes your gut churn.

Should you know them? Oh, fuck, you probably should. Vampires live forever - their names and legacies travel across centuries. Millenia. It’s going to give you away. You’re just a low class human from the slums. You don’t know Vampires from the uppers.

The illusion of luxury only goes so far.

“It’s not a trick question.” The man to your right smiles gently, tilting his head to the side.

“No, sir.”

“Well,” The one with the beard sits a little straighter. “I’m John Price and these are my… confidants. Cohorts. Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley.” He gestures to each as he goes.

John Price… John Price… Nothing comes to mind. Nothing about any of them, for that matter.

“Lovely to meet you.” You smile pleasantly, slipping back into the script. Swallowing roughly and steadying yourself, you reach for the bottle and slowly pouring a tester amount into the four glasses. “Tonight we have a vintage red for you from 2089.”

John hums, swirling the glass before taking a sip. His eyes don’t leave you and you try not to shrink from them. “You remember the 80’s, Simon?”

“Which one?” The makes you pause. How many 80’s could there be?

John laughs, whole and hearty. Little crows feet appear in the corners of his eyes. “Which d’you think?”

“I remember the blood.” The masked man mutters. He doesn’t look at John either - dark eyes locked on you. You keep up the well trained smile. Neutral, comfortable.

“Och, ye would.” Johnny scoffs, taking his own glass after John gives you a nod to fill the four properly. “Cannae ever remember the good.”

“Well what’s your finest memory then Johnny?”

“There’s was this lass… think her name was Cassandra. Had the biggest tits and-“

“Enough of that. There’s a lady present.” John waves his hand. To your surprise, Johnny actually listens despite looking muffed about it. You can’t help but snort. Lady. As if.

How old are they, anyway? They look young - especially Johnny and Kyle. Definitely below thirty when they were turned. John obviously leads but that doesn’t necessarily mean he turned the rest of them. They could have just come together over the years. Vampire covens vary heavily as to why they came together. Sometimes friendship, sometimes relation, sometimes just convenience.

Simon is still staring you down, hooking a thumb under his mask to raise it just over the end of his nose. Scarred lips sip from his glass.

“Come sit, luv.” Kyle pats the booth beside him, voice hushed.

You snap out of your thoughts at the prompt - moving to sit in the empty spot beside Kyle. The next thing you know hands are on your hips, passing you over until you’re sat square in the middle as if you weigh nothing. You know vampires are strong - you’ve gotten thrown around by your fair share in the slums, whether a mugging or fucking - but it still startles you. They could crush you with barely a flick of the wrist.

Fingers brush over your shoulders, tracing the shape of them and leaving goosebumps in their wake before lowering to rest between your exposed shoulder blades.

“Tell us about yourself, hm?” John prompts.

“Oh, not much to tell.” You shrug and smile. “I’m from the city. Started here about a year ago-“

“How have we never seen ye then?” Johnny interrupts, eyes locked on your chest. You’d think he was staring at the mole just below your collarbone, but that’s probably too presumptuous. “A bonnie thing like ye…”

“Well…” You raise your hand to your mouth like you would when whispering a secret. “I’m not supposed to tell but I’m actually a server, normally.”

“Oh, really?” Kyle leans his chin on his palm. “In a dress like that?”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” You huff, letting the pliant facade slip just enough to make yourself seem real. Just a little less doll like before you return to the script.

“Absolutely nothin’.” Simon hums beside you, eyes near black under the shadow of his mask.

Your face heats. Client compliments never get to you and you’re not sure what about his feels so different. All of their attention is so intense. It dives under your skin and burrows deep in your marrow.

“So, seeing as you implied I should know who you are-“ You tilt your head and meeting John’s eye, “who are you?”

John chuckles, leaning close. “Oh, no one important. Contractors. Independently employed.”

“Ah, so, criminals.” You laugh.

“If you say so.”

“I can’t exactly judge.” You lean in as well, shoulder pressing against his broad chest. The material of his suit is soft and thick. High quality. “I mean, look where I am, hm?”

“Are ye a criminal, lassie?” Johnny grins at you, tilting his head. How he makes a mo-hawk cute is beyond you.

“Shh.” You press a finger to your lips.

“That how you got these?” You startle as John slips his fingers beneath the string of pearls, tugging ever so slightly. You meet his eye, only briefly, only long enough to see something hard behind them that wasn’t there before. He rolls the golden clasp between his fingers absently.

“I… I’ve always had them…” You frown, suddenly wracking your mind as to their origin. You’d never thought about it. They were your mother’s… you’re sure… but somehow that doesn’t feel right. The harder you think, the further the answer seems to be.

Either way, John seems placated by that. He retracts his hand, falling back into the simple banter from before. You allow you shoulders to relax, deciding to take his return to form at face value. Not that you have another option, really. It’s easy enough to look sultry, to play the part, to mindlessly flirt. Easy enough to fall into the simple back and forth. Scripted. Basic. Nothing out of the ordinary. They’re just clients at the end of the day, even if they have more money and power than your usual crowd.

You carefully refill each of their glasses as needed - mostly Johnny’s. His face would probably be red from the alcohol were he alive. You can feel their eyes on you - boring through your very being. It takes more concentration than you’d like to keep your breath from hitching when John’s finger traces the exposed upper curve of your spine above the dress. You lean forward, pushing each glass back to their respective owners.

Johnny takes your hand before you can retract it, placing gentle kisses from your palm to your wrist. He sighs shakily, teeth catching your skin ever so slightly.

“Johnny.” The masked man rumbles in warning.

“Not gonnae bite, LT… she just...” Johnny murmurs against your wrist.

“Have you ever been bitten, dove?” John asks, eyes half lidded as he stares you down.

Prey. You’re just prey.

“N-no…” You shake your head, voice smaller than you’d like. You’re not supposed to. Clients aren’t allowed to bite the girls here - it’s not one of those clubs - but in reality you’re at their mercy. To book one of these rooms they surely have the money to pay whoever necessary to do whatever they might want with you. It’s not like you’re one of those girls anyone would miss.

“Donnae look so afraid.” Johnny chuckles.

“We’re not goin’ t’bite.” Kyle leans forward. “Just curious.”

“Oh…” You whisper. Johnny drops your wrist and you pray that they don’t notice how quickly you retract it. As you settle back into the booth, you allow yourself to sink comfortably into the soft cushions. A jolt shoots down your spine as a cool finger tucks a section of hair behind your ear. Your eyes meet John’s - some undiscernible pain swirls in those grey-blues. It looks wrong, that much emotion on such a statuesque face. He glances past you, toward Simon, you think.

The next thing you know you’re blinking blearily, sitting in John’s lap with your legs across Kyle’s. The younger man’s hand rests on your leg, thumb gently stroking your ankle as you come back to sentience.

It’s like coming up from the undertow and getting your first gasp of air.

“There she is.” Johnny murmurs, smiling softly.

You were compelled - you know that much. There isn’t any other explanation for your sudden, uninterrupted blackout. It’s disorienting. You rub the corner of your eye, purposefully evening your breath. At least your clothes are all still in place. You don’t feel… used. Not bitten either. A choked sigh escapes you against your will, hands trembling in your lap.

“You’re alright, dove.” John coos, cold breath puffing against your neck. A shiver runs down your spine. How much time has passed? When… what… “Can be hard t’come out of it, hm?”

“I’m okay...” You whisper.

“Have some water.” Kyle pushes a glass toward you. The concern on his face feels foreign.

A large, empty decanter of scotch sits in the center of the table accompanied by five empty glasses. That’s the closest hint you have to how long you’ve been here. You take the glass of water shakily and sip, leaving an imprint of red lipstick on the rim.

John continues to coo and soothe down your hair. His other hand travels down to rest on your hip, holding you in place against him. It’s strange… this feeling. You’ve been compelled before briefly but it wasn’t like this. John has to be strong. Old. He’s been around a while to have that kind of power - for it to be this difficult for you to come out of the haze. Assuming he is the one that compelled out, of course, though it isn’t exactly a stretch based on his behavior.

It’s taking more concentration to keep from crying than you’d like.

Stranger, though, is the way they watch you. The way John works you back to reality. Most vampires would have been inappropriate while you were gone, wouldn’t bother with the borderline aftercare needed when coming out from under their spell. Most would have left you slumped in the booth - drained of blood or pleasure or both - laughing as they went.

You clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter and gathering your wits. “Can I get you gentleman anything else?”

They share a look, one that you can’t quite interpret.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” John asks, voice low.

You look up at him with big eyes. Childlike, almost, staring up in wonder. It’s so strange how vampires aren’t quite white - they just lack the redness of life. The pink under the skin that signifies a beating heart and limited life span.

“I’m sure.”

John presses closer, breath caressing the shell of your ear. “Thank you for being so gracious f’us, tonight.

“Always…” There’s an honestly behind the word that startles you. A craving deep in your bones to prove yourself worthy of him and his men.

Strange.

“We best be on our way.” Simon rumbles, prompting Johnny to let him out of the booth.

John’s eyes flick between yours briefly before he moves you off of his lap with the gentle touch one might use when handling fine china. As much as you want to stay there, dazed and still coming down, you have work to do. So, you stand after them and begin slowly gathering the empty glasses on the tray. They sit heavier in your hand the normal - each movement feels as though you’re moving through molasses.

A cold touch runs up your back and you freeze. Fingers trace the curve of your spine. You straighten, turning slowly only to meet those soft blue eyes again. John takes your hand, eyes alight with something you don’t understand. “I’ll tell the owner he’s wasting you as a servin’ girl. You’re made for more.”

Before you can even possibly decide how to respond, he’s gone. Disappeared through the curtain and into the forever night. Something crinkles in your hand. When you look down, slowly opening your fingers, the contents make your heart jump into your throat.

Cash. A massive roll of neatly banded cash.

How much is this? A few thousand? More?

With frightened eyes and slippery hands you tuck the cash into the secret pocket of your coat. Having that much cash on your person is so out of your wheelhouse - out of the realm of possibility- you don’t know how to react.

You didn’t even get to say thank you.

Your mind whirls as you finish up your shift, eyes glazed over while slipping on your coat and gathering your things from your locker to make the long trek home before the train stops running. The other girls look off put. A few whisper and stare. The air is heavy with the implication that they know something you don’t. They must. You aren’t exactly in on the gossip.

What do they think you did?

Then again, you think as you brace yourself for the lurching and squealing of the metro, there isn’t any way to know what happened. Not unless one of the vampires tells you, and good luck prying any information out of one of them. Even if they tell you, they can just make you forget all over again.

How did you behave? Were you the same as always? Were you an entirely different person?

Some people forget themselves when under compulsion - every inhibition thrown to the wind carelessly. You need your inhibitions. They keep your job secure and yourself safe. You can’t afford carelessness.

The walk back home is tense. That small bulk in your pocket burns a hole though you as your mind runs with every possibility of what might have happened. What you might have done to earn such a massive tip. It can’t have been dignified, could it? There’s no way they just like you. That’s not how vampires are. Then again, at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. They liked you enough to pay you. There isn’t any point in trying to dissect such a simple transaction beyond that.

It takes everything to motivate yourself to actually take off your clothing and jewelry before falling into bed. However long they had you, it drained you. Left you tired and shaky as you crawl under the thick bundle of quilts that make up for the lack of heating in your home.

Your eyes meet the wad of cash that barely fit in the inner pocket of your coat. It feels like a threat. Use me well or lose me forever! Make me count because you’ll never see me again!

For now, at least, you can bask in the simple victory of it.

banner by @the-aesthetics-shop

[m1ngkis]

Ice on my teeth Seonghwa can ruin me (18+)

I’m talking about the gloves stay ON while he tightens his grip around your throat, his tongue taking over your mouth as he walks you into a wall.

“Need you so bad today.” He whispers against your lips, his free arm wrapping your waist and pulling you flush against his form.

He still in his suit, trench coat and shoes thrown off at the doorway.

As soon as he saw you in your sleep shorts and tank top, his hands were on you. Your dinner was left to burn on the stove though you could hardly care with his hard on almost breaking through his slacks.

“Tell me you need me.” He grits, releasing your throat and slipping his hand under your top to pinch your perked nipples.

Your hands cup his face as you look at him through a lustful lense. “Need you so bad.”

“Yeah? What would you do without me?” He grins, pecking your lips.

“Die, probably.” You giggle as you feel him play with the hem of your shorts, his leather cased fingers slipping down and making you shiver.

His hands makes it past your panties and dips into your arousal, his fingers smacking against your clit.

Your eyes flutter closed as your belly is filled with warmth.

“Look at me..” Seonghwa presses his forehead against yours, your noses grazing, lips centimeters apart. “Look at me so I can play with this pretty pussy.”

You’ve never snapped your eyes open so fast and as soon as your gazes met, he started circles on your clit and watched with greedy eyes as your jaw dropped open and the sweetest moans fell from your lips.

“That feel good?” He has the audacity to ask, leaning forward in the slightest to catch your lips in a kiss.

“Mmhm.” Your voice trembles against him as you drench his gloved fingers, your arousal leaking down your thighs and dripping to your panties.

You hear him hiss in your ear and only then do you realize he’s grinding his erection against your hip, the fabric confining him only adding to the waves of pleasure in his system.

“Fuck you’re so wet. Can feel you up my wrist baby. You gonna cum for me?”

“Y-yes.” Your breath is ragged and your legs are starting to tremble as he speeds up and applies more pressure. “Oh god Seonghwa yes!”

“That’s it. It’s alright. I got you.” You feel the smirk on his lips as you unravel in his hold. Your eyes crossing and head thrown back just how he liked it.

The piercing BEEP BEEP BEEP of your fire alarm is what jolts you out of your bliss.

“Shit.” Seonghwa goes to turn the stove off and drops the scolding pan in the sink under cold water.

Your dizziness aside, you go to open your apartment windows to filter the smoke out. “I told you to let me turn it off.”

“Sorry, couldn’t wait.” He grins, taking his gloves off with his teeth and cleaning your arousal with his tongue

[mangohgeckoh]

Pirate!Silco x Mermaid! Reader

A/N: You asked and I delivered! Fair warning: I do not guarantee that I will be updating this fic as frequently as my current ongoing one: Chemical Reaction, but I do already have plot lined up and 5 chapters with 4k+ words within each one. Unlike CR, this will only be posted on Tumblr.

Tags and warnings: NSFW, smut, MDNI, fluff, nudity, betrayal, violence, interspecies relationship

-

A quick thank you: Thank you to anyone who commented and voted on my original post! Here are the lovely people who were enthusiastic enough about the project to comment on the original post: @sarynnah @pinklunarprincess @teriyakiitae @bloodyshadow737

I hope this lives up to your expectations!

-

Gunpowder and Green Shells

Chapter 1

1781

Curtains of light cerulean danced underneath the dark waves. Moonlight pierced through the waves in small increments while a prominent trail of red followed the body descending the depths. Bubbles outlined the body as the ocean began to accept it, the surface becoming a faint memory.

The part of the ocean you had called home was littered with shipwrecks and discarded items that those above kept losing. Your residence was in between two warring islands, a very poor choice for a place to live. But the ocean floor you had chosen as your territory had not been a battle zone between the two islands when you claimed your place among the wreckage. Why leave an area so abundant with shiny objects and food? In the past you attempted to leave for the open ocean, but was almost eaten by a larger creature.

So you were content with your choice.

Somewhat.

It was quite lonely for you, but you always blamed where you lived. Still, no other creature resembles your half fish-half woman body. It presented many complications, namely the inability to communicate with the sealife.

But a very odd smell wafted through your gills while they filtered the water in and out of your system. Blood. Curiosity and animalistic desire snapped you out of your monotonous routine.

Your powerful tail propelled your body with a sideways motion, following the smell of human blood out of the dark depths of your home. Your body halted at the silhouette of a man drifting in the salty water above you. He seemed lifeless as blood streamed from his eye in a disturbing dance.

Another victim of war perhaps?

You swam above him, turning to get a better look of his features. The unharmed eye of his was closed, undoubtedly weighted by the water surrounding him. Body hovering over his own, enthralled in seeing a human man for the first time, you surrendered to the stillness of the ocean. Your eyes danced around his body, since this was your first time seeing a human up close, you were naturally curious. Not feeling your body move, you felt your webbed hand becoming drawn to his face. What does human skin feel like? You pondered.

Your thoughts were interrupted when a sharp kick to the jaw made your body thrash from his body. The man, who turned out to be very much alive, was fighting against the cold water. Testing the damage, you moved your bruised jaw around as he tried to swim away from you. The man hardly covered any distance and you watched as his movements started to dull.

Oh.

Oh!

Remembering that humans live above water, they must need air! Your tail thrashed against the water, propelling you past him. The man’s body fought against your grip as you swam as fast as you could to the surface. Despite his flailing, you sensed his life diminishing as he’d been without air for a dangerous amount of time.

After a final thrash of your tail, you had breached the surface. Rain splattered against your skin and your gills closed at the contact of air. Your grip under the man’s arms tightened and you hoisted his body so his face had emerged from the water. His unharmed eye was intense, staring into your own. You had no idea if his lungs was registering air, but his gaze weakening confirmed that something was wrong.

Quickly, you recalled a few sea stacks near the coast of Zaun which a sea cave resided in. The time that it took for you to race there must have been record-breaking, but that wasn’t what you were concerned about. What concerned you was the man’s skin now starting to pale.

His body was difficult to push onto the shore of the cave, his clothes catching the sand of the cave. But with one final push, his body was completely out of the water. Now it was time for you to figure out how to tend to him without drying out. The position your body found itself in was also awkward, your tail looped and winded into the water while your stomach was laid flat against the sand. You’d never been on land before, and the consequences were unknown. But finally you had something to break you out of your normal routine, and you’d be damned if you had to return to eating crabs in the depths.

Time was being lost, so you crawled with your front arms to reach his body. Suddenly, once your tail lost contact with the foamy water, you felt the air dry your tail. It was a strange feeling, as you watched the grey scales of your tail recede into what now look like human legs. Shaking your head, you reminded yourself not to get distracted.

You never walked on human legs before so you crawled to meet his face, which still proved to feel very unnatural. Your ear met his chest, just above where his heart should be.

Quiet.

He was dead.

Your fascination with humankind cost this man’s life. If only you weren’t so easily distracted. “Why am I like this?” You whispered to yourself as you watched his skin dull in pigment, the life finally leaving his body. A stinging sensation made your eyes burn, wiping them you found that they were wet. You had heard of tears before but assumed that only humans could produce such a strange liquid. The strange feeling continued until tears streamed down your cheeks, light twinkling in them. You watched as some fell onto the man’s face, but were perplexed when they suddenly absorbed into his pale skin.

When a few more tears fell onto his cheek, your hand reached out to smear the wet against his skin. It was the sudden movement of his chest that startled you. His eye was still closed when water forced its way out of his mouth as he began to violently cough. Spooked, you quickly found shelter in the water, your tail returning and making contact with the water.

Your head barely broke the water as you watched the man from the shore. He was still retching the salt water onto the beach, his body’s desperate attempt to empty out his lungs. Interest captivated you as your eyes followed his hand, slicking back his soaked black hair. It was mid length and had bits of seaweed tangled within it. The man’s hand hovering over his injured eye made you notice that the fresh wound had completely disappeared. Granted, there were still large slashes passing through his eye, but they looked healed.

Your mind had drifted off again, this time to the peculiarity of his injury miraculously healing, to notice that the man had spotted you.

The glint of a dagger shined in your eyes. You were still a bit off shore, just enough to allow your top half to be pressed against the sand, your back beneath the water, only leaving your face visible.

The man’s intense gaze returned as he clutched the dagger, pointing it intently at you. The slit pupils of your eyes studied his face. He was a beautiful example of his species. He had a pointed chin, and sharp cheekbones framing his thin face. It wasn’t the way his lips curled into a scowl, or the way his wet locks stuck to his face, that intrigued you the most.

No.

It was his eyes. They were stunning. You were sure you’d seen the color of his unharmed eye before in the ocean but couldn’t quite place it.

The words blurted through your sharp triangle-shaped teeth. “Seashell.”

Dagger lowering slightly, the man was caught off guard. “I beg your pardon?” An eyebrow raised as your head emerged slightly from the water.

Excitement washed over you. “I just now remembered where I’ve seen your eye color before!” You say proudly. The man didn’t look at all impressed, more like he was bored. Your eyes locked as you slowly descended back into the water. “Stay. Right. There.”

With a flick of your tail, you turned around and rushed out of the shore. You were quick to scour the reefs that lined the shore. They weren’t as active and diverse as the ones near Piltover, but you knew they had what you were looking for. A shell, that was blue-green in color, caught your eye. “Gotcha!” Your words were muffled as you were well under water.

To your surprise, the man was still there. This time, though, he had torn a piece of fabric from his shirt to cover his eye in a make-shift eye patch.

The seafoam green shell clicked against the back of the man’s head, startling him. “Sorry!” You apologized from the safety in the water. Apparently throwing was not a skill of yours.

His eye scrutinized the seashell that he caught in his palms. You watched him from the safety of the cave’s mouth as his lips parted. Before he could say anything, a large gurgle coming from his stomach interrupted him. Your lips curled in a smile, knowing exactly how to help. Though the man didn’t seem to appreciate the toothy smile, he stayed put when all he could see was your tail smacking against the surface.

Since the organisms on the menu for you were usually crustaceans and seaweed, you did know how to kill a fish or two. So when you found a fish, catching it within your jaws was like second nature.

Your body curled sideways, following the movement from your large tail as you made your way back to the sea cave.

“Food.” Your words were barely comprehensible as your voice was muffled by the fish in your mouth.

This time, the man was occupied with building a pile of driftwood. It was clear that he didn’t know how to label you. For all he knew, you could've just been a strange woman who saved him just to rob him. His eye was heavy with exhaustion as it watched tentatively while he made his way to where you were.

Your bottom half was still submerged under water, while your chest was barely covered by the foamy surface. This fish laid limp in your jaws as you watched him slowly approach.

His thin lips parted as he made to reach for the fish. “Who are-” You raised your body off the sand, to make it easier to reach but in doing so your top half was now completely exposed.”Naked!” The man hopped backwards, startled. Not knowing where to look, his eye darted all over the cave, so he could look anywhere but your body.

Your lips formed a frown. “Naked?” You looked down to your chest. Yes, you did indeed possess human breasts but human males can be seen without wearing any kind of clothing on their chests on ships, why was this any different? Shaking your head, you laughed. “You’re mistaken. For one to be naked they have to have the need to wear clothes.” Water trickled from your tail as you lifted it out of the water. “I don’t wear such.”

Stumbling backwards, the man fell onto his arse as he snarled. “Stay away from me!” His movements were sharp and quick as he tried to put as much distance between him and you as possible.

The fish dropped from your jaws as he started to kick sand at your body as a threat. Startling from the intimidation, you swerved backwards into the water. You knew humans were…delicate with their emotions as well as how they perceived unusual events.

Though this did rub you the wrong way, making you feel a little hurt due to the sand now stinging your skin. But you knew one thing about humans…

They loved to eat.

-

Silco’s POV:

Body aching, Silco finally amassed enough wood for a proper fire to ensure he doesn't freeze to death tonight. His good eye kept glancing over at the mouth of the sea cave where the creature was once laying.

His teeth gritted. ‘What the hell was happening?’ Today had happened too fast. His lungs still clogged with ash from one of Piltover’s warships. Skin burned in patches around his body where the cannon balls struck the ship, causing the wood to splinter into any skin that wasn’t covered by fabric.

Vander.

Silco felt his throat tighten at the memory. Arms grabbed my throat, holding my body in the air.

His jagged teeth gritted as he recounted how his friend, comrade and…brother, discarded him in the sea like old ale.

Skin splitting under his dagger, stabbing through his eye before flinging his wounded body into the sea.

A yawn escaped Silco’s dry mouth as he tried to fight the feeling of sleepiness taking over. He knew he had to stay strong, to not fall asleep. There are monsters in these waters, after all. But the fire he had just lit and was now huddled near was all too enticing…

Sun penetrated through his eyelid while an odd smell crept its way to his nose. Silco woke up to see the sunrise making the large stack of fish next to him glow.

And he could of sworn that he saw that creature again, diving back into the sea.

-

Chapter 2

[stylesonfilms]

ink & innocence - 1

word count: 2.3k

"Alright, just keep that wrapped for two days, come back if anything happens."

The rolling of the wheels from the artist's stool echoed through the tattoo shop, blending with the buzz of tattoo guns that hummed like restless bees. The air smelled of antiseptic, ink, and faint traces of burnt coffee from the pot someone had forgotten to turn off hours ago. Overhead, the muted bass of a playlist filtered through the JBL speakers mounted in each corner, punctuated occasionally by laughter and chatter between clients and artists. The ambiance was a chaotic symphony that Harry had long since learned to tune out.

Harry peeled the black nitrile gloves from his large hands with practiced precision, the snap of the material barely audible over the noise. He rolled them into a ball and tossed them into the trash, landing the shot effortlessly. His gaze flicked toward the apprentice, a wiry kid with a head full of bleached hair, leaning against the counter scrolling his phone.

"Ni, clean the station f'me. I'll be back soon." His deep voice cut through the din without needing to rise above it.

The apprentice straightened up, muttering something about being a glorified janitor as Harry gave the chair he'd been working on a nudge with his boot, spinning it back into place. Without another word, Harry strode toward the sink, his boots hitting the tile floor in a deliberate rhythm. He let the water run cold before scrubbing his hands, chasing away the slick latex residue.

His reflection in the mirror above the sink was familiar but worn—sharp jawline framed by the untamed curls that hung loosely around his face, the strands darkened slightly with sweat from the hours spent leaning over intricate linework. He rubbed at his temples briefly before shaking it off.

Making his way to the back office, Harry pushed open the door, the hinges creaking softly in protest. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, muffling the noise of the shop to a dull roar. The office was modest, functional, and distinctly his. The centerpiece was a battered brown leather sofa that sagged in the middle, where he now sank down with a groan. Papers, receipts, and appointment schedules spilled across the coffee table in organized chaos, the remnants of his latest battle with the bureaucracy of running a business.

Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a dark green bandana, shaking it out before tying it around his head with a double knot. It was one of many he kept stashed in his bag, a small but vital part of his routine to keep his unruly curls out of his face. His hands fell into his lap for a moment, and a long, tired sigh slipped past his lips, echoing softly in the quiet room.

It had been one hell of a week. Four nights in a row staying late to fix problems that shouldn't have existed in the first place. Lease renewals that felt endless, payroll corrections that had him cursing under his breath, and a scheduling disaster courtesy of Zayn.

Zayn, with his smooth charm and infuriating nonchalance, had somehow managed to book clients on top of each other during the week Harry had taken off to recover from a nasty head cold. Zayn claimed innocence, of course, insisting it was a system error or that Niall had gotten confused while updating the calendar. Harry wasn't buying it. Now the mess had landed squarely on his shoulders—because that's what being the owner of Black Rose Studios meant.

His green eyes scanned the pile of paperwork on the table, mentally categorizing it into priorities. At least this was the last stack for now. The rest could wait until Monday morning. Out in the shop, the low hum of voices filtered through the walls. He could hear Zayn's distinctive laugh cutting through the chatter, no doubt schmoozing some poor client or persuading Niall to cover for him again.

Harry had told them to finish up with the last three appointments for the night. Naturally, they'd whined about it, angling for an early out to make it to Zayn's party. A party Zayn had been hyping all week, complete with endless mentions of Isobel's new roommate—someone Zayn seemed convinced Harry needed to meet.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, pen in hand as he began scrawling his signature on a stack of lease agreements. The repetitive motion of signing his initials—HS, HS, HS—offered a small reprieve from the chaos.

Knock, knock.

The sharp raps at the door didn't slow him. He flipped a page and continued signing, barely glancing up. "Yeah?"

The sound of a chip bag crinkling made his jaw tighten. A second later, the telltale pop of the bag opening reached his ears, followed by the unmistakable cascade of crumbs hitting the floor.

"You should really come tonight, man." Zayn's voice was muffled as he spoke around a mouthful of chips. The door creaked open, and without waiting for an invitation, Zayn sauntered in and flopped down beside Harry on the sagging sofa.

"Didn't I leave you with clients?" Harry muttered, his pen not pausing for a second.

Zayn shrugged nonchalantly, the rustle of his leather jacket loud in the small space. "Niall's got it. They're fine." He waved a hand as if to dismiss the idea of responsibility entirely, reaching into the chip bag for another handful.

Harry finally looked up, shooting him a withering glare. "You're supposed to be working, not shoving crisps down your throat in my office."

Zayn smirked, unfazed. "Come on, you've been cooped up in here all week. You need to get out. Isobel's bringing her new roommate tonight— she's—"

"No," Harry cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Zayn sighed dramatically but pressed on, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief. "Her name's Aspen, and she's not stuck up. She's just... quiet. But in a cute way, y'know? Like, mysterious."

Harry scoffed, setting his pen down with a snap. "Yeah, no thanks. I'm not interested in some preppy girl with rich parents and a superiority complex."

Zayn rolled his eyes. "You don't even know her. And for the record, she's not preppy. She's cool. Just... Come out, man. When's the last time you let loose?"

Harry didn't respond immediately, his mind flicking back to the last party he attended—Louis' place, over the summer. That felt like a lifetime ago now. The thought of alcohol and music made him feel... tired. Still, Zayn's relentless nagging was wearing him down.

"Fine," he said at last, stuffing the paperwork into a folder and slapping a sticky note on top. "But if she's annoying, I'm leaving."

Zayn grinned triumphantly, crumbs scattering onto the couch as he stood up. "You won't regret it."

As he left, Harry glanced at the discarded chip bag on the table. With a muttered curse, he crumpled it and tossed it into the trash, shouting after Zayn, "Clean up after yourself next time!"

The muffled sound of Zayn's laughter was his only reply.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Aspen tugged the brush through her hair, wincing as it snagged on a stubborn curl. The faint scent of lavender conditioner lingered, a remnant from her earlier shower, mixing with the vanilla candle Isobel had lit hours ago in their small on-campus apartment. The gentle flicker of the candlelight reflected in the bathroom mirror, softening the sharp angles of Aspen's face as she worked her way through the tangled strands.

Her class had let out early that afternoon, an unexpected reprieve that she'd intended to spend buried in a book or curled up in bed with her favorite playlist humming through her headphones. But Isobel had other plans. Aspen's roommate had appeared in the doorway of her room with a pleading expression, hands clasped dramatically in front of her.

"You have to come with me tonight, Asp. Please. Zayn's throwing a party— it's lowkey, I swear!"

The term had finally come to an end-- her final exams all submitted and completed and she hated to sound cocky but she new she passed for sure. Her current GPA of a perfect 4.0 remained untouched for as long as she could remember. It was never a bribing point for her, though. Her grades were only so good because she had nothing to distract herself with. Parties never excited her and the boys she found interest in, she would never do anything about. And she surely was never approached by any of them either. Although she was sure that if she had been, she would be too shy to do anything anyways.

Aspen had protested at first, of course. She always did. Parties were foreign territory, a world she'd deliberately avoided ever since starting college. Growing up, she had made a silent pact with herself— and her parents— that she would stay focused. No distractions. No wild nights that might lead to messy mornings. It wasn't like she judged people who partied; it just wasn't her scene. 

But Isobel's persistence was as predictable as it was relentless. And now here she was, smoothing down her freshly brushed curls, her reflection in the mirror staring back at her with a mixture of resignation and anxiety.

"It's just a get-together, right?" Aspen asked, her voice tentative as she glanced at Isobel's reflection beside her.

Isobel's silence was answer enough.

"Iz..." Aspen turned slowly, setting the brush down with an exasperated sigh.

"Yes! Yes, okay, it's just a small get-together," Isobel said quickly, her words tumbling over one another in her rush to reassure. "It's just Zayn, a few of his friends from the shop, and maybe a couple others. Nothing crazy. No keg stands, no beer pong, nothing like that." She paused, gauging Aspen's reaction before adding, "And you don't have to drink! I already told Zayn to have soda and juice out."

Aspen wrinkled her nose. "Juice? Seriously? Iz, I'm not five."

Isobel snorted, pointing at her with the end of her eyeshadow brush. "Okay, but the mere mention of alcohol makes you do that weird cringy thing with your face, so maybe juice is a good option."

As if on cue, Aspen cringed again, her nose scrunching involuntarily. She turned back to the mirror, muttering under her breath as she picked up her blush brush.

Makeup had never been a big part of Aspen's routine, but she couldn't deny the satisfaction of it. There was something oddly soothing about the soft swirls of powder on her cheeks or the precise swipe of mascara on her lashes. Tonight, however, she was feeling daring—or as daring as Aspen could feel. She picked up a black liquid liner, carefully dragging the felt tip along the edge of her eyelid.

The result wasn't perfect, but it wasn't terrible either. She stepped back to admire her handiwork just as Isobel appeared behind her, clapping her hands in delight.

"Oh my God! Aspen, you look amazing! That wing is perfect— I mean, it's practically professional."

Aspen blushed under the praise, ducking her head slightly. "It's not that great," she murmured, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Her mood, however, soured slightly as her mind wandered about who would be there, the thought of someone new being at the party. Aspen had met Zayn before— he was charming in that effortless, slightly intimidating way—but the idea of meeting more of his friends made her stomach churn. She had heard bits and pieces about them: Niall, who apparently had the sense of humor of a stand-up comedian; Louis, a former coworker of Zayn's with a penchant for mischief. And then there was Harry.

The mere thought of Harry sent a jolt of nervous energy through her. Tattoos. Piercings. Owner of a tattoo shop. She could already feel the intimidating aura he would inevitably exude. Aspen had never been good at talking to guys, especially not ones like that.

She would be doomed if she even tried to squeak a word to him. Isobel of course played into the playful banter earlier when she was begging for Aspen to come. 

"I'm not talking to him," she said firmly, more to herself than to Isobel.

Isobel, rummaging through her closet in search of the perfect outfit, barely glanced over her shoulder. "What was that?"

"I said I'm not talking to him," Aspen repeated, louder this time. "I'll go to the party, but I'm not—no way. Not happening."

Isobel smirked, tossing a shirt over her shoulder. "Who said you have to talk to him? Maybe he'll think you're hot and talk to you."

Aspen gasped, her face heating up. "God, no! Shut up!"

Isobel only laughed, her amusement growing when one of her discarded shirts landed squarely on Aspen's face. Aspen pulled it off with a huff, shaking her head as she returned to the bathroom.

By the time she finished her makeup and spritzed herself with her favorite cherry vanilla perfume, the nervous knot in her stomach had only grown tighter. She stepped back to examine her outfit in the mirror: a deep red ribbed long-sleeve top with a square neckline that hugged her frame, paired with a justtt long enough denim skirt and sheer black tights. Her boots added a bit of edge to the otherwise sweet ensemble, and the white satin bow in her hair tied it all together in it's half up-half down style. On her neck, a beautiful 'A' necklace that Isobel got her after their first year of living together and her ears had small silver hoops in them. 

She tugged at the hem of her skirt nervously, turning to Isobel. "Is it too much?"

Isobel turned to look, her eyes widening in mock awe. "You look incredible, Aspen. Seriously. If you don't get at least ten compliments tonight, I'll be shocked."

Aspen laughed despite herself, grabbing a leather jacket from Isobel's closet. The coat was heavier than she needed, but it gave her a sense of security. She slung it into the crook of her arm as they headed out the door. Zayn didn't live too far from them, but Isobel insisted on taking an Uber because she wanted to dress up and it certainly didn't fit the weather outside.

The Uber ride was short but felt interminable. Aspen stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, her hands fidgeting with the zipper of her jacket. Her nerves buzzed like static, but she told herself this was for Isobel. Just one night. She could survive one night.

And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be as bad as she feared.

[ismyevilregal]

Tethered Shadows

Warnings: I have no idea what I'm doing.

Chapter One: Quiet Collisions

The insistent buzzing of my alarm dragged me from a dream where I was flying—weightless and free—over a city bathed in an ethereal, otherworldly light. Disappointment, sharp and sudden, pierced through the grogginess. 7:00 AM. Another day, another grind. I slapped the snooze button, the insistent buzzing replaced by a gentler hum.

Five minutes later, the alarm shrieked again, more insistent this time. I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. The scent of stale coffee and something vaguely metallic—the lingering odor of last night's takeout—assaulted my nostrils. Finally, I surrendered, throwing back the covers and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The floor was a cold, unforgiving slab against my bare feet.

Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting thin stripes across the room. It wasn’t much—just a small studio apartment I’d been calling home for the past year—but it was mine. A safe little corner of the world. But at this particular moment, this studio apartment, once a source of pride and independence, now felt more like a prison cell. The peeling paint on the walls, the perpetually flickering fluorescent light above the kitchenette, the constant drone of traffic from the street below—it all seemed to conspire to dampen my spirits.

First, I stumbled toward the bathroom, the world a blurry kaleidoscope of colors. The mirror reflected a stranger—eyes bloodshot, hair a tangled mess, a faint shadow of a beard clinging to my jaw. I splashed cold water on my face, the shock momentarily invigorating.

Then I shuffled to the kitchen, bare feet padding against the cool floor. The coffee maker, a relic from a previous roommate, whirred to life as I poured water into the machine, the comforting hum filling the quiet. Something about the morning ritual was soothing, grounding me before the day's chaos. While waiting for the coffee to brew, I leaned against the counter, scrolling absentmindedly through my phone. A few unread messages from classmates about an upcoming group project. I made a mental note to respond later.

By 8:15, I was out the door, backpack slung over my shoulder and earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats helping me navigate the crowded sidewalks. College was only a short bus ride away, and I used the time to skim over my notes for class. Balancing work, school, and what little social life I had was a juggling act, but I’d managed to make it work so far. Mostly.

My first lecture of the day was lively—a class on film theory that hooked me from the moment I walked in. The professor, an eccentric older woman with a penchant for dramatic hand gestures, paced the room as she deconstructed scenes from classic films. Today’s focus was on Hitchcock’s use of tension, and I found myself scribbling furiously in my notebook as she dissected a pivotal scene from Psycho. It was one of those rare moments where learning felt less like work and more like inspiration.

The grand entrance hall, usually filled with the hushed whispers of tourists, was eerily silent. The air was thick with anticipation, a palpable tension hanging in the air. I spotted Greg near the entrance, his face pale and drawn.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

Greg chuckled nervously. "Try surviving Professor Sharma's lectures. It's enough to make a grown man question his life choices."

After class, I grabbed a quick coffee and headed to my part-time job at the campus library. The familiar scent of old books greeted me as I walked in, and the quiet atmosphere was a stark contrast to the bustling campus outside. My shift was predictable: shelving books, assisting students who couldn’t figure out the catalog system, and occasionally sneaking a peek at my own assignments during the slower moments. I spent part of the afternoon helping a fellow film student locate obscure texts on 1970s cinematography, exchanging quick opinions about the underrated brilliance of The French Connection before returning to my duties.

It wasn’t glamorous, but I liked it. The library felt like a sanctuary, a place where time slowed down and the rest of the world melted away. Occasionally, I’d catch glimpses of students huddled over laptops, editing films for their projects, and it reminded me of why I loved what I did. Cinema wasn’t just a major—it was a lens through which I saw the world.

By the time my shift ended, the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, painting the horizon in shades of orange and pink. I grabbed a quick bite at the cafeteria—a less-than-impressive turkey sandwich—before heading back to my apartment. The bus ride was quiet, the city lights flickering outside the window as I leaned my head against the cool glass. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out to see a text from Tara.

Tara: Hey, can you meet me at the diner around 6? I have someone I want you to meet.

Y/N: Someone?

Tara: Just trust me. You’ll like her.

Y/N: …Should I be worried?

Tara: Nope. Promise.

I stared at the screen for a moment, debating. Tara’s matchmaking efforts weren’t exactly a secret, but she’d never been this cryptic about it before. Still, I trusted her. If she thought it was worth my time, it probably was. Plus, it was a good reason to go out and relax a bit after a long day.

Y/N: Fine. I’ll be there.

The remainder of my evening before the meeting passed in a blur of small tasks: drafting ideas for a screenplay assignment, organizing my cluttered desk, and watching clips from a documentary on the rise of independent cinema in the 90s. By the time 5:30 rolled around, I was shrugging into a hoodie and heading back out the door, the crisp evening air waking me up a little more with each step.

The diner buzzed with a low hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of cutlery against ceramic plates. I wasn’t sure why Tara insisted on meeting here, but then again, Tara always had a way of picking the most unassuming places for moments she swore were important. The chipped laminate table beneath my fingertips felt oddly grounding, even as a sliver of unease twisted in my chest.

“She’ll be here soon,” Tara said, glancing at her phone. Her tone was casual, but her eyes gave her away. There was an eagerness, a spark that told me this was more than just another introduction. “She’s just…” Tara hesitated, searching for the right word. “She’s not great with people. Don’t take it personally.”

“Noted,” I replied with a small smile, though I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to feel. Curiosity? Anxiety? The mixture of both left my coffee cooling in its mug, untouched.

The bell above the door jingled, and Tara’s head snapped up. I followed her gaze, and that’s when I saw her. Sam Carpenter wasn’t what I expected, though I couldn’t have said what I had been expecting. I turned my head quickly to glare at Tara for a moment, but it didn't last long before my attention was back on her bigger sister again. Her presence was immediate, sharp-edged, and deliberate like she carried the weight of her own gravity. Dark hair framed a face that might have been soft once, but the years had hardened it into something unreadable. Her eyes were the kind that didn’t just look at you but through you, as if she were cataloging every detail.

She paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room with a wariness that felt almost instinctual. When her gaze landed on Tara, some of the tension eased, but only just. Sam crossed the diner in a few strides, her boots scuffing against the tiled floor.

“Hey,” Sam said, her voice low and even, almost flat. She slid into the booth beside Tara, her movements economical, like she’d planned each one. For a moment, she didn’t even look at me, her attention fixed on her sister.

“Sam,” Tara said, her tone light and encouraging. “This is my friend, Y/N. The one I told you about.”

At last, Sam turned her head toward me, and I felt the full weight of her gaze. It wasn’t hostile, exactly, but it wasn’t welcoming either. It was searching, measuring. The kind of look that made me want to shift in my seat but refuse to out of sheer principle.

“Hi,” I said, offering a small, non-threatening smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, her eyes flicked to Tara, then back to me. I guess she was just as confused as I was. “You too,” she said finally, though it sounded more like a formality than anything genuine.

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. Tara, ever the fixer, jumped in to fill the void. “Sam just got back in town,” she said, her voice a little too bright. “It’s been… a lot, but she’s settling in. Right, Sam?”

Sam’s jaw tightened slightly, but she nodded. “Something like that.”

I didn’t miss the way her shoulders stiffened at the words. Whatever she’d come back from, it wasn’t something she was ready to talk about. The walls around her were practically visible, brick and mortar and steel, built to keep anyone from seeing too much. But it wasn’t my place to pry, not when I’d just met the woman.

“Well,” Tara said, leaning forward, “the two of you have a lot in common. I think you’ll get along great.”

Sam’s eyebrow arched slightly, as if she didn’t quite believe her sister. “Is that so?”

“Definitely,” Tara said, undeterred. “Just give it a chance.”

Sam’s gaze shifted back to me, and for a moment, there was something almost challenging in her eyes. “Guess we’ll see.”

It was then I realized just how much smaller I was next to her. Tara often joked about my height when she was feeling particularly mischievous, but we both knew we stood eye-to-eye. Sam, however, was a solid presence—a towering figure that only added to her intensity. The size difference was almost laughable, but I wasn’t about to let it shake me.

I wasn’t sure what Tara was trying to accomplish here, but one thing was clear: Sam Carpenter would be a puzzle. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to solve her or if she was better left a mystery. But before I could settle too much into my thoughts, Tara cleared her throat, bringing my focus back to the moment.

"So," she started, a little too enthusiastically, "what do you two think of… Hitchcock?"

The question felt forced, like Tara was trying to find the safest possible common ground to get the conversation rolling. My lips twitched into a smile, appreciating the effort, but I wasn't sure it would land.

"Hitchcock?" Sam asked, her tone flat. Her arms crossed as she leaned back against the booth. "Never really saw the appeal."

I blinked, momentarily thrown. Not because I couldn’t understand the opinion—plenty of people thought his style was overrated—but because the way she said it felt almost deliberately provocative, like she was daring me to disagree.

Tara winced. "Sam…"

"No, it’s fine," I said quickly, leaning forward. I could feel that challenge in her gaze again, and something in me itched to meet it. "I get it. Not everyone likes the classics. What’s your style, then?"

Sam’s brow furrowed, as if she hadn’t expected me to push back so easily. For a moment, she didn’t answer, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the table. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, less sharp. "I guess… I like stories that feel real. Messy. People making mistakes, doing stupid things… stuff that actually matters."

Her words hung in the air, heavier than I anticipated. Tara shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and I wondered just how much of that statement was tied to Sam’s personal history.

"That’s fair," I said softly, not wanting to press too hard. "Sometimes the most compelling stories are the ones where you don’t know how they’ll end."

Sam’s gaze flicked to me again, and this time, there was a flicker of something in her expression. Not quite warmth, but maybe a hint of curiosity. "Yeah. Exactly."

Tara exhaled dramatically, breaking the tension. "Okay, great. We’re talking. Progress!"

I laughed, shaking my head at her antics. "Subtle, Tara. Real subtle."

"I try," she said with a wink. "Anyway, I’m gonna grab some pie. You two want anything?"

I shook my head, and Sam muttered a quiet "No," as Tara slid out of the booth and made her way to the counter. The silence she left behind felt different now, less heavy and more… expectant.

"So," I said after a moment, "what’s your story?"

Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were deciding whether or not to answer. "Not much to tell."

I raised an eyebrow. "Everyone’s got a story."

She huffed a quiet laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. "Trust me, mine’s not the kind you’d want to hear."

For a second, I considered dropping it, letting her keep her walls intact. But something about her intrigued me and made me want to dig a little deeper. "Maybe. But how would I know unless you tell me?"

Sam studied me, her expression unreadable. Finally, she shrugged, leaning back in her seat. "I guess I’ll have to keep you guessing."

It wasn’t much, but it felt like a small victory. A crack in the armor.

For a moment, the conversation settled into a quiet lull, the din of the diner filling the space between me and Sam. I tapped my fingers lightly against the table, debating whether to push further or let the moment breathe.

"You always this mysterious, or is it just part of the charm?" I asked, a teasing edge creeping into my voice.

Sam exhaled a short chuckle, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "I think it’s more of a defense mechanism than anything else."

I nodded, sensing the weight behind her words, but before I could respond, she glanced at me with something close to curiosity. "What about you?"

I tilted my head. "What about me?"

"You don’t seem like someone who gives up easily," she noted. "Why bother trying to figure me out?"

There was something almost challenging in her tone, like she was testing me. Maybe even daring me to step back. But instead, I met her gaze and shrugged.

"Guess I like a good puzzle."

Before she could reply, Tara reappeared, carefully setting the plate of pie between us both. "Mission accomplished," she declared, sliding back into her seat with a satisfied grin. "And I even got extra whipped cream."

She shot a look between the two of us, picking up on the shift in atmosphere. "Did I miss something?"

Sam reached for her fork, her expression once again guarded but softer than before. "Nothing important," she said, but the way her gaze flickered to me told a different story.

Tara arched a brow, clearly not convinced but choosing not to push. "Alright, well, I’m eating before either of you try and steal a bite."

I laughed, reaching for my own fork. "No promises."

As the three of us settled in, the conversation drifted into something lighter, but the undercurrent of that moment with Sam lingered—unspoken but present, like a secret waiting to be unraveled.

------

The next morning unfolded in slow motion, sunlight creeping in through the blinds like it had all the time in the world. But something was different. I felt lighter, more awake than I had any right to be. Maybe it was the residual warmth of last night—the easy conversation, the feeling that I had nudged a door open just a little.

A buzz from my phone pulled me from my thoughts. For a brief second, my pulse skipped—Sam? But no. Tara.

Tara: Morning! You survived my sister’s brooding. Congrats. Wanna grab coffee?

A grin tugged at my lips. Even through text, Tara’s energy was infectious.

Me: Morning. I’ll take that as a badge of honor. Where and when?

Her reply was quick—café, mid-morning. Just like that, the day had direction.

As I got ready, I caught my reflection in the mirror, my gaze lingering longer than usual. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just another day. But for the first time in a while, something about it felt... new. Like the start of something. And I wasn’t sure if that excited or terrified me more.

The café was quiet, the air thick with the scent of fresh coffee and the low hum of early risers buried in their screens. I stepped inside, the soft chime of the door marking my arrival. I ordered a coffee to go, restless energy thrumming beneath my skin. My mind kept circling back to last night—Sam, the weight of her silence, the push and pull I couldn’t quite decipher.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed Tara until she breezed in, her presence a sharp contrast to my uncertainty.

"Hey, look who actually showed up!" she called, grinning as she made her way over.

I laughed, the tightness in my chest easing. "Wouldn’t miss it."

Tara pulled me into one of her signature hugs—warm, slightly suffocating, but somehow exactly what I needed.

"You ready for coffee? Or are you still in the ‘don’t talk to me yet’ phase?" she teased, eyes gleaming.

I exhaled, the tension unraveling bit by bit. "I think I’m awake now."

We settled into a table by the window, the city stretching beyond the glass, bathed in the soft glow of morning light. Tara had that effect—making even the most mundane moments feel like something worth being present for.

"So," she started, casual, but sharp. "How’s it feel surviving the Sam experience?"

I took a sip of my coffee, choosing my words carefully. "It’s... different. She’s complicated."

Tara smirked. "You don’t say. You’ve figured that out already? Impressive."

I hesitated before admitting, "I’m just trying to figure out where I stand with her. She’s got this wall up, but it doesn’t feel like she wants it there. I can’t tell if she’s just playing it cool or if she really doesn’t care."

Tara leaned back, tapping her fingers against her cup. "Sam doesn’t do anything unless it matters. She doesn’t waste her time. If she’s acknowledging you, that’s something." A flicker of something softer passed over her face. "She’s been through a lot. Letting people in isn’t easy for her. But if she’s letting you orbit, even a little? That’s progress."

I nodded, mulling over her words. "I just don’t know what she wants from me."

Tara’s grin widened. "Maybe she doesn’t know either. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to find out. Just... don’t let her push you away. She’s good at that."

The words settled deep. Sam was a puzzle I wasn’t sure I should be solving—but the curiosity wouldn’t let go.

"Thanks for the advice," I said, half-smiling. "Guess we’ll see where this goes."

Tara raised her cup in a mock toast. "That’s the fun part. The not knowing."

I sat there, watching the world move outside, feeling the quiet shift in the air. Sam, Tara, all of this—it was unfolding in ways I hadn’t expected. And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

Tara, ever perceptive, tilted her head, a sly glint in her eyes. "You should text her."

I blinked. "What? Now?"

"Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?"

A lot, I wanted to say. But I didn’t.

Instead, I unlocked my phone, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Tara leaned in, smirking. "Be honest. Keep it simple. Something like, ‘Hey, I was thinking about our conversation yesterday. It was cool talking to you.’"

I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head. But she wasn’t wrong.

Hey, I was thinking about our conversation yesterday. It was cool talking to you.

Before I could second-guess it, I hit send.

Tara watched me, satisfaction written all over her face. "There. Easy, right?"

I let out a slow breath. "Not sure if easy is the word, but... it’s done."

She lifted her cup in a knowing gesture. "Now, we wait."

And so I did. Through the rest of our conversation, through the rest of the morning, through every casual check of my phone, heartbeat spiking each time it buzzed. But it was never her.

By the time I got home, the weight of the day had settled in my bones. I tossed my bag onto the couch, my phone still in my pocket, untouched. I told myself not to check it. Not to let it matter so much.

I busied myself with the little things—sorting through the scattered notes on my desk, flipping through a book I had no real intention of reading, absentmindedly scrolling through social media before locking my phone again. The air in my apartment felt heavier somehow, like I was waiting for something I refused to admit.

Eventually, I sprawled out on the couch, arm draped over my face, willing my mind to focus on anything else. It wasn’t working.

And then—

My phone buzzed.

I sat up too quickly, pulse hammering as I fumbled to grab it, screen lighting up in the dim room.

Sam: You too.

Just two words. But they unraveled something tight in my chest.

I stared at the message, reading it once, twice, three times, as if deciphering some hidden meaning within it. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And something was more than nothing. When it comes from Sam, as I'm learning, something is actually a lot.

A slow smile crept onto my face as I leaned back against the couch, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

[aquanutech]

AquaNu Tech’s mission is the core element that drives their daily business and underpins every decision they take. Their aim is to deliver eco-friendly, next-generation products that are not only futuristic but are also available in the present. Their manufacturing and product design methods are in line with their commitment to the environment, and they strive to offer their customers products that help them save resources. They offer the best on demand hot water dispenser and hot water dispenser faucet.

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

The Lookalike (Epilogue, Acknowledgments and Requests)

☒ Summary: The first thing you remembered after your death was an argument. “No, this isn’t one of my fucking sluts.” The man behind you exhaled, frustrated. “This is a present for you. Something to help you work through your Alastor fixation.” You awakened in Hell as the near-spitting image of a certain infamous radio host. Unfortunately for you, you immediately fell into the clutches of his nemesis, before stumbling into the arms of the Radio Demon himself. A whole lot of fucking later, you became the catalyst for something resembling a reconciliation, and now you're back in the TV Demon's private quarters with both Vox and Alastor, hung over and sore. 

☒ Warnings: hermaphrodite!reader, deer!reader, they/them pronouns used, explicit sexual content, Vox X reader, Alastor X reader, Vox X Alastor, reader is in Hell for a reason, Valentino, canon typical scenarios.

☒ Series Links: Now completed! Part I Part2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 6 BONUS SCENE Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

The thing about Hell was that your internal body clock woke you after only a couple hours of sleep, just enough of the alcohol out of your system that your head throbbed and the rich bittersweet taste of last night’s whiskey had been transmuted with the alchemy of the morning after, the interior of your mouth now tasting of rancid orange peel and dirt. You lay splayed across the couch, Alastor’s tailcoat covering your nakedness, its red unmarred by the blood it had soaked up, your head in Alastor’s lap, your hooves in Vox’s lap.

Consciousness brought with it the awareness of the various injuries you had acquired, the fullness of your bladder, and the generalized muscular ache that was probably from all the wall-climbing you’d done. You were also filthy, your whole body faintly sticky like a budding rhododendron. You moved to get up, but found Alastor’s arm around you.

“-very dear to me,” mumbled Alastor, the radio filter almost entirely missing from his hoarse, sleepy voice, and his claws wrapped around your shoulder, hard.

“Darling. I have to piss,” you croaked, stroking Alastor’s fingers, and he gave a noise of irritation, his red eyes opening a fraction, but his grip loosened and you pulled yourself free.

Brushing away Alastor’s shadow’s hand as it snagged at your hoof, you staggered naked across Vox’s small living space, to where you remembered the bathroom to be, and took a piss that felt like it lasted at least a minute and a half, your head throbbing all the while. The things that Vox had brought for you during your short stay were still there; the little blue toothbrush, the showercap with room for your ears, the robe.

You brushed your teeth, drank several cups of water from the tap, and ate a Tylenol before grabbing the bottle of deer shampoo from the cabinet and stepping into the shower.

Vox’s shower was large, enough to comfortably fit three or more people, the flooring some kind of expensive looking stone tiling that was probably fiendishly difficult to get blood out of, and the showerheads set at chest height. You hesitated at the shower controls- which button turned the water on, again?

“You, uh- you want some help with that?” Vox stood at the entryway to the shower, wearing only pants and looking pretty much exactly like you felt.

“Sure,” you sighed, not really surprised when Vox stripped off the rest of the way and stepped into the space with you.

A gesture from him was all it took for the water to start running, no uncomfortably hot or cold initial flow but something close to body temperature. You stepped into the stream, sighing as it hit you, the water swirling a brownish color around your feet as it began to wash away the blood that had caked onto your skin.

“Temperature?” Vox asked, stepping closer.

“Warmer,” you said, an involuntary noise in your throat as Vox made it so. It stung the lacerations on your back, the small wounds on your hips and thighs, the scrapes that Alastor’s teeth had made on your neck.

“You like that?” Vox asked.

“Warmer,” you repeated, and the temperature rose to something crueler, enough that steam rose as it hit your skin, a truly scouring sort of heat. You felt your soreness recede, a little of the tension in your shoulders relaxing. “There,” you said, content to stand under the water for a few moments before uncapping the shampoo you had brought in with you.

“Let me?” Vox asked, and there was a little of the Vox who had sat in the armchair in your bedroom in his voice, pleading. You handed him the bottle, and he unhooked a second showerhead from the wall and turned it on, wetting your hair with a trickle of warm water before he lathered shampoo between his palms. It was strange; anyone else save Alastor and you might’ve had second thoughts, but Vox had had you last night, quivering and vulnerable in his hands, so you had no qualms turning your back to him.

Vox’s hands in your hair were a gift. You stood under the stream of near-scalding water as he drew close, his fingers running from the back of your neck and up, fingers parting your hair, massaging the lather into your skull. You groaned low as he worked the base of each ear, his body pressing closer to your back. He was hard, his cock brushing up against your tail and the small of your back, but there was no threat to it, no intent beyond simple closeness.

“That good, eh?” he asked, as you gave another appreciative grunt, and you braced yourself against the wall to avoid melting completely under the touch.

“You’re making me forget about my headache,” you said, which was rewarded by Vox pressing his fingers more firmly against your skull, more head massage than shampoo application. “Don’t you have things to do?”

“It is five fuckin’ thirty am,” said Vox, his voice thick and hoarse, and he leaned into you, his chest pressing warm against your narrow back, his erection squashing temptingly against the meat of your ass. “I’m all yours, baby deer.”

It would be so easy to let him fuck you like this- even as hungover as he clearly was, he was strong enough to lift you against the wall of the shower and fuck you against it until you were whimpering and quivering, your orgasm smoothing the edges of this rough and difficult morning. It would feel good.

But no. No fucking. Only Vox’s soapy hands in your hair, rubbing your back-tilted ears until you wanted to purr, his thumbs experimental around the base of your antlers. He told you to close your eyes before he raised the spare showerhead to rinse you off, the water dark, even the soap bubbles brownish as the blood was sluiced away. Vox repeated the process twice more before the water ran clear, finger combing your hair to check for errant viscera.

“I don’t need you to wash my back for me, you know,” you said, as Vox put the shampoo aside and reached for the bodywash.

“Course you don’t,” he said, eyes narrowed, and for a second his grin reminded you of Alastor’s. “But you fuckin’ like it, don’t you? You like my hands-” he said, rubbing soap into your flank, then tracing a line down, over your thigh. “My mouth.”

You opened one eye. “I hope you’re not proposing to lick me clean.”

The glazed expression on Vox’s face, along with the way his antennae flopped, told you that yes, yes he would very much like that, his gaze drifting to between your thighs, the faint trickle of Alastor’s cum mixed with his as it leaked out of you and mixed with the water from the shower.

Vox swallowed. “Please,” he groaned. “Fuck, please, baby deer. Just a little. Don’t make me fuckin’ beg.”

“I’m not making you do anything, Vox,” you said, a sidelong look at him. The steam from the shower was fogging his screen, droplets of the splashback running down the front of his wide face like sweat, and his eyes were wide. “You’re begging of your own accord.”

You put your palm on Vox’s grey-skinned shoulder and pushed him down. He sank to his knees, obedient, the water on your back slowing to a trickle, still under his control. His eyes weren’t hearts but they might as well have been with the expression he made as he reached out to touch your thighs, pulling his face close to your legs, his long blue tongue extending.

Vox’s tongue against wet skin was a new sensation; a crackling pressure that conducted over a wider area than his tongue touched as he lapped blissfully at the rivulets of diluted cum that ran out of you. You shivered, and breathed in as you watched him eat, running a hand over the top of his screen, your claws gentle on the fragile antennae that sprouted from it.

Vox whimpered as you held the tip of his antennae between thumb and fingertip, and it occurred to you, belatedly, that maybe these were analogous to antlers for him. You stopped touching them, returning to stroking his frame. His hand found yours, your fingers twining, and you knew that if you asked him he would fuck you with his tongue, lap every last drop of Alastor’s seed from your aching cunt and drink it down like a man starved.

“Please-” he whined, looking up at you between strokes of his tongue.

“You know,” you said, smiling to yourself. “Alastor has very sharp hearing, and he was mostly awake when I got up. He can definitely hear us right now.” You paused to take a breath as you felt Vox freeze, his tongue still on your thigh. “He definitely heard you begging me to let you lick his cum from my legs.”

Vox’s eyes fluttered closed, a low groan in his throat. “Fuck.”

“Tell me,” you said, pushing him a little as his tongue swept up your leg, perilously close to your sex. “Tell me what you’re begging for now.”

Vox’s voice came as a stream of consciousness as you squeezed the top of his screen, hard enough that colors distorted around the pads of your fingers, his breath in gasps as he tasted you between each word, a prayer to you, a prayer to Alastor. “Fuck, yes, please, I fucking want it, oh god, fucking god, let me, let me, please please, let me taste him. I wanna taste him in your pussy, oh god.” He swallowed, whimpering, cock finding friction against your leg, and he trembled. “God-” Vox’s eyes sprang open as he came, his body jerking as he shot his load over your hooves. “Fuck-” he breathed, softly, his screen tilting against your thigh.

You were gentle with him as you pulled him to his feet, letting him lean against you as he came down from his high. You rubbed his back, his shoulders, and the edges of his screen, eliciting soft groans from him, and he nudged his face into your shoulder before you grabbed the soap and started to lather it into his chest.

As if realizing where he was, Vox started the water running at full pressure again. When you had finished him he washed your back for you without complaint, merely a pleading look in his eyes as he scrubbed you down, the runoff going from dark brown to pink as the ablution opened a few of your newer injuries, his hands gentle enough on you to make you sigh and forget your hangover for another few seconds.

When you emerged from the bathroom, toweled dry and dressed in the monogrammed robe Vox had kept for you, you felt almost alive.

“You were in there a while,” Alastor commented from the couch as you emerged, one eye opening, his voice rough and crackling like old vinyl.

“You didn’t want to join us?” you asked, squeezing a little more moisture from your hair.

Alastor shrugged, his lips a tiny smirk. “You seemed to have everything under control,” he said, a statement not lost on Vox, who did not meet his eyes.

Vox’s arm was protective round your waist, or perhaps simply clingy, as the three of you proceeded out of his quarters and into the living area he shared with the other members of his coterie. You sat at the breakfast bar as Vox operated what was perhaps the most complicated coffee machine you had ever seen. Alastor took a seat at the breakfast bar too, his tailcoat on, overdressed compared to you in a robe and Vox in his lounge pants and t-shirt. Alastor’s shadow looked more hung over than he was, sulking in a pool by his feet and clutching its head. Vox seemed to have some level of sympathy for his condition, because he turned to Alastor first.

“So, Al, you want anything? This baby makes a mean fuckin’ macchiato, I’ll tell you that much. We’ve got three types of coffee, too, a Columbian-”

“Coffee,” said Alastor, a grinding edge of almost mechanical stress to his voice. “Make me a coffee.”

Vox sighed. “Americano it is,” he said, setting the machine running with a cheerful beep as he manipulated his way through the menus.

Alastor was sniffing his americano and the expensive looking machine was grinding something in its innards when the door on the lower level opened and a small group of people came in, clearly still mid revelry, brightly colored plastic drink containers in hand. You recognized one of them as the man who had dumped you on Vox’s bedroom floor on your first night in Hell, dressed to the nines in patent leather thigh high boots and a naked effect body-stocking with red sequins that barely covered the essentials. Valentino.

“Ah.” Vox froze with one hand on the coffee machine. “Fuck.”

“Vox?” Valentino’s tone was disbelieving, and he sashayed up the stairs to the breakfast bar to stare at the three of you, lowering his pink glasses dramatically. “What the fuck is this?”

“Val.” Vox hopped the breakfast bar with surprising alacrity, placing himself bodily between you and Valentino, his hands up in a placating gesture. It was unnecessary, all things considered, but sexy. “I can explain.”

Alastor, meanwhile, lowered his ears and hid his face behind his fuck Alastor mug, clearly uncomfortable at being witnessed in Vox’s residence at such an early hour.

“So this is where you’ve been?” Valentino gesticulated. “You don’t take my calls, you say you don’t wanna party with me, all so you can stay home and jerk off onto your pile of Alastor lookalikes?” He turned to Alastor, the real Alastor, his eyes squinting behind his pink glasses. “Where did you even get this one? He looks like shit!”

“Gotta agree with you there,” you deadpanned. “Not a word of English either.”

“Bonjou,” said Alastor, gamely, his voice gruff with the full impact of his night of drinking, his radio filter completely absent.

“You see?” Valentino waved. “You want more Alastors, chulo, you come to me. None of this amateur hour carajo.” He shook his head. “Me and these professionals are going to my room.”

“Val, wait-” Vox called, but Valentino was already on his way out. He stopped, perhaps realizing the futility of it, and rubbed the front of his face with his hand. “Fuck.”

“Is that-” you watched Valentino walk out, shooing the squad of sex workers through the door ahead of him so that he could slam it. “-is that gonna be okay?”

“Fuck knows.” Vox’s shoulders sank, and he walked back to the coffee machine. “It’s hard to tell what he wants sometimes. I mean, first he gives me you, then he’s pissy I’m spending time with you. Does he want me to chase after him? I don’t fucking know anymore.” The machine finished making your drink, and Vox picked it up, vanishing in electricity and arcing to appear behind you. “I know what you want, though,” he purred, his face close enough to your back that the hairs on your neck stood on end, and pushed your coffee in front of you.

You turned your head to grin at him, eyes half-lidded. “A full and unredacted list of the members of my fanclub still extant in Hell?”

“Fuck.” Vox’s expression soured, and he leaned back. “You're all business, aren't you? You know, I preferred it when you were pretending to be stupid.”

“And I preferred it when you had your tongue up my ass,” you said, enjoying the instant of startlement and arousal that flashed across his screen, Alastor smirking into his cup of coffee behind him. “I guess we’re just not our best selves this morning.”

“I liked that too, but I can't just hand you those names, baby deer,” said Vox, leaning on the breakfast bar beside you. “That's not how business works around here. It's about trust.”

“He’s lying,” Alastor interjected, mildly. “He could give you whatever it is you’re talking about, he just doesn’t want to.”

“Oh, butt out, Al,” groused Vox. “I’m not lying. There’s a cost.”

“One which you could well afford to waive,” said Alastor, smiling. “Given our situation.”

“Yeah, and what situation is that?” Vox shot.

He was unprepared as Alastor stood, closing the distance between them and seizing Vox by the front of his shirt, bringing their faces close, not quite touching, but close enough to kiss, or bite. Vox made a noise in his throat, and Alastor grinned, violence in his teeth.

“If you want this to continue,” said Alastor, his voice low menace. “You’re going to have to give our delightful young friend here everything they want. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what it costs you. Everything.”

“Fuck,” Vox croaked, his eyes wide.

“Well?” said Alastor. “Do we have a deal?”

“This isn’t fair, Al.”

Alastor’s grin was steady. “These things rarely are. Yes or no, old pal?”

“Shit, I’m such a fucking idiot.” Vox closed his eyes. “Yes.”

Alastor set Vox down gently, a sly wink to you as he did so, then stalked his way over to you, taking a small sip from your coffee cup before winding an arm around your waist and burying his face in your hair.

Vox looked at the both of you with something approaching dismay. “He likes you way too much, baby deer,” he said, shaking his head. “Way, way too much.”

Alastor just laughed, his nose pressing against your neck.

The following list is all of the people without whom this work would not exist in its present form; who cheered for me, who reassured me, who pointed out where my phrasing was awkward, and all in all encouraged me to go the whole hog and not just the tip. Thank you for putting up with me and my incessant self-aggrandizing wank and telling me, each in your own way, that the dog exploded.

Bapple Fraugwinska Macabre Barbie Miggy Katethulu Rein Miz blue Molly Anne

The others in the discord server for whom I do not have an ao3 or tumblr account

Special thanks to Shunypie/Shunyhuny who drew fanart (holy shit I am still absolutely fucking floored by this, it's so beautiful)

My final acknowledgment goes to everyone else who read this and thought it was hot, love you guys. Your comments feed me, your likes sustain me.

Though my planned procession of porn is past its climax, I am still open to penning vignettes about the lookalike and set in the lookalike’s timeline. If you have an idea or request, please post a comment here, or if you fancy remaining anonymous, you can use my inbox at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/impale-me-radio-daddy

Regretfully, I do not take commissions (I can’t think of an amount of money that would be worth the expression of confusion and fear from my accountant) so all requests will be undertaken at my own discretion.

Until next time, dear readers.

[moonsandmobilityaids-inactive]

The Flu

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: You get the flu. But for someone with your immune system, the flu is never just the flu. Warnings: Flu, one tonic-clonic (grand mal) seizure Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

"Y/N, are you alright?" Sirius's voice cuts through the fog of your mind. You open your eyes to find him sitting on the end of your bed, concern etched into every line of his face.

His fingers brush against your forehead, and you flinch away from the unexpected contact. His touch is cool against your fevered skin, a stark contrast that sends shivers down your spine despite the warmth radiating off you in waves.

"You're burning up," he murmurs, pulling his hand away as if burned himself. "James, get her some water. And have you taken your meds?"

Before you can protest, James is already moving, filling a glass from the pitcher on your bedside table. He offers it to you with a soft smile, his hazel eyes full of worry as he finds your pill divider, handing you your morning meds. As you take your meds, you can't help but notice how attentive he is, watching for any sign of discomfort or pain.

Remus lingers in the background, silently observing as Sirius fusses over you and James refills your glass. His eyes are intent, taking in every detail of your flushed cheeks and laboured breathing. Right now, though, all you can focus on is the pounding in your head and the heat consuming your body.

"I'm fine," you insist, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. The room spins around you, and you fall back against the pillows with a groan. Despite your words, they don't leave. They hover close by, their presence a silent promise that they won't let anything happen to you.

The morning passes in a blur of sleep and half-awake moments where you drink more water and try to eat something at the insistence of your boys. Each time you wake, one of them is there, watching over you with worried expressions.

The afternoon light filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow over your sweat-slicked skin. You lie motionless under the heavy blankets, shivering despite the fever that has taken hold of your body. Your head throbs in time with your racing heart, each pulse sending waves of pain crashing against your skull.

Every muscle feels weighted down, as if you've been lifting weights for hours on end. But it's more than just physical exhaustion; there's a heaviness that seeps into your very bones, sapping away at your energy until all you can do is lay there and breathe.

Your thoughts are hazy, fragmented by the heat coursing through your veins. The room tilts around you, and you squeeze your eyes shut against the vertigo. It leaves you gasping for breath, clutching at the sheets as you fight off the urge to vomit.

But then, something changes. A coldness creeps up along your spine, replacing the fever's heat with an icy chill. Your heart beats faster, thudding loudly in your ears as your surroundings start to blur. Panic rises within you as it becomes harder to focus, harder to think.

You know what's coming. You've experienced these symptoms enough times to recognize the signs of an impending seizure.

"No," you whisper, the word barely audible as you press your hands to your temples. "Not now."

Images flash before your closed eyelids — falling, shaking, convulsing uncontrollably while those around you watch helplessly. You may not be aware when it happens, but you’ve seen the footage from when you were a kid. This time, it's not just Remus who will see you at your weakest. Now, James and Sirius will witness the truth of your condition too.

"Y/N?" James' voice floats towards you, tinged with concern. He must have sensed your sudden shift — the way your breathing hitched, the tension coiling around you like a tight spring ready to snap.

"Seizure... coming." The words are barely a whisper, but their impact is like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of alarm through the room.

James' eyes widen with fear as he takes in your rigid posture and shallow breaths. Sirius rises to his feet, all traces of his earlier amusement gone. Replaced by an intensity that leaves no room for doubt—he will move mountains if it means keeping you safe.

Remus stiffens beside you, his face paling. He's seen this before—your body wracked with uncontrollable tremors, your mind lost in the terrifying abyss of a seizure. And every time, he's felt powerless, able only to watch and wait for it to pass. And the other two - you’ve only told them about it, about what to do.

Panic flutters at the edges of the room, threatening to consume the calm sanctuary. But there's no time for fear—not when every second brings you closer to the storm brewing within your body.

"Sirius," Remus's voice cuts through the tension, steady despite the gravity of the situation. He doesn't glance away from you, his eyes locked onto your form as if he could somehow will away the impending storm with sheer determination alone. "Keep track of the time. If it lasts longer than five minutes..."

Without missing a beat, Sirius nods, pulling out his watch and positioning himself at the side of your bed. His fingers tremble ever so slightly against the cool metal, betraying the adrenaline coursing beneath his composed exterior. "I've got this."

James remains nearby, hovering over you like an anxious shadow. His hand hovers inches from yours, caught between the desire to provide comfort and the fear of causing harm. The usually confident boy looks lost, unsure how to navigate the treacherous waters of helplessness.

Remus keeps his focus on you, monitoring each breath, each twitch of your muscles for any sign of what's to come. His expression is tight, lips pressed together in a thin line as he fights back his own fears. This isn't about him; right now, all that matters is keeping you safe.

The room is thick with anticipation, every heart pounding in sync with the ticking seconds. Yours, however, beats out a different rhythm — one that speaks of the tempest brewing within. And all anyone can do is wait for it to break.

"Any moment now," you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. The world begins to warp and blur at the edges as your body tenses, instinctively bracing for impact.

And then it hits — a tidal wave of sensation that crashes over you, relentless and unforgiving. Your muscles seize up, locking into place as if held by an unseen force. Every nerve ending screams in protest, caught in the throes of an invisible storm.

"Sirius..." Remus' voice cuts through the chaos like a lifeline, grounding you amidst the turmoil. "Start now."

Without hesitation, Sirius counts out loud, his voice steady despite the tension etching lines across his face. He watches as each second ticks by, marking them not just on his watch, but also in the creases deepening around his eyes—each one a testament to his unwavering vigilance.

When the seizure finally subsides, your body feels like a battleground. Drained and weary, you lie there, muscles still trembling from the onslaught. The storm may have passed, but it's left wreckage in its wake—each breath an effort, each movement a reminder of the ordeal.

"Four minutes, six seconds," Sirius announces as Remus turns you onto your side, his voice tight with relief and something else—an undercurrent of worry that lingers even as he lowers his watch.

James moves then, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he reaches out to adjust the blanket around you. His touch is gentle, almost hesitant, as if afraid any further jostling might set off another wave of convulsions. It's a small act, but one that speaks volumes about the depth of his concern.

"Is she...?" James starts, unable to finish the question hanging heavy between them.

Remus leans forward, brushing your hair back. "She'll be okay."

James, Sirius, and Remus stay by your side, their presence a constant amidst the lingering echoes of fear. They sit in silence, each lost in their own thoughts yet bound together by the shared experience.

Their attention never wavers from you, taking in every shuddering breath, every flutter of your eyelids—a silent vigil maintained out of concern, yes, but also something more profound. It's an unspoken pact forged not just in friendship, but in the crucible of trials endured and battles fought—side by side, always.

"Could it... happen again?" James asks, breaking the stillness that has settled over the room. His voice is low, barely above a whisper, but it carries the weight of his worry nonetheless.

"We'll need to keep an eye on her," Remus replies, meeting James's gaze with a nod. "But for now, let's give Y/N some space." He turns to look at Sirius, who seems rooted to the spot, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "You should get some rest too. We'll take shifts watching over her."

Exhaustion tugs at your consciousness, pulling you further away from the world and towards the sweet oblivion of sleep. You welcome it, welcoming the respite it promises after the storm. But even as you drift off, there's a sense of relief that washes over you—not because the seizure is over, nor solely because the pain has subsided, but because they are here.

They're here, and for now, that's enough to quiet the fears clawing at the edges of your mind.

The boys exchange glances, their expressions serious despite the fatigue etching lines around their eyes. They understand the gravity of the situation—that much is clear—but there's also a determination there, a resolve that speaks volumes about their loyalty.

"Alright," James agrees, running a hand through his hair as he pushes himself up from the floor. "We'll do this together."

Sirius nods, standing as well. There's a heaviness to his movements, hinting at the toll the evening has taken. Yet, when he looks back at you, there's a steadiness in his gaze—an unwavering promise of protection.

As James and Sirius move towards the door, Remus stays behind, his focus fixed on you. He watches as your chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, each breath a testament to your resilience. The sight brings a small measure of peace, easing the knot of worry that's been tightening in his chest.

"It was expected," Remus says quietly, turning to face them. "With the flu... being any kind of sick is a trigger for her."

His words hang heavy in the air, bringing with them a sense of finality. This wasn't a random occurrence—it had been a ticking time bomb, waiting for the right moment to detonate. And though the explosion had been contained, the aftermath was far from over.

"But she'll recover," Remus continues, offering them a reassuring smile. "She's strong, and she's got us."

For a moment, neither James nor Sirius respond. They stand shoulder to shoulder, absorbing Remus's words and finding solace in their shared understanding. Then, almost simultaneously, they nod, a silent acknowledgement of the truth in what Remus has said.

They trust him—they trust his knowledge, his judgement, and perhaps most importantly, his reassurances. Because if there's one thing they've learned over the years, it's that Remus Lupin is rarely wrong when it comes to matters of health and healing.

As darkness settles outside, casting long shadows across the room, you slip into a fitful sleep. Your dreams are filled with flashes of memory—the sharp sting of fear, the crushing weight of helplessness—all tinged with an undercurrent of unease.

Yet, even within the depths of slumber, you sense the steadfast presence of those keeping watch over you. Their voices are distant whispers, woven together by threads of concern and care. They follow you into the dark, anchoring you with their constancy.

[karlachismylife]

Sick Boy

#PriceGhostWeek

Day Two: Heart/Alpha (@gomzdrawfr)

I took a lot if inspiration from Ren's videos (and music) about his health jorney, but I didn't even try to be medically accurate with it. This is about feelings and a bit of wordplay, not facts.

Click-clack of the round dispenser. Echoey pop of a child protection lid on a rattling pill bottle. Crinkles of aluminum foil breached like a chest of a parasite victim in an Alien movie. A big see-through red one shaped like a rugby ball. Two tiny flat circles, pale pink. Three elongated whites: two pills with a word pressed into them, one gelatine capsule with magic dust inside.

Filtered water, one swallow, two hollowed cheeks, three blinks, infinity of scars.

Simon holds back the usual wave of bile, hungry stomach disturbed by the chemical cocktail foaming in the acid and breaching thin walls of his vascular system. His reflection in the mirror blurs, sunken eyes disappearing in dark sockets of a pale skull for a split second, and then everything comes back to normal – insomnia painting his face better than any skeletal makeup could.

His jaw bone feels foreign, an ill fit, accidentally swapped with the one he dug himself out with.

Humming of an aquarium filter. Plastic cracking of a single use white cup. Gurgles of an abused water cooler boiling with fat bubbles in its blueish head. Psychiatrist’s lobby smells of coffee and cleaning products poorly masked with a chemical lemon air freshener.

Simon swallows another retching urge and stands up thirty seconds before a door with a fake wooden pattern swings open to let him into a cabinet with no straight angles.

“Is this all making sense, Simon?”

It isn’t. It isn’t making any sense why being a good boy and swallowing pills hasn’t fixed him still, hasn’t made him suitable for medical tests she won’t write off no matter what Simon tells her. Brain damage, she says with a matte lipstick smile, C-PTSD. He’s stuck in a sympathetic response, she says, and Simon feels maggots crawl on the underside of his jaw – he’s not stuck, he’s choosing it.

Being always alert is a necessity once you learn what happens if you get sloppy.

“Simon? Oi, Simon! Bloody hell, boy, snap out of it.”

Price’s figure enters the bathroom of a cold safe house, already crowded with Simon alone inside, and flicks the switch on before closing the door. Grey light washes off the skull blur off the mirror, leaving Simon to stare into his own eyes. There are some eyelashes missing from the already sparse lines.

“M fine. Jus’ mornin’ sickness. Gonna approve my maternal leave, sir?”

Simon’s broad shoulders slump, muscles rippling and bulging underneath an ugly cross-stitching of scars across his back, he pushes himself off the sink and plops down heavily on the toilet lid, reaching into his sweats’ pocket for a tangled knot of wires.

“What’s tha’ for?” Simon’s eyes flick over to his cross-armed Captain, leaning on the locked door with his unshaven chin tucked into his chest – unmoving, studying, attentive. Curious.

“Humane shock therapy,” he swallows a curse as his aching fingers struggle to untangle the mess and nearly drop the whole device on flesh pink tiles. Finally managing to find loose ends, Simon clips both of them to his earlobes and takes a breath. “Hits my brain wi’ electricity t’ force it into “alpha state”. Means I’m relaxed. Apparently can’t do it on my own, need a bloody remote control t’ fix me.”

His thumb hurts from pressing on the upper arrow too hard. The dizziness creeps up too fast, another attempt to make him barf, and reluctantly pulls back with the single digit dialed down.

Four minutes into his half-hour brain frying session little device clutched in a fist with scarred knuckles dies.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Plastic case cracks in Simon’s palm. His jaw doesn’t fit, teeth grinding remains of six pills into white foam on a mangled scowl. Wide open eyes go blind with maggots swarming panicked pupils.

Price grips his wrist before he can smash a pricey stimulation device into pieces, steady and warm hold on his sweaty skin. John pries it out of his hand, carefully unclipping the clamps from his ears, rough fingertips rubbing cold flesh unconsciously to get blood running again.

“Shh, easy. Easy. Oughtta make ya relaxed, innit? Don’t need a machine for that. Ya have it in ya, Simon, I know.”

One hand leaves him to put useless device away, but the second one stays, sliding further behind and cupping the back of Simon’s head. With no hesitation, Price pulls him against his chest, forcing his face into a shockwave of warmth – there’s too much at once, slightly coarse chest hair rubbing against skin he’s suddenly extremely aware of instead of reserving all his senses for the bones underneath; rich scent of a recently awakened man flooding Simon’s nose and wiping pills’ bitterness from the roof of his mouth.

Simon swallows the urge to stick his tongue out and drag a filthy lick between his Captain’s tits and gets rewarded with a squeeze on his nape lighting up his brain in all those little spots they stuck electrodes for a scan in an 80-s sci-fi looking cap.

“Yer heart’s barely beatin’, sir. Need me t-”

“My heart’s perfectly normal. Yours is jus’ going at it like a bloody jackhammer.”

He knows now – finally feeling his blood flow where previously only worms slithered over naked bones, Simon tries counting beats and loses track too fast. It’s pricking in his forehead, pressed into a fine chest, pulsing in his fingertips suddenly squeezed in a desperate fist grip on Price’s hips.

“Tha’s it, good lad, breathe. How long ya sit with those clips usually?”

Big hand carefully covers one of Simon’s grasps and eases it into an open palm, still allowing it to stay on Price’s back, fingertips throbbing with suddenly warm blood pressing into the soft flesh needily.

“Thirty minutes, sir.”

He relaxes his second palm on his own, fingers splaying over the small of John’s back. Jittering knees bracketing Price slow down and stop, leaning slightly inward to let Simon’s thigh brush against his Captain’s leg.

“Your brain generates different signals every day, which means required settings of the stimulator will vary too. The easiest way to determine the level needed today is to raise it until you feel dizzy and then lower it by one. Is this all making sense, Simon?”

It is. It is making sense, he’s one step shy from dizzy, nausea finally dissolved deep down in his stomach. Eyes closed – not gouged out – and resting, he’s being a good lad and getting fixed. There’s a steady pressure on the back of his neck, thick fingertips massaging where maggots used to be.

Simon doesn’t notice how his jaw finds it way to fit perfectly into Price’s palm until John turns his head up and to the right, forcing Simon’s chipped ear against slightly quickened heartbeat and baring his face to the piercing gaze of two blue eyes.

There’s an astronomical map of freckles scattered on the universe of his boy – something no bone would be able to bear.

A thumb presses into the ugly cleft of his upper lip, sliding torn flesh further up – before Simon’s lashes can flutter open, Price shushes him, and Simon obeys. He keeps his eyes closed while his Captain measures his pulse through the wet thin skin of his scarred lips.

His mind doesn’t alert him, when John leans down and presses his own mouth down.

That same palm that fixed his jaw slides up his face reverently to cover Simon’s eyes, determined to keep them closed for the required thirty minutes, and Price deepens the kiss, licking into the pills-tasting mouth. Simon feels him, initial novelty and excitement of a hot tongue rolling over his teeth and soft facial hair brushing against his skin quickly get drowned out by a calm call of weighted peace pouring over him like caramel.

There must be something wrong with him for having no reaction to a sudden kiss from his Captain, but his psychiatrist would be proud of the steadiness of his alpha brainwaves today.

“What happens if ya keep it longer than thirty, eh?”

Price’s voice sounds hoarse right above his ear, big hands still holding his head close and blind. Simon doesn’t know what happens – maybe more brain damage, maybe an anxiety attack.

Maybe he becomes sloppy again and forgets how to be constantly alert.

“Runnin’ late to a briefing, sir.”

Simon’s hand slides lower, skims down the chiseled hip and tries wrapping around Price’s thick thigh, little finger pressing into the vulnerable hinge of his knee until John gives in and allows to pull himself into his Lieutenant’s lap.

“Good thing there’s no briefing today then. Ya feeling relaxed yet?”

Price feels thin blonde eyebrows move under his blinder palm into a momentarily pleading position and needs no other answer. You can’t expect same result as when using a proper device.

It’s making perfect sense.

[fairyhaos]

. ˚ maybe... a little bit sick?

requested by anon: "Hii can i Pls request taking care of Junhui when he’s sick (like maybe he has the stomach flu or smthn) and calls you to come over and be there with him"

pairing: junhui x gn!reader

genre: fluff, established relationship, sick fic, junhui is an adorable baby

word count: 1607

warnings: pet names (baby, love), junhui exaggerates his cold by saying he's "dying", mentions of burning up (not literally tho)

notes: this is really cute actually. i think i love writing for silly soft jun a lot <3

Junhui is not a person that falls ill. 

It's just not something he does. He's proud to admit that he's probably fallen ill a maximum of ten times in his entire life, and his immune system is so good that it could probably enter a competition against other immune systems and come out on top. The immune system olympics, if you will. 

But the main point is, Junhui doesn't get sick. He doesn't get hay fever, doesn't catch colds all that easily, could probably go out in the winter without a coat and still be fine the next day (albeit with a mild loss of feeling in his nose). 

Right now, though, as Junhui rubs his nose and tries to stop his eyes from constantly watering, he thinks that perhaps, perhaps, he could be coming down with something. 

It's a horrible thought. Unthinkable, in fact. Besides, it's the middle of summer! Who falls ill in July? 

"Y/N?" Junhui croaks, and then blinks, startled by the sound of his own voice. "Y/N?"

He has to stop, then, because his throat feels like sandpaper. Plus, one of his nostrils is running, and the other feels so blocked up that it's like it was replaced with an impenetrable brick or something. 

He's not sick, though. Junhui doesn't get sick. 

The sun is filtering brightly through the curtains, and he guesses that it's late morning by now. He hasn't been able to get out of bed since he woke up some hours ago, his head throbbing and protesting with every move he makes. He hasn't even been able to check his phone. 

Junhui coughs, then, a wet, uncomfortable cough that makes his body shudder and his brain rattle around uncomfortably in his skull. He sniffs, a little pathetically, and squeezes his eyes shut. Everything hurts. 

But he's definitely not sick. 

"Y/N…" he mutters, his hair feeling sticky on his forehead, his tongue cumbersome and rubbery in his mouth. Vaguely, he remembers that you're going out with friends this morning, and won't be back for a while. The very thought makes him whine internally, upset. 

Okay. 

Maybe he is a little sick. 

Centuries pass as he lies there in bed, admitting defeat, admitting that he really is sick for once and that being sick is horrible and all he wants is for you to come help him. Why are you taking so long to have brunch with your friends, damnit? 

He's drifting off into a hazy sleep once again, his entire body feeling like it's on fire when the front door finally, finally clicks open and he hears your voice. 

"Junhui?" you call, taking off your shoes. "Junhui, baby, are you up yet?"

It's around one in the afternoon when you've finally managed to come back home after meeting up with your friends, and normally your boyfriend would be bounding towards you and engulfing you in a hug, eager to hear how your outing had been. But the apartment is, oddly, silent, and there's no sign of a hyperactive Junhui anywhere. 

"Junhui?" you call again. 

And that's when you hear his voice, coming from his closed bedroom door. 

"Y/N… in here…"

He sounds weak, like he's on the verge of dying, and you gasp when you open the door and look at him. 

"Oh, darling!" You walk over to his bedside to place a hand on his forehead, sighing when he whimpers softly at the cool sensation on his burning skin. "Look at you, you have such a horrible fever. Wait here, I'll go get a cold towel," you say, and then hurriedly leave the room again. 

Junhui coughs pathetically again. "I can't really go anywhere… but okay."

You come back in a few seconds later, equipped with a cold compress, medicine and a glass of water. The kettle whistles in the distance. 

"How did this happen?" you scold lightly, sitting on the edge of the bed, placing a hand worriedly over his forehead again. "How did you manage to get yourself so ill?"

Junhui opens his mouth to speak, but you shake your head. 

"Wait, don't answer that. You probably have a really bad headache right? Talking will make it worse." 

He closes his mouth again. 

"Poor Junhui," you murmur, wiping down his face and his sweat with a damp cloth. "It must really hurt, right?"

Junhui nods sadly, eyes half closed, as you put the cold towel over his forehead. "Hurts so much. I feel like I'm dying."

You laugh softly. "I can imagine. Can you sit up for me, baby? You need to take some medicine."

"No." He turns his head away when you offer him the pills and the glass of water, accidentally dislodging the towel from his head. "Don't wanna."

"Junhui, come on, it'll help," you wheedle softly, trying to encourage him. "You don't want it to hurt, do you? This'll help make it better, I promise."

"I can't," he whines, looking at you, and now there are tears pooling in his eyes. He coughs, then, so hard that the tears well up faster and end up spilling over slightly. Then he groans, head thumping, while you lean over to gently wipe his tears. "Everything hurts. I don't like it."

"Junhui, please?"

"No."

"Junhui, baby, it'll make everything feel a lot better."

"No."

"Junhui…"

Junhui, when he falls ill, becomes a little like a toddler. He doesn't get sick often, so when he does he always suffers terribly. He ends up throwing mini tantrums, pouting and resisting taking the medicine that will make him better purely because he doesn't want to. 

You may not have had to deal with a sick Junhui often, but really, it's about the same as dealing with a small child, so it's not that difficult. 

Several more minutes of wheedling later, you manage to get Junhui to sit up and drink the water along with his medicine. He ends up spilling half the glass all over himself and whines, looking at you with glassy eyes as if wanting you to tell him what to do. 

"Don't worry, it's just water," you tell him, stroking back his hair and adjusting the towel on his forehead to make sure it's in place. "Wanna have something nice to drink?"

In the kitchen, the kettle is beeping, signalling that it's finished boiling water. Junhui rapidly shakes his head, though, before wincing at the movement. 

"No. Don't wanna drink anything."

"Are you sure?" You tuck a damp curl of hair out of his face, noting that he's still sweating. He's really ill, the poor thing. "Have you eaten today?"

"Don't wanna eat anything."

"You've lost your appetite?" you ask worriedly. "What if I ask Minghao to come over and help make you some wonton soup? Would you like that?"

Junhui squeezes his eyes, once, and then coughs again. "No."

"I'll call him anyway," you say, getting up. "And I already boiled the water, so I'll make you some tea for your throat as well, okay? I bet you have a sore throat too."

He blinks, eyes a little glassy and confused. "Wait… how did you know?"

You chuckle softly, leaning over to pinch his cheek lightly. "Magic. Rest now, alright? You should try to sleep, let your body recover."

You back out of the room, watching his weak frame as he lies in his dim room, the curtains still drawn, eyes watery and half-open and a wet towel over his forehead. He looks so sad and forlorn, like a dejected kitten, and it would make you coo if a bigger part of you wasn't worried at just how ill he looked. 

You're just closing the door when he croaks out your name again, thin and warbly.

"Y/N?"

Pausing for a moment, you open the door again, poking your head in. "Yes, baby?"

He looks at you for a long moment, squinting out of puffy eyes, before giving you a small smile and lifting his arms. "Hug?"

Obviously, you really oughtn't. He's sick, after all, horribly so, and it would be much better for both of you if you stayed away. But his hair is all messed up and his cheeks are all flushed from his fever and he just looks so small swathed in all his blankets and really, how were you meant to refuse? 

He's warm, as he always is, and maybe he's a little warmer than usual but you let him hug you tightly, his head tucked under your chin, fingers gripping your shoulders while you bend over him and thread a hand through his hair. Junhui hums, pleased, when you lightly knead your fingers into his scalp, making little rumbly noises of contentment when your hand slips down his back, rubbing firm circles into his shirt. 

"Love you," he mumbles, his words a little drowsy but still soft and warm. 

You smile, kissing the top of his head. "I love you too."

There's silence for a moment as he continues to cling to you while you kneel awkwardly on the bed, one knee on the mattress while your other foot supports your weight from the floor. And then Junhui speaks up again. 

"Y/N?"

"Yes, Junhui?"

"Instead of wonton soup, could you make me hotpot? A really spicy one?"

That makes you smile a little, endeared, and kiss his head again. His forehead is unnaturally warm still, and you disentangle him from your arms to rest him down on his pillow again, feeling vaguely like a prince lowering his princess to sleep. 

You brush gentle fingers over his cheek, fond. "Of course. Anything to make my kitten feel better."

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @bunnyiix @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @thedensworld @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @doublasting @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @evasaysstuff @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @jeonride