#hes based off of the betrayed skin so might as well!

[akheku]

1x1x1x1 design 4 story fun fact in lore hes the father of dominos and is also shedletsky

[nhlclover]

AFTERGLOW RYAN LEONARD

pairing: fem!reader x ryan leonard

summary: a misunderstanding drives you to a island of isolation, making you question yours and ryan's relationship.

warnings: mentions of cheating/unfaithfulness, self-isolation, crying

wc: 2.34k

notes: based on 'afterglow' by taylor swift. i love me some angst with a happy ending😋

You hadn’t meant to see it. That’s what you told yourself over and over again. It wasn’t snooping. 

His phone had lit up beside you on the couch while Ryan was in the kitchen getting drinks. It was instinct, really — just a glance at the sudden brightness in your peripheral vision. But your eyes betrayed you, catching enough of the notification to make your chest tighten.

Brooke Last night was fun! Let’s do it again soon :)

The name hung in your mind, unfamiliar and somehow venomous. Brooke. Not a classmate he’d mentioned, not one of the guys’s girlfriends. You tried to shake it off, reminding yourself that Ryan was the most solid, trustworthy man you’d ever known, but curiosity — or was it paranoia? — itched beneath your skin.

You quickly stood, frantically gathering your belongings and shoving them into your bag. You called out to Ryan, telling him you weren’t feeling well and you were going to head back to your dorm. He’d rushed out of the kitchen, catching you just as you were shoving your feet in your boots. 

“A-are you alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine, just need some rest,” you reassured him, hoping he’d buy your flimsy excuse. The door was open and shut, with you on the other side before Ryan could ask another question. 

The spiral began as soon as you left his apartment. Every glance at your phone felt like a reminder of what you hadn’t asked, hadn’t confronted. You replayed every moment of your relationship in your mind, searching for signs you might have missed. Had he seemed distant? Had he started texting more? Was he pulling away from you?

It wasn’t deliberate at first — not entirely. You told yourself you just needed time to think, to calm down, to process. But each day stretched into the next, the unanswered texts piling up. Hey, is something wrong? turned into Did I do something? and finally Can we please talk? Your heart broke a little more with every message you ignored.

You stopped going to his games, too — a first since you’d started dating. You simply couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in the stands, watching him skate across the ice, wondering if Brooke was sitting somewhere else in the crowd. The thought of it all felt insurmountable. So you stayed home, your own guilt a quiet, gnawing threat.

Ryan’s friends noticed. Of course they did. You’d all become close since you and Ryan started dating, and the change in your behaviours and your absence from games was glaring. Practices were off — Ryan was missing passes, his shots lacked precision, and his usual easy laughter in the locker room was conspicuously absent.

Gabe had always been the observant one, the kind of guy who noticed when something was off long before anyone else caught on. So it didn’t surprise you when he showed up at the library one afternoon, a concerned look etched into his usually easygoing face.

He slid into the seat across from you, ignoring the pile of books and papers scattered in front of you. You tried to put on a smile, but it felt weak, forced.

“How’s it going?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m fine,” you replied, the words coming out automatically. You were fine. You just needed to figure things out, that’s all. You forced yourself to focus on the open textbook in front of you, but Gabe wasn’t buying it.

Gabe leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I know that’s not true,” he said bluntly. “And before you say anything, I’m not here to grill you or get in the middle of anything. But Ryan’s a mess.”

That got your attention. You looked up, heart thudding uncomfortably in your chest. “What do you mean?”

“He’s barely talking to anyone. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. And on the ice?” Gabe shook his head. “He’s not Ryan. He’s off—like, really off. It’s like his head’s not in the game at all.”

Guilt twisted in your stomach, sharp and unrelenting. “I didn’t mean for—” You stopped yourself, biting your lip. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Gabe said. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two. And it’s none of my business. But I do know Ryan’s not the kind of guy who lets just anything mess him up like this. He cares about you. A lot.”

You finally let out a shaky breath, trying to steady your emotions. “I found a message on his phone. From someone named Brooke.”

Gabe’s expression morphed into confusion. “Brooke?” he repeated, frowning. “Who the hell is that?”

You shook your head, feeling the familiar ache in your chest. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard him mention her. And the message... it felt... off. Like something was going on that I didn’t know about.”

Gabe’s brow furrowed as he processed your words. “But Ryan? I can’t see him doing that to you. He’s... he’s not like that. Trust me.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” you whispered, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. “I can’t just ignore it, Gabe.”

Gabe sat back, tapping his fingers on the table as he thought. “Look, I don’t have all the answers, but you need to talk to him. Maybe there’s a reason for all this. Maybe there’s something you don’t know. But shutting him out isn’t going to help either of you.”

You felt torn. You wanted to believe Gabe, to believe in Ryan and the love you shared. But part of you was terrified of confronting him, of facing the possibility that your fears were real.

“I don’t know if I can,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

Gabe studied you for a long moment before leaning forward again, his voice steady but insistent. “You can. You’re stronger than you think, and this — whatever it is — it’s eating both of you alive. Friendsgiving is at my place, Wednesday night. Ryan’s going to be there, and so are you. No excuses.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Gabe raised a hand to stop you. “I’m serious. You don’t even have to talk to him there if you’re not ready. But seeing each other in person? That’s the first step. Take it.”

The next evening, you found yourself hesitating on the porch of Gabe’s house, the soft hum of laughter and conversation drifting out through the windows. Your stomach churned with nerves as you clutched the bottles of wine you brought, the glass cool and grounding against your fingers. You hadn’t seen Ryan in weeks. You didn’t even know how to begin to bridge the chasm that had grown between you.

Before you could turn and flee, Gabe opened the door, grinning like he’d been waiting for you. “There she is! Get in here, we’re just getting started.”

The warmth of the house wrapped around you as you stepped inside, your heart pounding. The inside was warm and chaotic in the way only Friendsgiving could be — mismatched chairs pulled around a too-small table, dishes precariously balanced in a potluck array, laughter and voices overlapping in the candlelight.

You caught sight of Ryan the moment you stepped through the door, standing near the kitchen with a beer in hand. His eyes met yours briefly, widening in surprise. He looked tired — pale, shadows under his eyes, and his usual easy confidence replaced by something far more hesitant. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Jacob intercepted him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and pulling him into a conversation.

Throughout dinner, you found yourself hyper-aware of Ryan’s presence at the opposite end of the table. Occasionally, your eyes would meet, but neither of you spoke. He seemed quieter than usual, laughing at jokes that didn’t quite reach his eyes and pushing food around his plate more than eating it.

After dinner, you ushered everyone into the living room, volunteering to handle the dishes. Your offer was driven partly by a desire to help and partly by a need for a quiet moment to collect your thoughts. A few protested, but you insisted, retreating to the kitchen before anyone could argue further. The rhythmic sound of running water and clinking plates was soothing, a brief respite from the tension.

You didn’t hear Ryan approach at first. It wasn’t until his voice, quiet and hesitant, broke the silence that you turned.

“Need a hand?” Ryan’s voice was quiet, almost tentative.

You glanced over your shoulder. He was standing in the doorway, his hands shoved into his pockets, looking at you like he was afraid you might tell him to leave. After a beat, you nodded. “Sure.”

Ryan stepped closer, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt and taking his place beside you at the sink. For a while, neither of you spoke, the clink of dishes and the rush of water filling the silence. You stole glances at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed weighed down.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “I don’t know what I did, but… whatever it is, I’m sorry.” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “And I know I should know what I did wrong, but I’ve wracked my brain and I just don’t know what I did. But please tell me… let me fix whatever I did.”

You gripped the dishcloth tightly, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. Ryan had always been the kind of person to face things head-on, but hearing the crack in his voice—seeing the way his shoulders slumped like he’d been carrying the world—broke something inside you.

“It’s not your fault,” you said, your voice trembling. “I—God, I’ve been such a mess, Ryan. I thought I was protecting myself, but all I did was push you away.”

Ryan paused, setting the plate he was drying onto the counter. His eyes searched your face, a mix of confusion and hurt. “Protecting yourself from what?”

You swallowed hard, knowing there was no turning back now. “I saw a message. On your phone. From someone named Brooke. It said, ‘Last night was fun. Let’s do it again soon.’ And I — I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know who she was or what it meant, and instead of asking you, I let it get to me.”

Confusion flickered across his face, then realization. “Brooke?” he repeated. “That’s — God, that’s nothing. She’s my mom’s friend’s daughter. She just started at Boston College, and my mom asked me to show her around. That’s all it was, I swear.”

His words came out in a rush, like he needed you to understand, like he needed to erase every doubt that had built up in your mind. “We grabbed coffee, and I showed her some places on campus. That’s it. I didn’t think it was a big deal, so I didn’t mention it. I never meant for it to come across as something… more.”

Your throat tightened as his explanation sank in. “So… you’re not—”

“No,” Ryan said firmly, stepping closer. “I’m not cheating on you. I would never, ever do that to you.”

The weight you’d been carrying for weeks suddenly felt unbearable, tears springing to your eyes before you could stop them. “Ryan, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I should’ve come to you. I should’ve trusted you. God, I’m so fucking stupid. I got inside my own head and I-I hurt you.”

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. His hands found yours, damp from the soapy water. “You didn’t ruin anything. Yeah, it hurt, but I get it. I just wish you’d come to me instead of dealing with it on your own.”

“I was scared,” you admitted, tears spilling over. “Scared of losing you, scared of finding out I wasn’t enough.”

Ryan’s grip on your hands tightened, his thumbs brushing gently over your knuckles. His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable softness in it, a warmth that wrapped around your heart. “You are enough,” he said firmly. “You’ve always been enough. You’re all I want. Nothing — no one — could ever change that.”

Tears streamed freely down your face now, but Ryan didn’t seem to care. He released one of your hands and reached up to gently wipe the tears away with his thumb. “I was so stupid,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I should have trusted you. I should have talked to you instead of running away.”

Ryan shook his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. “Hey, we all mess up. Relationships aren’t perfect. But we don’t have to let this break us. We’re going to be okay. I promise.”

You looked up at him, the sincerity in his eyes making your chest ache. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know us,” he said simply. “I know what we have. And I know we can get through this, as long as we’re honest with each other. No more shutting each other out. Deal?”

You nodded, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Deal.”

Ryan let out a soft sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever. “You scared me,” he admitted quietly. “When you pulled away like that, I thought… I thought I was losing you. And that terrified me.”

The idea that you’d made him feel even a fraction of the fear and doubt you’d been drowning in made your heartache. “You’ll never lose me,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears. “Not if I can help it. I’m sorry for putting you through this, for doubting you when you’ve never given me a reason to.”

Ryan smiled softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We’re okay,” he murmured against your skin. “We’ll be okay.”

For the first time in weeks, the tightness in your chest began to ease, replaced by the comforting warmth of Ryan’s presence.

[revelboo]

oh hey- that fic with tf1 megatron and that "pull" between him and reader, is that a spark/soulmates thing or more of an accidental conjunx adjacent kind of bond? cuz either sound really cool nd i know you'll handle whatever it is phenomenally, and thank you for the food

Wasn’t sure how well this sort of snippet would go over, but wanted to write one. It is a spark/soulmate thing based on an idea a friend of mine had about how interconnected a Cybertronian’s spark is to their world. That their spark might suffer and weaken without that connection to stabilize and feed off of. That a spark could bind to a soul to heal itself.

It Had to Be You Pt 6

TFO Megatron x Reader

• What does it say about him that you can work your way into his processor and he can’t get you, a weak, soft little thing, out. That when he enters his quarters, he knows exactly where you are. That your continued resistance bothers him. He’s supposed to be the strongest, the one who’ll tear all the corruption out. Fix Cybertron. What will his forces say when they discover he does have a weakness? That he’s so fascinated with a little human? That he needs you.

• Gritting his denta, he slams his fist into the wall hard enough to crumple the metal. That empty ache is back. It’d been better before he found you, when he’d just been used to that sense of missing something vital. It hadn’t bothered him so bad then. Touching you acts like a balm, making him whole. But only while in contact with you. Whenever he has to leave you, that jarring emptiness rushes back in worse than before. Wearing away at him day by day.

• You’re getting stronger, but you still can’t reach the top of the box he leaves you in like a little kitten. The walls aren’t smooth, but subtly grooved. Less of a handhold than the climbing walls you’d been terrible at as a kid, but with your bare feet and hands you can manage to get about halfway up. You’d dragged your pile of blankets over so that every time you do fall you’re not hurting yourself at least as your muscles strain, sweat slicking your skin. There’s not really a plan beyond escape the box, escape him. Because every day, the need to feel those warm servos on your skin becomes more visceral. You crave that contact and hate it at the same time. He’s done something to you, poisoned you somehow until you need him. Look forward to the next time you’ll see him.

• Door sliding silently open, he stalks over to your enclosure and freezes. Clinging to the side, reaching for a new handhold, you stop moving. Sensing him the same way he’s always aware of you and falling as soon as you meet his optics. The anger is immediate, forcing his servos under into shaking fists. He shouldn’t be surprised that you’re trying to run away. Always fighting him, always resisting. “Where is it you think you’re going to go?” He asks, speaking slowly and deliberately. Focusing on the words not the fury. “Do you really think I won’t just find you again?”

• You stay where you fell in the blankets, because you can’t breathe, can’t move under the weight of that cold, disappointed anger. Because those words tear at you and make you feel guilty for wanting freedom. Craving his touch and fearing it. You can hear his heavy steps as he approaches and you curl onto your side in a tight ball, feeling and hating that sense of belonging that makes you want, need, to reach out to him. Your body betraying you.

• “You still don’t understand,” he growls, reaching in to pick you up and feeling how tense you are, the way you tremble against his servos. Still fighting him even though he knows you can feel that same connection. You have to. He cradles you to his chassis directly over his spark, soaking in the feel of you. Uses a servo to pin your cheek against him even as he needs more. More contact to ground himself, to ease that ache. “You’re mine, little human.”

• The world drops sickeningly and you think he’s dropped you, but you never hit the ground. The world’s gone sideways somehow, your captor smaller but still so much bigger than you. One big hand cupping the back of your head to press your face against his chest. The other arm curled around you, servos tightening on your hip as you try to understand what just happened. Pushing against him to try and get some distance even as your struggling mind comprehends that he’s changed size somehow. That his hands are on you, his grip possessive and so much worse with him closer to your size, because there’s a new awareness of him that you don’t want. The hand at the back of your head shifts, servos tunneling in your hair as that other hand pins you along his frame. His heat soaking into you as you stop struggling, that rightness singing through you even as you want to fight it. Because he’s right, you are his. And you hate it.

Previous Next

[thewulf]

Who Did This To You? || Rafe Cameron

Summary: Request - Rafe fic based on song wait in the truck by Hardy. Basically he sees her one night that he’s going for a drive to calm down picks her up and drives to the house of maybe her dad or boyfriend and shoots them... Read Rest Here

A/N: Wrote this quick but had so much fun omg love a protective Rafe!! Thank you so much for the request @loving-and-dreaming

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k+

Rafe’s truck raced down the winding street on the Pogue’s side of the island. He stopped at Barry’s needing to pick up another supply for the party he’d planned to be at that weekend.

What he wasn’t expecting to see was you stumbling along the side of the road completely disorientated and disheveled beyond repair. He parked his truck close to your trembling body that kept trying to walk but seemed to betray itself.

“Y/N?” He called seeing you off in your own head. He shivered seeing the amount of blood that coated the front of your body once you turned responding to your name. He didn’t see that. You were fucked up. Beaten up by somebody who clearly wanted to hurt you. But who could have wanted to do that to you? You might have been a Pogue, a Maybank even, but damn he’d be lying if he didn’t say you weren’t a big ass ray of sunshine. Despite every shitty circumstance thrown at you, you handled everything so well.

“Who did this to you?” Rafe asked brushing your shoulder careful not to touch anywhere you may be bleeding from. There was so much fucking blood. It made his own damn head queasy, and Rafe was used to blood. He wasn’t sure how you were even standing. The metallic smell of the drying liquid brought him back to the urgency of the situation, “Maybank,” He raised his voice a bit but cursing to himself when he say you shy away, “Hey, Y/N. Who did this to you baby?” He asked once more trying to help. But the alarm in your eyes told him he’d fucked up somehow. Was he standing too close? Did he touch you where you might’ve been hurting from?

You shook your head trying to get away from his grasp. This wasn’t the Rafe Cameron who ragged on you day in and day out. He’d never, ever call you baby. No, you were hallucinating. Just had to keep going, JB’s cottage wasn’t too far now. You tried your hardest but whatever it was you were dreaming was stopping you from moving.

“Y/N?” He asked pulling you back towards his truck. He didn’t want to hurt you, but you clearly weren’t in the state to be wandering down a dark ass road with what looked like half the blood in your body coating every inch of exposed skin and drenching the clothing you had on.

“Please.” You whined trying to pull your hand away from his gentle embrace, but you couldn’t. You didn’t have any more damn energy to try and fight him off.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He brushed the hair that was clinging to the dried blood on your cheek away drawing a soft groan from your lips, “I’m so sorry pretty.” What you thought was the hallucination whispered at you, “Why don’t you sit down in the truck Y/N?” He asked you. Worry laced his eyes seeing a blown-out pupil in one of your eyes as he finally made eye contact with you. He knew you were in rough shape. A blown-out eye was never a good sign.

“I can’t. Have to get…” You coughed feeling the adrenaline wearing down and the full effects of the beat down from your father start to set in. He’d hit you before, yes. But never had you experienced the full wrath of your drunk and likely stoned dad. It was a damn miracle you were even alive right now. Had you now been able to get a kick to his chest knocking him off balance you weren’t sure if you’d be breathing right now.

Gingerly, Rafe placed his hands on either side of your head trying to get you to focus on him, “I’ll take you, okay? Just, sit down. Please baby? You’re hurt. Really fucking bad Maybank. I need you to sit in my truck.” He said with a little more authority trying to get you to acknowledge him. Sure, he’d never been exactly kind to you but seeing you like this? Broken and shattered? That enraged Rafe.

You weren’t each other’s biggest fans, but he still grew up with you. He watched out for you at parties. He knew what his friends said about the younger Maybank. He also knew you had your brother and his friends protecting you. He was never worried about you. So, seeing you looking like you’d just escaped a crime scene on the side of the road at ten o’clock at night sent alarm bells ringing through Rafe’s head.

You nodded into his hand, “Okay.” You croaked out noting how damn bad it hurt to speak.

“I’m going to pick you up, okay?” He asked softy, only more concern and worry lacing his eyes as you listened to him.

You nodded not having it in you to answer him.

That’s all he needed to scoop you right up as quickly but gently as he could muster. It made him sick seeing you so broken in his arms. He’d always thought you were beautiful. Everybody on the damn island thought you were. What set you apart from the others was your kindness though. No matter how nasty he and his friends were to you and yours you always greeted him with a smile and sometimes even a wave. No matter what. No matter what nasty comment he threw your way. You always handled him and his stupid ass friends with grace. Something your older brother lacked greatly. What he lacked in your made up for greatly and vice versa.

Rafe set you down as softly as he could in the passenger’s seat of his truck, his father’s truck. Not really giving a damn about the blood that would surely be staining the seat below you. Never in his wildest imagination would he thought this would be the reason he’d be hiding the truck from his father until he could get it detailed. He always thought he’d wreck it, or it’d be his blood coating the seats beneath him. Never would he have guessed it could be you in this scenario. He’d always had a soft spot for you. Always picking on you a little less and a somewhat more lightly than he did any other pogue.

“Can you stay awake there for me Maybank?” He asked reaching over you to buckle you in. When you didn’t make a sound he panicked leaning back to look at you, “Y/N?”

“I’m trying.” You sighed closing your eyes while leaning your head back. God, you felt like absolute death. How in the hell did John B and JJ get into this shit so often? It was downright painful. Boys were mad you’d concluded quickly.

“Thank you baby.” He buckled you in making sure to pull it the seat belt tight knowing you weren’t really in the state to hold yourself up, “I’m going to take you back to my place okay? Get you cleaned up. Then, we can find your brother when you’re feeling up to it?”

You couldn’t stop the tears that slipped from your eyes. It was too much. All too fucking much. It felt like Rafe was killing you with kindness. He wasn’t acting like the guy you thought you knew. You thought he was an absolute dickhead with literally no redeeming qualities. But this? This had you reeling. Rethinking everything that you thought you knew. He was being so sweet. So kind and gentle. So loving.

“Hey, hey. Y/N? Are you okay?” Another round of panic flashed through his eyes seeing your tears roll down your face now. So softly, so unlike anything you thought you knew, he brushed those tears away with the pads of his fingertips.

You let out a shaky breath nodding your head, “I’m okay.” Finally, you opened your eyes to look him over. He looked, rough. To say the least. Panic had thrown his appearance out of whack. It was hard to see with one eye being nearly busted but he didn’t look like the confident Rafe who never seemed to break.

He gave you a long look over, almost unsure with your answer. You clearly weren’t okay. But you were alive. You were tough. You were Y/N. The beauty of the island. The girl who seemed to brighten anybody’s day without even realizing it. A gem among mounds of coal. A fucking Maybank of all people.

He gave you a curt nod before shutting the door. Not a moment later he jumped in the driver’s seat, “You can stay in my room tonight. Dad and Rose are on the mainland working a deal. Sarah is with John B for the night. Wheezy is sleeping over at a friend’s. The house is mine, ours.” He spoke while starting the engine. Looking over to make sure that was fine with you.

“Sounds good Rafe.” You spoke softly, finding it easier than speaking at a normal volume.

He had to ask again. Looking you over as he drove back towards his house it was a damn miracle he’d found you. He wasn’t even supposed to be on that road, but he stopped by Barry’s on a whim. Low and behold he fond you. Broken and barely moving.

“Who did this to you, Y/N?” He asked with a little more authority in his voice. The anger rose as he heard you wheezing, seemingly trying to gasp for air. Likely a broken rib making it hard for you to breath in.

“I don’t…” You tried but he quickly spoke over you.

“Yes you do Y/N. Who did this to you baby? Please tell me. Please” His tone of voice turned to one of pleading. You looked over at him seeing his broken look studying the road ahead of him, careful not to put you in more danger than you already were in.

You let out a broken sigh. Why were you trying to protect the scum bag anyway? You were tired. So, fucking tired of hiding from him. Screaming at him when he was wailing on JJ. Screaming at him when he was punching you. This wasn’t a life you wanted. Wasn’t one you could stand much longer.

“My dad. My dad did this.” You clenched your hands together to stop the shaking.

Rafe looked at you incredulously, almost as if he didn’t believe you, “Your dad?”

You nodded silently closing your eyes once more. Afraid to see what judgment might form in his look.

“Is your dad still at home Y/N?” He asked a lot more seriously than he had been moments before.

“Yeah I think so.” You spoke quietly. You felt the truck slow and change directions, “Where are we going Rafe? I thought you said we were going back to yours?”

He hummed, “We are. Just making a stop at your place first.”

You shook your head, “No, Rafe. Don’t. He’s not worth it.” You knew him stopping could only mean trouble.

He kept driving knowing you weren’t in the state to put up even a little bit of a fight, “Look at you Y/N. I’m just paying old man Maybank a quick visit.” He cooed seeing how distraught you were right next to him. A gentle hand laid to rest on your thigh. He rubbed his thumb in circles trying to soothe you just a little, “You just wait in the truck baby, okay?” He asked not giving you much of an option.

More tears spilled, “Please be careful Rafe.” You felt an internal sense of dread as his truck rolled up on the gravel sidewalk in front of the piece of shit trailer you, JJ and your dad lived in. You should be grateful, or so your dad always fucking told you.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll get you cleaned up, yeah?” He leaned over placing a soft kiss on your forehead. Surely, you were in some sick dream. Who in the hell was this man? He was so gentle, so soft with you.

“Hurry.” You whined feeling your body losing to the grapple of consciousness. Rafe must’ve sensed your fading into blackness as he nodded before hopping out of the truck. You didn’t miss him grabbing the gun under the front seat. You gulped as you heard him beating on the front door calling out for your surely passed out father. He wouldn’t be very happy when he came to. But you didn’t hear the rest. You succumbed to the darkness letting the hold of darkness take control for the first time in a while.

“There you are.” Rafe’s voice made you turn your head toward him. You felt him grab at your hand giving it the most delicate squeeze. Acting as if your hand was made of the finest porcelain.

“Rafe.” You sighed, “What happened?”

He gulped turning away from you, “I’ll uh… I’ll let your brother explain that.” He gave you a soft laugh, “Let’s just focus on you right now, how are you feeling baby?”

“Baby huh?” You finally commented on his newly used pet name on you. You were usually ‘Muddy Maybank’ or the ‘Pogue Pleaser’ as he so kindly called you.

Rafe smirked knowing this meant you had to at least feel a little bit better if you were commenting on it, “Sure. Suits you.” He nodded his head brushing the hair out of your eyesight knowing you were probably far too sore to be moving so soon.

You quirked an eyebrow in surprise. Maybe you looked really fucking bad because this wasn’t the Rafe you’d known for the last fifteen years, “Does it?”

He nodded giving your hand another soft squeeze, “If you want.” He left it up to you.

You thought for a moment. You weren’t blind. He was bloody fucking gorgeous the man was. Tall but not stalky. Built but not too muscular. Fine as hell. Dapper as could be. Style beyond recognition. Class further than you could ever imagine. But… he had that mouth that put you down so often. Put your brother and friends down too. You’d sworn him and his type off completely long ago. But why, for the love of God, did it make you feel the tiniest amount of giddiness when that word came off his tongue?

“Maybe I do.” You admitted.

His smirk only grew to a smile as he heard you, “Yeah?” he scooted the chair closer to his bed that you were lying in. You looked yourself over impressed at how well he’d managed to clean you up while you were unconscious.

You nodded giving him a soft smile, “I like the sound of it.”

He hummed using his free hand to run his thumb along your unbruised cheek bone, “Then it’s settled. I’ll call you baby so long as you let me.”

You grinned feeling that dull flutter turn to more rapid nerves in your stomach as you let yourself fall more and more into the man sitting so closely next to you, “Rafe?” You asked feeling the exhaustion come over you once more.

“Yeah?” He answered you with a small amount of concern seeing your eyes flutter closed once more. Had he missed something? Were you still feeling bad? Were you bleeding internally?

“Will you sleep with me? I’m tired.” Your soft voice broke him from his own train of thoughts.

He looked you over seeing the delicate state you were in. But that sweet begging look on your eyes when you looked at him had him agreeing with you too quickly, “Anything you need baby.”

He climbed into the bed next to you. Softly he grabbed at your waist pulling you as gently as he could towards himself letting you adjust to him as best as you could, “Thank you.” You whispered letting yourself nuzzle into his chest falling asleep before he could even respond.

“You have no idea, sweet girl.” He knew you were asleep, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and giving you a soft kiss on your forehead. He didn’t miss the sweet smile that came to your face as you slept in his arms. Rafe could certainly get used to this.

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[willows-escape]

My Angel - 1990!Erik x Reader

Pairing: 1990!Cherik x AFAB!Reader (gender neutral pronouns/language)

Summary: You woke up that morning expecting a peaceful, regular day, but you were quickly proven horribly wrong as things began to travel down south. Fortunately, Erik is there to try and relieve some of the pain - even if it is excruciating.

Warnings(/Tags?): menstruation, descriptions of extremely painful periods (adenomyosis/endometriosis), erik is dramatic but its okay he has an excuse, nausea, mentions of vomit but no actual vomiting, early 1900s appropriate period shame, blood and heavy bleeding, brief mention of reader not eating all day but it's only due to lack of appetite, reassurance, fluff!!!!, like TOOTH ROTTING sweetness!!!!

Words: 6.9k

Notes: this isn't what i originally planned to post today, but i have adenomyosis and when my periods come they come bad and the pain is making me feel very sorry for myself. and i did promise something soon. so this is just self indulgent fluff in the mean time.

the other thing i was writing will be entirely gender neutral, so people who do not at all identify with menstruation or just don't want to read about it will hopefully enjoy that when it's done!

DISCLAIMER - this is based off of my experiences with periods, which will not look like most because I have a gynaecologic condition. but if you do 100% relate to this, go see a doctor! like, yesterday!

The morning began like any other, with a restless night's sleep behind you. As you stirred awake, you found yourself alone in bed, but a smile crept across your face as you noticed the lingering warmth on the sheets beside you - a subtle reminder of a certain someone’s recent presence.

Succumbing to the lethargy that clung to your limbs, you reached for the nearest available outfit. The garments were wrinkled and well-worn, but they served their purpose of preserving your modesty. You slipped them on, grateful for the barrier they provided against the cool morning air, despite their less-than-pristine condition.

As you emerged from your bedroom, you stumbled, the door slamming shut behind you with an echoing thud. Your body felt leaden, each limb weighed down as if filled with concrete. Shafts of light piercing through the stone crevices assaulted your eyes, intensifying the dull throb that had begun to pulse at your temples.

"Erik?" your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. The name came out as a hoarse, groggy mumble, hardly recognizable even to your own ears.

Despite your feeble attempt at calling out, Erik appeared before you almost instantly, as if summoned by your whisper.

"Y/N! You're up," he said joyfully, his body adorned in one of his special going out outfits, "much earlier than usual, may I add. I was in the middle of preparing us a picnic before you have to go back up but-"

His gaze finally narrowed onto your hunched form, his previous relaxed expression shifting to one of concern. Your dishevelled appearance was evident - your hair in disarray, your eyes glazed over, bloodshot, and unfocused. It was clear that you were far from your usual self, and to put it lightly, appeared extremely unwell.

"What is the matter?" he asked. You hadn’t noticed it before, but the picnic basket he had been holding clattered to the stone floor, forgotten in an instant as his full attention focused on you.

As though his question was the trigger, a wave of nausea crashed over you. Your chest constricted, forcing you to hunch over even further. Your skin flushed hot in an instant, beads of sweat forming and quickly multiplying across your skin.

"Angel, what's wrong?" Erik's voice trembled, his words tumbling out in a rush. Had you been more lucid, you might have felt a pang of guilt for causing him such distress.

"I'm fine," you mumbled unconvincingly. His hand gently rested on your shoulder, and instantly your body betrayed you. The comforting touch seemed to signal to your system that it was safe to let go, and suddenly, you felt overwhelmed by a surge of nausea and dizziness.

A dull ache blossomed in your lower abdomen. Your breath caught in your throat as you instinctively pressed a hand against your stomach. The discomfort flooded your senses as your face contorted, a grimace etching itself across your features as you struggled to maintain composure.

Within moments, the discomfort escalated from a mild annoyance to an all-consuming agony that left you immobilized.

Shivers began to wrack your body. Your legs turned to lead, a numbing sensation creeping up from your toes. Simultaneously, a searing, deep-seated ache took root in your lower back.

If Erik was worried before, he was panicking now. His eyes widened with alarm, his breathing quickened, and his usually steady hands began to tremble visibly. The calm composure he typically maintained crumbled in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread and urgency.

Your legs buckled beneath you, your vision blurring as you felt yourself wilting towards the unforgiving stone floor. Erik sprang into action, his arms shooting out to catch you. The world spun as he scooped you up, your body limp in his grasp. A sharp cry escaped your lips as the sudden movement sent a jolt of agony through your core, the comfort of his embrace overshadowed by the searing pain that threatened to consume you.

With swift strides, Erik navigated the winding halls, cradling you protectively in his arms. He retraced your earlier path, arriving at the door you had just exited moments ago. With a forceful kick, he flung it open, revealing the familiar sight of your shared bedroom.

"I'm going to set you down onto the bed," he explained slowly, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. "I’ll be as careful as I can."

When he gently pulled back the blanket on your side of the bed, you felt a slight jostling. Your attention, however, was abruptly drawn by a sharp intake of breath, his gasp cutting through the silence of the room.

"Erik?" you mumbled weakly. Your words were abruptly cut off as another wave of pain tore through your abdomen, causing you to cry out involuntarily.

Once more, you felt yourself being moved, this time to Erik's side of the bed. Confusion clouded your mind - why the change? But as you weakly lifted your head, the reason became starkly clear.

"Oh god-" you gasped, your eyes widening in shock at the sight before you. The vivid crimson stain on your side of the bed was impossible to ignore, its stark contrast against the pale sheets making your stomach churn with a mix of embarrassment and dread.

“I need to go find Gerard, you need to be seen by a doctor,” he declared, voice urgent and desperate.

He finally lowered you onto the clean side of the bed, and your eyes instinctively sought his face. It was then you realised his mask was off, likely because he hadn't anticipated you waking so soon. Without the barrier, you could clearly see the stark pallor of his unmarked skin and the unmistakable fear etched across his features. His typically composed demeanour had given way to raw, unfiltered concern that was both touching and unsettling.

He turned to leave.

"Erik, wait," you gasped, your hand shooting out to grasp his arm. "The pain is... excruciating, I won't lie. But I don't think—"

Your words were cut short as another wave of agony crashed over you. A strangled whimper escaped your lips as you curled into yourself, your body trembling uncontrollably. The pain was all-consuming, leaving you breathless and disoriented. You clenched your eyes shut, willing the torment to pass, knowing all you could do was endure until it subsided.

"Where's the pain? Can you pinpoint where you're bleeding from?" his eyes darted across your form, taking in your dulled complexion and the sheen of sweat on your skin. "You're burning up. Do you have a fever?"

His questions came in rapid succession, but his touch remained gentle as he brushed your damp hair away from your forehead.

"I... um..." you hesitated, struggling to articulate through the pain. The situation presented a dilemma: discussing such a private matter with a man felt improper, yet the severity of your discomfort and the alarming amount of blood made it impossible to simply dismiss. You found yourself caught.

Another intense surge of pain rose in your stomach, but this one more overwhelming than the last. Your ability to speak fully vanished as your eyes clenched shut. Soft whimpers escalated into frantic, muffled cries as the relentless throbbing in your lower abdomen intensified, twisting your nerves and leaving you gasping for breath.

"Angel, please, tell me what’s going on," Erik pleaded, tenderly taking your hand in his. The desperation in his eyes was palpable as he watched you struggle to form words. “I really believe you need a doctor, please just let me-”

"No, please," you winced, your voice barely audible through gritted teeth. The words came out strained, a mixture of pain and embarrassment colouring your tone. "It's... it's not something I can easily explain," you paused, taking a shaky breath before adding, "it's rather private."

"Private?" he echoed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and concern. "Forgive my being impolite, but you are currently writhing in agony and bleeding profusely- how on Earth is that private!?"

"Erik," you implored, your eyes silently conveying your discomfort with the subject. However, his concern for your well-being trumped any social niceties. Undeterred by your unspoken plea, he persisted with his questions, determined to understand and help.

"If you explain what's happening, I might be able to help," he insisted. You gave him a sceptical look, but he pressed on, "my years in isolation weren't idle, I've acquired a vast array of knowledge from the countless books that have kept me company."

"It's just not appropriate for me to discuss this with you!" you cried in refute, your voice strained with both pain and embarrassment. Despite your best efforts to remain composed, your tone came out sharper than intended.

You silently prayed he would forgive you, considering the fact that you were enduring mind-boggling amounts of pain. Not only that, the fact you could distinctly feel the familiar warm leakage of blood trickling down your thighs and onto the bedsheets below was driving you utterly insane.

Shame coursed through you as your eyes fell upon the stark evidence of your debilitating pain staining the otherwise white sheets. Averting your gaze, you felt utterly exposed and vulnerable. An overwhelming desire to shield yourself from Erik's concerned stare gripped you, making you wish you could simply disappear.

However, your discomfort eased as Erik's touch changed. His firm grip on your hand softened, his fingers now tracing gentle patterns on your skin. Despite the worry in his eyes, you sensed his effort to stay calm for your sake.

Your heart tugged in your chest at the realisation.

"Y/N," he began, his voice tender yet hesitant as he tried to hold himself together. His gaze locked onto yours as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Please, put your shame aside for one moment and let me in- if only so that I can help you. It kills me to see you like this."

His ignorance of the situation was evident in the way his chest heaved and how he chewed the inside of his cheek with a vengeance. It was clear he believed you were in grave danger. You knew you needed to say something to ease his mind, even if it went against everything your instincts were telling you to do.

"Oh," you breathed, wincing as another wave of pain crashed over you. "It's... it's a delicate matter. Not something typically discussed in polite company."

"Do I look like polite company to you?" Erik's sarcastic retort was accompanied by a growing urgency in his previously calm ministrations. His eyes started to dart frantically between the blood staining your skin and your tired, visibly distressed face.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for Erik's potential upset. Despite your fears of his disgust or anger, of him calling you dirty or telling you to leave until you return to normal, a small part of you hoped he might be more understanding than expected. It was this glimmer of optimism that gave you the courage to finally speak.

"Erik," you began hesitantly, "are you familiar with the concept of... menstruation?"

The prolonged silence following your question spoke volumes. When Erik finally shook his head, it only confirmed what you had already suspected.

"Well," you began hesitantly, searching for the right words, "it's a process that occurs in people with uteruses. It involves bleeding and a lot of pain, typically happening monthly for one week out of the month. I don't really know much about the biological reasons behind it, but-"

Your explanation was abruptly halted as another shock of excruciating pain engulfed you. Erik, sensing your distress, quickly offered his hand. You latched onto it, your grip surprisingly fierce. As the agony intensified, your body convulsed against the sheets, and muffled sobs escaped your lips. You desperately willed the torment to stop, but it seemed endless despite your determination to endure.

"Fuck!"

Erik looked taken aback by your cussing, but seeing as you were squeezing his hand so hard he felt like your aim was to tear it off, he didn't focus on it too much.

Eventually, the pain faded back to its baseline ache - which was still extremely unpleasant, but manageable.

"I apologize," you coughed through your tears, your voice strained as you brushed away the beads of sweat trickling down your forehead.

"There's no need to apologize," he reassured, his voice filled with compassion. "I'm deeply concerned for your wellbeing, but I trust your understanding of this situation. If you say it's not life-threatening, I will trust you."

“Yeah, I'm definitely in no life threatening danger," you assured him, "but the pain is so intense, it almost feels like I am."

"It hurts so badly," you whimpered, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. "Ever since I was young, I've had to live with such excruciating pain and such heavy bleeding that I can barely function or even leave my bed. It's so exhausting and I've lost count of the times I've passed out on dirty floors, lying in my own vomit because of this."

"I know, I know," he murmured, not truly understanding and internally slightly horrified but wanting to comfort you regardless. He gently wiped away your tears as they fell, his touch tender and reassuring.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "This is terribly embarrassing. You shouldn't have to witness this. You tried to regain composure, but the combination of physical discomfort and emotional vulnerability made it impossible to stem the tide of tears.

Suddenly, Erik began to move. Your attention was so focused on the hurricane of emotions swirling around your body that you barely noticed him shifting to your side of the bed. It wasn't until he began to lower himself onto the mattress beside you that panic set in, causing you to react instinctively.

"No, wait!" you exclaimed, your sudden outburst causing him to recoil in surprise. Realizing your tone, you softened your voice. "I'm sorry, but please don't sit there. I... I don't want you to get dirty."

"Dirty?" Erik repeated, his eyes flickering to the stain beneath him. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "It's just blood, I mean really- it's not like I haven't been covered in my own fair share of the stuff. This small spot is hardly cause for concern."

"Erik, please, it's not just blood!" you insisted, the shame taking over as you looked at the spot where you'd bled. It didn’t help that you were in too much pain and felt far too weak to even do anything about it!

He raised an eyebrow at you. "How can it be 'not just blood'? Does your blood contain arsenic?"

You couldn’t help but groan at his sarcastic retort.

"Menstrual blood comes from a person's private areas," you grumbled, your cheeks burning with embarrassment as you tried to convey the gravity of the situation.

He paused for a moment, then replied, "well, that certainly wasn't the answer I expected, but it doesn't change my opinion. Blood is blood, no matter where it comes from. Besides, fabric—and people—can always be washed. You don't need to be moving around for the sake of preserving meaningless things, you need to rest."

"But!-"

"Now that that's settled..." he shrugged off the jacket he’d been wearing and eased himself onto the mattress, inching closer to your awestruck form.

You were utterly speechless. He just- and then he- and he said-

"May I hold you? I won't if it causes you pain," he asked, his voice earnest and gentle. His tender concern only added to your bewildered state.

Words failed you as Erik gently pulled you into his embrace. The warmth of his body enveloped you, offering a comfort you didn't realize you so desperately craved. Despite the momentary twinge in your abdomen as he carefully adjusted your position, you found yourself melting into his arms. In that moment, his presence was a bandage to your pain-wracked body and troubled mind.

"Is this position comfortable?" He inquired. His arm gently supported the back of your neck, while his other hand rested lightly on your upper arm, providing a comforting presence without applying pressure. You managed a small nod in response, grateful for his attentiveness.

"Good. Now, where does it hurt?"

As his hand began to drift lower, more particularly towards your thighs, you suddenly realized the direction his thoughts were taking. Your eyes widened in a mix of surprise and mild alarm.

"Wait, not there!" you exclaimed, immediately regretting your sudden outburst as a fresh wave of pain surged through you. You winced, silently chastising yourself for your impulsive reaction.

"Oh. My deepest apologies," Erik said, his voice tinged with embarrassment as he blinked sheepishly. "I wouldn't have touched you anywhere without permission, but when you mentioned the blood's origin, I assumed—well, I thought—"

"Yeah, I know what you thought," you laughed breathlessly, wincing as another flash of pain assaulted your insides. "But contrary to your guess, the pain is mainly in my lower abdomen. Still, I appreciate your... eagerness to help."

His hand, which had been hovering uncertainly, now settled gently on your stomach. The warmth of his palm seeped through your skin as he watched your face intently, searching for any sign of discomfort. Finding none, he took your relaxed expression as silent permission and began to move his hand in slow, soothing circles.

Your mind went blank.

The warmth of his hand on your stomach felt heavenly. The sensation was unlike anything you'd experienced before. While it didn't eliminate the pain by any means, it soothed the intensity more than you thought anything ever could. As his fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on your skin, you felt your entire body relaxing, tension melting away with each careful movement.

Your tears, once born of shame and torment, now flowed from sheer relief.

"Thank you," you sniffled, peace washing over you whilst your body finally began to relax. As your muscles slowly unclenched, the bed beneath you seemed to transform, becoming a soft, inviting cloud that cradled your aching form.

Erik could sense your growing ease just from the shift in your demeanour. He was well aware that the mattress and bed sheets were likely ruined, but your comfort and rest took precedence over any stains—especially ones that no one else would ever lay eyes on. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t always procure new clothes for you if your current ones were beyond saving.

"Rest now, angel," he murmured softly, his hand continuing its soothing motions. "I'll be here when you wake up."

As you drifted off into a peaceful slumber, Erik decided it was probably time to delve into those medical journals he'd long avoided.

What? He just preferred reading fiction, that's all.

As evening fell, you stirred from your sleep, immediately noticing the emptiness beside you. Your hand brushed against the cool sheets where Erik had been, confirming your suspicion—he had left your side some time ago. Disappointment creased your brow as you pondered his whereabouts.

You laid motionless on the mattress, your gaze fixed on the spot where Erik had been before you drifted off. The pain in your lower abdomen persisted, but it had noticeably diminished compared to earlier. Your skin felt clammy, and your throat parched, yet overall, you felt surprisingly okay.

"You're awake," a familiar voice called from the corner of the room.

Your frown melted away as you realized he hadn't left at all. True to his word, Erik had simply shifted to the corner of the room, maintaining his vigilant watch over you.

"It's 7:30 PM, which is quite an unusual time to start your day, don't you think?" he teased. You sat up, observing him sitting comfortably in the chair you two kept in the room for convenience's sake.

This time, he wore his mask, unlike earlier when you had awoken. Your gaze drifted downward, landing on the enormous tome in his hands—the bulkiest book you'd ever laid eyes on. Curiosity piqued, you gestured silently toward the literary behemoth he cradled, wordlessly urging him to elaborate on the book in his grasp.

"I know—this is definitely a hefty one. Thank god for chapter indexes," he remarked, weighing the book in his hands. "However, I must say, its contents are appallingly lacking in knowledge."

"How so?" you prompted.

"Well, this is supposed to be a medical journal, and yet, when I look for information on menstruation, it's woefully inadequate," he scoffed. "It merely states that menstruation is linked to the reproductive cycle and helps the uterus prepare for potential pregnancy. That's all."

"Well, that's still more than I knew before," you said with a shrug.

"It's obscene. I read in another book that it happens to half the population from around ages 16 to 50, and yet so many people have gone their whole lives not knowing why?" He shook his head in bewilderment. "And I thought science had come much further than that."

“You read another book? How many of these have you read?” you asked, astonished by his dedication.

“Oh, just whatever I had lying around. A couple dozen or so,” he replied, as if everyone just had dozens of books on medical knowledge floating around their abode. “But some of them were so old they attributed menstruation to miasma, so I didn’t pay much attention to those. And I also busied myself with books on herbal remedies and pain relief- apparently there’s this new medicine called Aspirin on the market? Exciting, but I can’t get a hold of that right now, unfortunately.”

As he rose from the chair, you noticed the stacks of books surrounding his feet. He hadn't exaggerated when he mentioned "a dozen or so" - they were all massive, thicker than any you'd ever seen! You racked your brain, trying to recall where in the cellars he might have been concealing these enormous volumes, but you couldn't remember ever spotting them before.

"I may be mistaken, but you seem to be feeling better than you did this morning," he observed, neatly arranging the books into orderly stacks rather than leaving them scattered haphazardly.

"Definitely," you nodded. "The pain is still present, but it's significantly less intense now."

"That's good," he replied, humming as he pushed his first pile to the side to work on the next. "You did give me quite a fright earlier. I thought... Well, I'm not sure what I thought."

"It's understandable. I mean, I'm not sure why, but I expected you to have some... slight awareness of the subject," you admitted, awkwardly averting your gaze.

Even though you knew Erik wasn't raised with the same rules and expectations as you, discussing menstruation still felt like breaching a taboo. The topic remained uncomfortable, despite your rational understanding that it shouldn't be.

"I do feel quite foolish for not being aware of it sooner. But then again, how many women do you think I've encountered in my life? Besides my mother, the answer is none. And even that meeting was brief," he said matter-of-factly.

You didn't really know how to respond to that, so you let a comfortable silence settle between you. Erik swiftly finished organizing his books, then hurried out to return them to their proper places. He reappeared within moments.

"Now, unless there are other aspects of your anatomy I should be aware of," he said with a hint of amusement, "I believe a bath is in order." His eyes darted meaningfully towards the bed, drawing your attention to the mess you had somehow overlooked. You were mortified as you realized the extent of the stains, which had spread far beyond where you'd expected, creating abstract patterns on the once-pristine sheets.

"Ugh, yes," you grimaced, suddenly noticing the uncomfortable layer of blood on your skin. "A bath is definitely overdue. But what about you? Have you had a chance to clean up?"

"You've been out for eleven hours. I bathed ages ago," he stated. "Just give me half an hour or so to boil some water for the bath. That way, you won't be freezing in there."

While you appreciated Erik's thoughtfulness, the sensation of dried, itchy filth on your skin was unbearable. The prospect of waiting even a moment longer to cleanse yourself seemed more daunting than enduring the bite of cold water.

"Don’t bother," you cringed, "I can't bear this feeling any longer. I need to wash off immediately, even if the water's cold. The discomfort of icy water is preferable to this... filth."

“Have some patience. It’s the late evening in a cellar right next to a lake, you’ll die from cold exposure,” he deadpanned.

Though you understood the logic behind his words, you couldn't suppress a playful pout. Erik's eyes rolled with amusement as he approached you on the bed. Leaning over, he tenderly pressed his lips to your forehead, the gentle gesture melting away your feigned disappointment.

"Are you sure you're not in too much pain right now? Tomorrow I'll ask Gerard to procure some herbs, but until then I have a few remedies I can try with items lying around," he asked, straightening up to look down at you with a raised eyebrow.

"It's bearable," you affirmed.

"Good," he said, moving towards the door. "Stay here while I set up the bath. If you need anything, just call for me."

“Trust me, I won’t be going far anytime soon.”

Thirty minutes later, Erik returned as promised. During the wait, you occupied yourself with daydreams and silent lamentations about your bodily predicament. You couldn’t help but be stuck on the thought that you’d be stuck like this until you were 50—you weren't even halfway through!

"Can you walk alright?" he asked, concerned about you putting any unnecessary strain on your body.

After considering your current condition, you replied, "I think I could manage, but would you mind carrying me to the bathroom anyway? I've heard blood leaves quite stubborn stains on stone."

Wordlessly, he obliged, gently cradling you in his arms. One arm supported your back while the other nestled beneath your knees. As he carefully lifted you, his eyes fell upon the crimson stain left behind. The sight of such copious bleeding caused a flicker of concern to cross his face, though he tried to conceal it.

You were supposed to bleed that much every month for a week straight without dying?

Pushing aside his alarming thoughts about your potential demise, he carried you carefully to the bathroom, his movements slow and deliberate. As he cradled you, you realized this level of attentiveness was something you could easily grow accustomed to. You made a mental note that future menstrual cycles would be spent here in the cellars, rather than hiding from him in the Opera Populaire as you'd done before.

"Thank you for today," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude. As you spoke, you instinctively burrowed closer, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

He let out a low chuckle, tinged with self-deprecation. "Thank you? I've barely done anything noteworthy," he scoffed, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. You couldn't see his expression, but you sensed the frown in his words. "To be honest, I feel rather inadequate. I wish I could have been more helpful to you in this situation."

"Don't say that," you insisted, nudging his chest with your head in retaliation. "You've gone above and beyond what most people would do. You've read dozens of books today just to understand me better. You've prepared a bath for me and prioritized my rest over your bedding. Most men would have either shooed me away or fled in your position."

A door creaked open, plunging you into momentary darkness as Erik gently lowered you to your feet. Your voice softened with emotion as you whispered, "your kindness and attentiveness mean more to me than words can express."

The gas valve hissed softly as it turned, gradually illuminating the bathroom. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you noticed a plush black towel draped over the edge of the tub, ready for use. On a nearby rack hung a set of fresh clothes—their style unmistakably reminiscent of Erik's wardrobe—waiting patiently for you to don them after your bath.

He cleared his throat loudly, a gesture you'd come to recognise as his way of masking his flustered state. "It's nothing extraordinary," he mumbled, his voice tinged with a mix of modesty and discomfort at the praise, "just basic human decency."

“But-“

"Is there anything else you need before I go to clean up?" he abruptly asked.

You sighed, giving him a pointed look for interrupting you. Deciding to let it go, you allowed the shift in conversation.

"I can manage from here, thank you," you hummed. "But would you mind fetching my sanitary belt from my bag? I'll need it after the bath."

“Sanitary belt?”

"Yeah. It's a belt that wraps around your waist and holds a sanitary towel in place to collect the, um, blood," you explained, awkwardly gesturing with your hands to illustrate. "You'll recognize it when you see it."

With a tender kiss on your forehead, Erik departed, promising to return with what you need.

The moment he left, you wasted no time shedding your clothes and depositing them in the nearby basket. Eager for relief, you eased yourself into the bathtub, a contented sigh escaping your lips as the pleasantly warm water enveloped you. The soothing heat melted away any lingering discomfort, allowing you to immerse yourself fully in the task of cleansing. With meticulous care, you began to wash away the day's troubles, savouring the unexpected comfort the bath provided.

He returned shortly after, placing the belt on the rack alongside your other necessities. Once again, he inquired about your well-being, prompting you to playfully scold him for his constant concern. Nevertheless, you reassured him that you were fine, adding that the warm bath water provided more pain relief than you had anticipated.

He seemed on the verge of making a sarcastic comment—likely along the lines of "I told you so"—but thought better of it. Bidding you a final goodbye, he left to strip and prepare the bed, allowing you to finish cleaning up in peace.

You continued this until the water was doing you more of a disservice than it was cleansing you. Pulling the drain cover open, you allowed the dirty water to flow out and empty the tub. Silently, you thanked Erik for installing this modern convenience in his home—one of the few upgrades he'd chosen, despite his ability to afford many more.

A chill crept over your damp skin, urging you to hasten your routine. Goosebumps prickled across your body as you quickly patted yourself dry with the towel, appreciating how he'd made sure it was black and not white. You then clumsily secured the sanitary belt around your waist, wincing at its familiar discomfort.

Immediately after, you slipped into the night shirt he had provided. The loose-fitting trousers were a blessing, their gentle embrace and soft material accommodating your tender midsection without adding pressure. Once you finished dressing, a sense of satisfaction gleamed in your chest. You felt refreshed, clean, and rejuvenated.

You made sure to brush your teeth before finishing up in the bathroom, when the horrific cramps returned once again. Doubled over and jaw clenched, you shuffled towards the door with painstaking slowness. Your quivering hand fumbled with the gas valve, finally managing to shut off the light. The room plunged into darkness as you walked out, door falling shut behind.

Groaning softly, you shuffled back towards the bedroom, where you found Erik fluffing the pillows on your freshly made bed. He wore his night attire, and despite your discomfort, you couldn't suppress a smile. Even doubled over in pain, the sight of him warmed your heart.

He swiftly noticed your presence, helping you onto the bed to spare you the effort of weakly propping yourself up. He then approached the dresser, where a mysterious lump lay concealed beneath blankets. Unfolding the coverings, he placed his hand on the hidden object and nodded with satisfaction.

He refolded the blankets over it before walking over to you. Curious and confused, you tried to maintain an inquisitive look while fighting off the storm raging in your abdomen.

"I anticipated the pain would return once you started moving again," he said, gesturing for you to lift your shirt to reveal your belly. You complied, though your confusion deepened. "This is called a 'hot water bottle,’ a recent invention. Gerard suggested I try one to ease some discomfort from my... condition. It doesn't help me much, but it might work for you."

"How does it work?" you asked, flinching slightly as the bottle touched your skin.

"It's made of rubber and filled with hot water to transfer heat efficiently," he explained, helping you pull your shirt back down over the bottle to keep it pressed against your skin. "Since you mentioned the warm water helped, I thought this might be worth trying."

"So it's like a hot water pig, but made of rubber instead of stoneware and more convenient?" you hummed thoughtfully, resting your hands over the bottle for an extra layer of added security.

“Precisely,” he nodded.

As the warmth from the hot water bottle gradually permeated the blankets, you found it soothing but not quite potent enough to fully alleviate your discomfort. The heat offered a welcome respite, yet you yearned for more intense relief from the persistent ache.

"It does take the edge off the pain," you admitted, biting your lip pensively, "but would it be possible to remove the blanket? I think more intense heat might help even more."

"Absolutely not," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Direct contact with the bottle could result in burns. The blanket stays."

After a moment's consideration, you decided that the risk of burns did indeed outweigh the potential relief from your cramps—at least for now. You nodded, opting to keep the blanket wrapped around the water bottle, appreciating its safer warmth.

A sense of contentment washed over you as you marvelled at how this day, which had started so unexpectedly, had blossomed into something truly special.

You were with the love of your life, freshly bathed and dressed in his clothes, tucked into a clean bed with a soothing hot water bottle warming your skin and fighting against what usually was traumatic levels of pain. Tears welled in your eyes as pure bliss coursed through your veins, overwhelming you before you could even process the feeling.

As the first tear rolled down your cheek, Erik instinctively sprang into action. You couldn't help but laugh through your cascading tears, raising your hands to signal him to relax. Though hesitant, he wordlessly complied with your wishes.

"I'm okay," you sniffled, your words punctuated by small sobs. "I don't know why I'm crying. I'm just so... happy. I think I'm really, truly happy."

His eyes widened behind the mask, a mixture of surprise and awe flashing across the few of his visible features. Unable to resist, you reached up, gently grasping his hand and guiding him to lay beside you on the bed. He remained motionless, seemingly caught between disbelief and anticipation. Your heart racing, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a tender, affectionate kiss that conveyed all the emotions words couldn't quite express.

Wiping your eyes with the sleeves of your night shirt, you clutched the water bottle tighter and rolled onto your side. You nestled into his chest, his arm instinctively wrapping around you as you melded into his trembling form. Yearning for closeness, you draped your leg over his hips, your body seeking every possible point of contact.

"But—" He stammered, shaking his head in disbelief. Bewilderment dripped from his voice as he continued, "You haven't eaten all day. Surely, I should prepare something for you—"

"No," you replied, your tone firm yet affectionate.

"You must-"

"Nuh-uh," you teased.

"Really I should-"

"Shh." You leaned closer, your faces mere inches apart as you rested an arm over his waist. He tensed at the contact, despite the familiar porcelain barrier between you. "Just stay with me like this for a little while, please? Afterward, you can make all the cold meat sandwiches your heart desires."

"You told me you liked those," he grumbled in playful accusation.

A soft laugh escaped your lips as your eyes shimmered with unbridled affection. If Erik were to meet your gaze, all he'd be able to see was the pure, unadulterated euphoria radiating from your smile.

"I do," you agreed with a nod, “but only because you make them with so much love."

"So, you don't?"

You hummed thoughtfully, tilting your head back as if deeply pondering the culinary merits of cold meat sandwiches. "They're good, but they could use a little something extra," you mused. "Maybe some cucumber for crunch? Or a slice of mozzarella for creaminess?"

He scoffed in mock offence, "That completely distracts from the flavour of the meat."

"Flavour?"

"I'm glad you agree."

You pursed your lips before releasing a long, deliberate sigh. Your eyes flicked from his face to the clock. The time read 9:45 PM, yet an unwelcome wakefulness clung to you—undoubtedly a lingering consequence of your excessive eleven-hour nap.

"I’ve completely ruined my sleep schedule, haven’t I?" you mumbled. "It’s late in the evening, and I’m nowhere near tired.”

Erik paused thoughtfully before replying, "I can make you something to aid with sleep, if you'd like."

"What do you have in mind?" you asked, curiosity evident in your tone.

He thought over the matter before deciding.

"I have some dried valerian root that I can steep into a tea," he offered. "I've tried it on rare occasions. It's quite bitter, but I can add some chamomile to sweeten the taste."

"You're so lovely," you giggled, unaware of how he tensed at the compliment. "So kind and thoughtful—you call me an angel, but I think the real angel here is you. My Angel."

He paused, visibly stunned by your words.

His voice was soft and hesitant as he asked, "you believe that?"

You nodded, a soft hum of agreement escaping your lips. "I do," you said sweetly, your voice brimming with unwavering certainty.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest as he took a deep breath, seemingly trying to steady his racing heartbeat. His hold tightened around you, drawing you even closer. A radiant smile spread across your face.

"So," he stammered, clearly flustered by the compliment, "is that a yes to the tea?"

"I'd love some tea," you nodded eagerly. "But could you stay with me for ten more minutes first?"

He nodded, and you both settled into a comfortable silence—a respite he seemed to appreciate. Your fingers traced idle patterns on his palm, while his gently wove through your hair.

Ten minutes passed in this tranquil state, and you quickly realised that maybe the tea was unnecessary after all. Every thirty seconds or so, you found yourself stifling an uncontrollable yawn—a gesture you noticed Erik unconsciously mirroring.

Your eyelids grew heavy, the combined warmth of his body and the water bottle proving irresistible. You drifted toward sleep at least five times, always jolting awake at the last moment before you fully succumbed. Despite your drowsiness, you yearned to savour this moment just a little longer.

"Do you still want that tea?" Erik asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

You shook your head and nestled closer to his chest. "I'm fine now," you murmured contentedly.

"Good," he replied, his hand gently smoothing down your flyaway hairs. He seemed on the verge of saying more, but fatigue clouded his thoughts, and he let the moment pass.

He yawned once more, momentarily pulling away from you. You whined in protest, but he shushed you as he reached behind his head to untie his mask. Attempting to place it carefully on the bedside table, he misjudged the distance, and it slipped towards the floor.

The mask remained intact, though the sound it emitted was sharp enough to make you flinch. To your astonishment, Erik seemed unconcerned by the possible harm. Instead, he calmly readjusted your position so you were laying as before, then closed his eyes. A surge of emotion swelled in your chest.

Erik had grown comfortable with you seeing him without his mask, though he typically preferred to keep it on unless taken by surprise or during the quiet hours of the night when you were both sleeping. His current indifference toward the mask could mean one of two things: either he was too exhausted to notice its near demise, or he had become so deeply at ease with you that he no longer felt the need to shield himself behind it.

Erik possessed other masks, but they could never replace his favourite. His primary one was treated with the utmost reverence, as fragile and irreplaceable as a feather. It was the one he felt most secure in and allowed him the most normalcy, therefore it was always his first choice regardless of other options. Yet now, without hesitation or concern, he had allowed it to fall away, as though its significance had vanished entirely, as if the bond between you had rendered it unnecessary.

You felt the urge to cry again, but not wanting to disturb his sleep, you suppressed your tears as you contemplated the significance of this moment for both of you.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. Though it could be mistaken for tiredness, the tremor in your words betrayed your overwhelming desire to burst into tears of joy.

After a moment, one bleary eye opened as he turned to face you. His lips curved into a genuine smile as he whispered, "I love you too."

'hot water pigs' are what people used to call hot water bottles, or at least their versions of them, just so you know lol. writing these fics always requires so much research into old terms and the existence of things that are now regular everyday items, it's kind of crazy. like trying to figure out how much was known about periods in the late 1800s early 1900s was a challenge.

[thechaoticcheese]

TW: Mentions of- Burning, Cutting, and Hitting, Torture, Threats of Teeth pulling, Waterboarding, Lack of Care for the Reader

Word Count: 2,140

Wrongfully Accused - Chapter 3 - The Night

Hours had passed since Price had started to interrogate you. You weren’t sure the exact time, but Price was finished dealing with you. The large male threw you onto the concrete floor with an annoyed huff, having worked up somewhat of a sweat from the repeated hits to your body. Your shoulder was the first thing that collided with the harsh ground, adding another bruise to the collection you were gathering. They had started to take form on your body, a darker shade hugging the painful sights of Price’s wrath. Your clothes had become torn, tattered at the edges, but the Captain was at least pleasant enough to make sure you weren’t exposed in any way. But that didn’t mean your blood hadn’t found its way into the fiber of your clothes. The red liquid had nuzzled its way into the woven fabric and it planned to stay there for as long as it wanted. It had already turned into a dark shade of red. If it weren’t for the holes on the fabric, you would’ve said the clothes were ruined from your own blood. That didn’t matter now.

Your body ached for some sort of relief, only having realized about halfway through him burning the wounds that he gave you shut, did the pain medicine wear off. You were glad that they weren’t a placebo, but that didn’t stop your head from swirling with wanting to find some more. It wasn’t just your skin though that throbbed from pain, you had given up screaming not long ago. Your throat yelled raw from Price reopening the wounds he so carefully burned shut. You were a huffing mess on the floor, whimpering softly and sobbing into the cold, welcoming concrete.

Price’s boots hitting against the light russet stained floor echoed in the room as he marched out. Part of you hoped he didn’t eat dinner tonight. Or ever return to the chilling room he left you in. As you heard the gentle click of the door latching, you allowed yourself to cry more, curling into a ball. Your hands stayed cuffed behind you, the metal had slowly cut into your wrists and now sent a stinging sensation to remind you of how helpless you were in this situation. Price had beat you into submission way too soon and anything you pleaded or told him was null. It was stuff he already knew after all, well other than you not being the spy on base. Your whimpers refused to cease as you yanked at your thoughts, desperately trying to focus on who. Who out of the three that remained would do this? All of them seemed like good soldiers.

There was Joe “Stalk” Vanheiln, a man from the United States who joined to serve his country and just got lucky to be a part of 141. He was a larger statured man, standing about the same height as Ghost and just as built, but he was a gentle giant at heart off the field. He also wouldn’t stop gushing about his family. He had a wife, Marylyn, and his excitable daughter Chelsey. You could vaguely remember meeting the girl on a call when the wifi was working enough for him to rush around base and show people on the laptop that she had drawn him in a drawing. No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t betray countries and especially not his family. But what if it was the US Government pulling another stunt to hush up something that they did like last time? Soap had barely survived from Makarov and thank whatever above that you were there just in time to stop the mad Russian. Then there was Lyn “Skitter” Chuen. He was a quiet man who mainly kept to himself. He was a little shorter than Soap, a thinner build, black hair that could only be described as constantly wet. It was like he was a soaked black cat. One hell of a sniper though, which is what got him into 141. With all of his secrets, he could be the spy. Though that means you might as well accuse Ghost due to his original intimidating aura. Skitter was also slightly jumpy, always on his toes and out for anyone sneaking up on him. He doesn’t seem like he would, mainly because he’s worked hard to prove his worth to be a part of the team, often being tossed to the side due to his demeanor. Though his jumpiness could be from not wanting to be found out. It felt like a long shot though. 

Lastly was Quail “Tree” Quinn. He was just an average soldier. Brown short hair, average muscle build, hard training. He blended in with the crowd. It would be good cover if he didn’t insist that after every mission or training session they should grab a drink. He seemed like a class A drunk if it wasn’t for someone always babysitting how much he’s had. Tree had already gotten written up for disorderly conduct and public indecency on base. He seemed too… Just, impractical. Who would send a drunkard in for delicate information about this? Though it would be a good cover up, have the drunken bastard be the one to gather intel. However your mind went back to the two strikes against him. If he didn’t behave soon, he might be thrown out. That wouldn’t be a good spy.

You shivered as more cold air seeped into the room, making your body shiver and curl closer together. Your mind swimming with the possibilities of it being any of the three men. Your bones started to ache. If it wasn’t from the punches Price had bashed you with, or the cuts that still bled, dirtied with cigar ash from when the male burned your wounds together haphazardly, you’d be able to find who it was, or maybe get some sleep. Your brows furrowed as you bared your teeth that somehow you were able to keep in your skull. You could remember the taste of your blood, his cigar and whatever else was on the fabric of Price’s glove as he threatened to get something to pull out your teeth while holding your tongue tightly between his fingers. The feeling made you spit onto the floor. Your saliva mixing with the blood that drizzled down your throat form some sort of open wound located up your pharynx or nasal cavity. You could barely register the thick liquid trailing down your throat. It was inside the part of your body where it shouldn’t be. Your thoughts of who it could be ebbed away as your brain started to go fuzzy. No one was there to comfort you. Ghost had immediately closed himself off to you when Price accused you of being the traitor, not saying a word after you got burned. Soap didn’t do anything either, despite seeing the state you were in. He heard your pleas, but the Scot just dipped back into the room as if nothing had happened. Price, well, he was the one who found you and personally saw to your interrogation. Everything that hurt, and didn’t hurt, on your body was because of that man. You shivered in fear at what could possibly be next. Your mind wanted to trail away into the dark recess of your brain and never return. It wanted to close that door, apply so many locks, chains, boards to the door so that it would be impossible for anyone you cared about to hurt you like this again.

But then there was Gaz.

Your boyfriend. Your lover. The one who stood up to Price to make sure you got proper medical treatment for that burn on your cheek that you couldn’t even feel. The one who stayed, even if it was just outside of the medical bay, until your emergency skin graft was done. He was the one who wanted to come with Price from when he first stopped his Captain in the hallway this morning.

The one you still loved.

He had shoved his foot into the opening of the door and didn’t budge, no matter how much your defensiveness tugged at the door. It tried to move his foot, but it was made of some sort of heavy stone, unable to be pushed. Or perhaps he glued his shoe to the floor with the strongest glue out there. You weren’t sure, but he was there for you. He was there to fill the cracks that were forming in your mind faster than he could patch them, but he was doing his damndest. 

“Kyle…” Your voice sounded so foreign, barely wheezing out his name as your throat groaned as you spoke his name, even if it was just a hushed call for him. Gaz was there. He would be there when you got out of this mess. The thought warmed you as your mostly lidded eyes finally found solace, and closed. Your mind finding a warmer place to rest than the cold seeping into your body as it finally decided to sleep.

Cold liquid greeted your senses as you gasped for air, your nostrils and mouth filling with water as you were pulled back from the grey bucket that carried who knows how much water. You coughed and took sharp inhales to regain what oxygen your body was desperately yelling at you to get back. It sure woke you up fast, but your wet hair now rested against the front of your face. The bandages were holding desperately onto your body and were soaked. You could swear that some had gotten underneath the left side, trapping some water in, which is why your left eye refused to open. The water that slowly trickled down the left side of your face from the bandage only confirmed it. The bandage on the right side of your face clung onto your face like a cat digging its claws into skin, and god dammit it felt like it as well.

Your right eye looked up to see a terrified Gaz and the familiar cold gaze of Price. Water dripped down your now soaked face and went back into the bucket. Some droplets landed on the floor. The grip on your hair was tight, informing you that it was no one else’s hand other than Price’s. “Mornin’ sleepin’ beauty… ‘ave a good nap?” The older Brit’s voice rumbled with a fake happiness that was lightly wrapped with disgust. His hand gently tugged up on your hair when your head started to slump. “I ‘ope not, can’t let ya get more than three hours of sleep.” His words made your skin crawl. Three hours? Were you only asleep for three hours? Did Price ever sleep? And why was Gaz here? Your head started to spin at the whirlwind of questions that were spontaneously showing up in your head.

“Still not wantin’ to talk? That’s fine. I hope you're thirsty.” Without waiting for a response, your view went from the two males to the side of the bucket. You tried not to squirm as your only open eye shut tight. You’ve held your breath for long times before, but your brain was panicking and it wouldn’t stop. Bubbles started to slip out of your nostrils and lips as Price shoved your head further in. Water had started to fight its way into your mouth and nose. After a few seconds, he then tugged your now drenched head out. You choked in the air as water fell from your face once again, as if it was a stream going down a mountain. Water leaving your parted lips, making you drool down your chin.

“You gonna talk?” Price growled as you panted weakly in front of the two. Your eye looked over to Gaz. Silent pleads met his chocolate brown eyes. Though he only looked away, brows furrowed. While his eyes still told of worry and concern, you could tell that there was doubt. Who exactly he was doubting wasn’t known to you. Gaz please… Look at me… You begged silently to yourself. Had Price convinced him that you were indeed the spy? Was the entire 141 against you? You closed your eye tightly once more as you bared your teeth. Price wasn’t going to get another damn word out of you. If you blacked out, so be it. You weren’t sure where this fire was coming from. Perhaps it was Gaz’s foot slipping away from the open door.

Whatever it was, it was because you were pissed off. You closed your mouth before glaring up at Price. He seemed surprised, a flicker of amusement went across his blue eyes before he chuckled.

“I’m sure your second wind won’ last long, Love.” Price said with an amused tone, letting go of your hair before nudging Gaz’s shoulder, “Take over.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Just curious on who y'all think it is out of the options I gave ya. Also let me know if I missed a TW! I'll post the next chapter when the poll is done!

Inspire by this post.

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[imsandra]

Kiss of war 

Pairing: Cassian x Female Reader

Summary: Battles are fought with a sword in hand, and wars of the heart are waged with a kiss.

Warning: Angst, tension. Let me know if anything else needs to be added.

Word Count: 3842

Notes: Here’s something about Cassian, our general. I hope you like it. As always, feel free to leave your comments, suggestions; everything is welcome as long as it's with the intention of teaching and with respect.

English is not my native language, so I apologize for any spelling or grammar issues.

Original story, written by me. Please do not copy or plagiarize my work.

I appreciate any comments, reblogs, and likes I receive.

Happy reading!

Master list

The twilight painted the horizon with purple and red flashes, its reflections dancing on the calm lake that bordered the base of the Illyrians. The cool air caressed her skin, laden with promises of a solitary and cold night, as the shadows of the mountains stretched, embracing the land in a dark cloak. She just wanted some time alone before the shared training with the rest of the Illyrians at dawn.

When Rhysand had informed her that the general would return to Ilyria from a mission that could have cost him his life, she asked him to ensure that everything was well with him and set off on her journey north to the Court. Y/N had been avoiding her mission partner since the last time they were together; she had successfully ignored him for quite some time. The wind blew from the mountains, trying to convince herself that she was only there out of obligation, to fulfill a promise, not because she missed him… or because she wanted to see him.

The sound of Cassian's wings resonated over the mountains, interrupting her moment, his powerful figure descending slowly with a grace that did not fit his imposing physique. He was supposed to return tomorrow at noon, but it seemed he had arrived early.

Y/N stood with her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on him, waiting for him to land on the training platform.

"I thought you would never return," Y/N murmured, her tone neutral, but the slight sparkle in her eyes betrayed the worry she was trying to hide. She tightened her arms across her chest, as if the simple act of maintaining distance would protect her from what she truly felt.

Cassian landed with imposing grace, his wings folding behind him. He approached her slowly, the arrogant smile curving his lips failing to conceal the exhaustion flickering in his eyes—a fatigue that echoed the weight he carried from his last mission. Yet even worn out, he couldn’t stop looking at her, his gaze intense and filled with unspoken questions.

"You know it’s not easy to kill me," he replied.

It was the first time they had exchanged words since that day, and the friction between them had grown. It wasn’t just the tension of a battlefield, but something deeper. The air around them felt thick. Y/N averted her gaze, pretending to observe the mountains, but she only needed a second to steady her breath. She knew the internal battle she was fighting was written in her eyes, and Cassian noticed.

He always did.

"Yes, well, even legends fall eventually," she replied, keeping her gaze fixed on the now-dark sky.

"Were you worried about me, Y/N?" Cassian asked as he took a step closer, his hazel eyes focusing on her.

Cassian's face showed hope, that spark that she might finally acknowledge what she had been trying so hard to hide. He could feel the anxiety coursing through her body every second, what he would give to have pulled her close as soon as he spotted her on the platform, waiting.

Waiting for him.

"No more than I would for any other soldier," she whispered while discreetly observing him.

"Sure. Because I'm just another soldier to you," he said with a laugh, a low, deep chuckle that vibrated in the air. It hurt him that she wouldn’t look at him, that she couldn’t see how much her words pained him, that she couldn’t see the power she had to destroy him if she wanted to.

Cassian always knew what to do to make Y/N lose her composure; he knew how to push her buttons. This time, when she heard his response, she could identify something more in his tone. Something she wasn’t ready to face.

It all started a year ago, on a crucial mission to stop a rebel group planning to attack Velaris. They were both assigned to the mission, and although they had always worked well together, this time was different. In the midst of the battle, as they tried to defend a nearby village, Y/N was gravely injured.

The world seemed to stop the moment he saw her fall, her figure collapsing like a leaf carried by the wind. A roar of fury erupted from deep within him at the sight of blood staining the ground around her. It wasn’t the first time he had seen someone injured in combat, but with Y/N, it was entirely different. Without a second thought, he lunged toward her, ignoring the danger, taking her to the safest place he could find, shielding her with his own body as arrows flew around them. He was willing to put his life on the line for hers.

"You can’t stay here!" Y/N had shouted, barely conscious, trying to stand despite the wound in her side. "You have to fight!"

"Shut up," Cassian had replied, pressing his hand against her wound to stop the bleeding. "I’m not going to let you die here."

Despite the urgency of the battle, something in that moment changed the dynamic between them. Y/N couldn’t stop looking at him while he held her, protecting her with everything he had. The fury in Cassian’s eyes wasn’t just for the fight. It was for her. The way he looked at her, as if she were the most important thing in the world, left her bewildered.

She had spent weeks recovering from her injuries, and Cassian had not left her side, caring for her with a dedication she hadn’t expected. It was during those days that something began to grow between them.

After her recovery, things had become tenser between them. During missions, the lingering glances, the accidental brushes, everything became a constant struggle to maintain control. They were both too proud, too reluctant to admit what was happening between them.

But what had really triggered the conflict was one particular night. After a long, exhausting expedition, when they were both worn out, Cassian had gotten too close. They had shared an intimate conversation, their barriers finally beginning to crumble. They had been drinking together, their bodies too close, and before they could stop, their lips met in a heated kiss, charged with everything they had been repressing.

But Y/N had stopped him. Just when things were getting more intense, she pushed him away, her breath ragged, and stepped back.

"We can’t do this, Cassian," she whispered, gasping.

"Why not?" he replied, looking at her, surprised and hurt.

"Because we can’t mix this with our work. I can’t afford to feel anything more for you. Not now." Her words had been harsh, but the truth was that she was scared. Cassian was too important, and the idea of losing him if something went wrong was unbearable.

She sighed, trying to relax and keep calm in the presence of the Illyrian.

"Why are you here, Cassian?" she finally asked, her voice softer than she had expected.

"I thought you might need to train after such a long time," he replied. "Though I should have asked, why are you here, Y/N?"

Training was just an excuse; the truth was that he had seen her from above as she tried to head to the cabin for the night. He could never confuse the silhouette of the woman who made his heart beat with more life. The moment they had shared weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had wondered if it was truly worth it, his mind replaying the sensation of their lips intertwined, how her fingers had tangled in his hair, how he had caressed her waist and the shiver she had given him.

Until she pushed him away.

Since that night, things had never been the same.

"You’re not in shape for that right now," he replied, evading her question, fiddling with one of the ribbons adorning his shirt.

"Why not? I’ve fought in worse conditions, darling," he reminded her.

She couldn’t help the shiver that coursed through her body at the endearing word, a nervousness that settled deep in her heart, warm and delightful. Only Cassian could have that effect on her. And it didn’t help that she now crossed her arms, mimicking his stance.

"You just got back, and you have a cut on your side," she acknowledged through clenched teeth, still not meeting his gaze, finding the tips of his shoes far more interesting.

Y/N had scanned Cassian’s body moments earlier, quickly assessing every scratch and bruise. It didn’t take long for her to realize that one of the wounds needed immediate attention.

“So, you were worried about me,” Cassian stated, his heart racing, knowing that even from a distance she could hear it.

“Only because Rhysand asked me to make sure you got here safely.”

Cassian stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He uncrossed his arms, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, restraining the urge to reach out and touch her fingers. She was so close, yet so far. And it was killing him, an agony he could barely endure.

“Are you sure?” he questioned, his gaze burning into her. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t care,” he demanded, his voice rough, not sure how much longer he could contain the flood of emotions waiting to burst free. Deep down, he hoped this would be the moment.

The wind picked up, causing Y/N to close her eyes for a moment. She took a deep breath, allowing the cool air to clear her mind, though she knew she couldn’t escape for long. She knew his voice, his gaze, would betray her, revealing what she had been hiding so carefully—the reason she rarely let her guard down around him.

So, she turned toward the path leading to the cabin where they would spend the night, and he followed behind her.

“Y/N…” he stopped as she spoke.

“Don’t, Cassian. Don’t make things more complicated,” she growled.

“Complicated?” he repeated, quickening his pace to block her path. “Since when is feeling something complicated?” he asked, frustration lacing his words.

Her heart raced at his words.

"Always," she replied.

The Illyrian finally closed the distance between them, and she stopped abruptly, colliding with his chest in the process. He held her to keep her from falling.

The gentle touch of Cassian’s large hands on her hips sent an involuntary tremor through her body, a burning heat spreading from where he touched her, reaching deep within. The firmness and security of his grip made her realize that he was willing to do anything for her.

Y/N fixed her gaze on the steady look of the warrior. She knew she could no longer hide the truth. His hazel eyes were so beautiful, hypnotic; losing herself in them would always be an option for her.

He had admired Y/N from a distance, appreciating each of her features. He had been in love with her for some time now—her eyes, the shape of her lips, her laughter—all from afar. He would give anything for her to be his.

It had always been a push-and-pull, a game they both played far too well. If it went right, she would let her guard down for a moment, and Cassian would give her everything. Or they would start all over again.

"I can’t keep pretending I don’t care about what happens to you. And I know you can’t either," Cassian growled, fed up with the situation.

Y/N could feel the heat of his body, the scent of leather and metal that enveloped him. The weight of his words settled like a poisoned dagger piercing her heart. If this argument were a war, she was sure she would never win.

"It’s not that simple, Cassian," her voice barely a whisper.

"It is," he countered, leaning in to meet her eyes. "What’s not simple is pretending I don’t feel what I feel. I know you feel it too. Just say it, Y/N, and I’ll be yours," he pleaded.

She lowered her gaze, but he gently lifted her chin with a finger. He moved the hand that had rested on her hip, trailing it along her cheek, taking a loose strand of her hair that had escaped her braid. With all the tenderness in the world, with a gentleness that stripped her bare, he tucked the strand behind her pointed ear.

Instinctively, she closed her eyes, fighting against the torrent of emotions threatening to overflow—a battle to resist that soft caress despite the warrior's calloused fingers.

He was right. She had lost. She had fought to keep the walls up. But with Cassian… those walls were useless.

“It’s dangerous,” she finally murmured.

“When have I ever cared about danger, Y/N?” he said, smiling—a soft smile.

When she opened her eyes, she really looked at him. Cassian's gaze had softened. She would give anything for him to always look at her with that intensity, with the affection he was showing at that moment. She knew that, no matter how much she wanted to pull away, no matter how much she wanted to protect herself, there was no turning back.

“Don’t,” she warned, but it was already too late.

Cassian tilted his head, his lips brushing hers—just a light touch, almost a question, giving her one last chance to stop him. But she didn’t. Their lips met in a kiss full of repressed emotions, everything they had denied, everything they had left unsaid.

He held her, his wings spreading behind him like a shield, protecting her from everything else. In that moment, there was no war, no missions, no duty to fulfill. Just the two of them, surrounded by the night breeze, the stars shining brighter than ever, and the warmth of two bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.

When they pulled apart, both were breathing heavily. The air around them seemed lighter, but the pounding of their hearts still echoed in their ears.

Y/N moved slightly away, resting her forehead against Cassian's. The silence that followed was as important as the words. There was no need to speak. For the first time in a long while, she allowed the silence to be her refuge.

"Now everything will be more complicated," she murmured against Cassian's lips, unable to suppress a slight smile.

"I like complicated," he said with a broad grin, his eyes shining with a warmth that made her heart race even faster.

She slowly unraveled her arms from around Cassian’s neck and held his hand. It was night, and in a couple of hours, they had to train the Illyrians.

"Where are we going?" he asked, curious, as she resumed the path toward the cabin.

"You need to shower, you smell bad andand that wound needs some attention," she said with a playful smile.

Cassian chuckled softly, and though the air between them was still charged, the sound of his laughter made Y/N's shoulders relax, just a little.

"Now you'll be my personal healer," he murmured.

"Maybe, if you're good."

He let go of her hand just to pull her against his chest, holding her gently by the waist as they walked together, their bodies brushing against each other, with him right behind her.

"I like that," he whispered in her ear. A shiver ran down Y/N's spine, settling warmly in her belly.

They arrived at the cabin, and it felt like death itself to part from each other. She headed to the small bathroom, where she grabbed a first aid kit filled with all the essentials.

The warlord had seated himself in one of the dining chairs, and when he heard her footsteps approaching, he gifted her a smile. She returned it.

Y/N placed the kit on the table, opened it, and took out the disinfectant to clean his wound. Cassian stripped off his upper leather gear, and she lost her breath at the sight of his broad shoulders, his chest adorned with dark tattoos that extended over his muscular arms and down to his defined abdomen. She did her best to keep her hands from trembling.

Cassian watched as she leaned in just enough to reach the cut on his left side, secretly enjoying the nervousness she tried to hide. Y/N carefully cleaned the area to ensure no dirt would come into contact with the injured skin when he showered, then applied a balm to help with the pain and speed up healing, finally covering it with a bandage. Luckily, the wound wasn't deep enough to require stitches—it would hold through the night until a healer in Velaris could check it again.

He didn't complain about the pain; he was used to it from countless battles since his youth. But the gentleness of Y/N as she tended to him was killing him. It was the first time anyone had treated him with such tenderness. Cassian felt her touch on his skin, watched the concentration on her face, each of her movements, wishing she could keep touching him forever.

"You’ll survive," she announced, meeting his gaze. "You should go shower; I’ll heat up some food."

Cassian didn’t argue and showered as quickly as he could to get back to her, careful not to disturb the bandage. On the table, there was some soup, stew, cheese, and bread. The warmth that filled his heart was priceless, but it had a name.

Seated at the table, they enjoyed the meal and each other's company in silence. She savored the peace of the moment, wishing it could last forever.

"Thank you," Cassian whispered, his voice filled with affection, "for... taking care of me, for the food."

"We should rest," she simply responded.

Y/N could still feel the tension in the air, even after the peaceful dinner. But Cassian wasn't going to let more time pass, not after that kiss. When she stood up from the chair, he gently grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his lap. She didn’t resist. Sitting with her thighs on either side of his hips, her chest pressed against his, their faces were just a breath away from kissing.

He couldn't help but imagine having her like this every day, every hour, every minute, for the rest of his life. To unite his soul with hers, becoming one.

"Forgive me, Cassian. I'm sorry for avoiding you all this time. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to tell you how much you mean to me, and that there isn't a day that goes by when I don't think about how much it hurts to even consider losing you every time you leave. I'm scared that if I close my eyes one day, you won’t be there anymore," Y/N's broken voice interrupted his thoughts.

He wiped away a tear that had slipped down her cheek without her realizing. Cassian, with reverent care, making sure not to touch her bandage, caressed her as if his entire existence depended on that touch. He placed a hand on her neck, his fingers gently tracing her skin with infinite tenderness before pulling her into a slow kiss. A kiss that promised more than words, a kiss that would last an eternity, as if there was nothing else in the world he wanted more than to be with her forever.

He was the first to pull away, watching her tear-filled eyes, her cheeks flushed from silent crying.

"I would drag myself home," he murmured while kissing her right cheek, "even if I were on the verge of death, because it means that my home is with you." He kissed her left cheek. "I would come back to life if I had to, just so I wouldn’t make you cry," and he finished with his lips brushing hers. A promise of life, even if his body lay cold and alone on the ground, he would crawl back to her.

"I love you, Cassian," she confessed softly in his ear. "I would do anything; I would be willing to trade my life for yours."

Those words echoed through his body like adrenaline rushing through him before a battle. He had longed for Y/N’s heart to sing along to a symphony composed by both of them. He pulled her closer to him.

"I love you, my sweet Y/N," Cassian murmured, his voice rough and filled with an unbreakable truth as his fingers tangled in her hair. "Even if you would sacrifice your life for mine, my existence would mean nothing without you. You are the reason my heart beats and my soul remains alive."

She felt regret for having wasted time in doubt, but at the same time, it had led her to the arms of the man she loved.

Cassian kissed her neck, caressing her back up and down her spine, feeling the warmth radiating from her. He wanted the moment to last, to feel her on his body, to feel her heart beating in sync with his.

"We should rest, my love," he whispered gently.

"Yes, you must be tired," Y/N apologized as she pulled away from him.

He wiped away the remaining tears from her cheeks and kissed her nose, regardless of her state.

"I'm just saying I would love to sleep with you right now; the chair isn’t comfortable for resting," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

"You're right," she laughed, a watery laugh.

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the small room, gently placing her on the floor to allow her to prepare for a nap. There were only a few hours left until dawn. Cassian grabbed some extra blankets to ward off the cold that permeated the room, though he always felt wrapped in a warmth that no blanket could provide when he was with her.

He waited patiently lying on the bed. When she finished, he spread the blanket so she could lie down beside him, pulling her into his chest as she rested her head there. Together, wrapped in blankets, Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the steady heartbeat of Cassian beneath her head. The future remained uncertain—missions, war... but in that moment, with their bodies close. 

Two souls destined to be together, a kiss sealed with the promise of a tomorrow was enough.

*divider by @cafekitsune , thank you <33.

Tags: @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden

A/N: I rewrote this at least 4 times or maybe more, I felt like it wasn't perfect but now I'm satisfied with the result. I hope you like it, let me know what you think. Love you guys.

[justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms]

Witches and Ghouls - Sinostra Edition

This was originally requested by Anon who asked: "How would to Tokyo Debunker characters find out about and react to a Witch! Reader?"

I had to split it up into a few sections, separating the boys by their houses so here's the next part. The links to all the others are below. I hope you like the headcanons!

Fandom: Tokyo Debunker

Characters: Taiga Hoshibami, Romeo Lucci, Ritsu Shinjo x gn! Reader

Frostheim | Vagastrom | Jabberwock | Sinostra | Hotarubi | Obscuary | Mortkranken

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You're a witch! And even though the characters have made deals with demons themselves, they might have some surprising reactions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, Taiga’s a strange one. I think he’ll “find out” a few times and each time will be different. One time, he heard about it from Romeo. Another time it was Ritsu. Another time, you told him directly.

But each time, he forgets and he has to find out all over again. He won’t be put off by it though. He might tell you you’re strange but it honestly doesn’t bother him a whole lot.

Moving forward, if the information sticks, the only change is that he’ll start calling you witch or witchy one. Something along those lines.

Of course, that means your secret is going to be out pretty fast but Taiga doesn’t do it on purpose. He’s just very bad at keeping secrets.

Romeo’s going to find out through his connections. It doesn’t matter how well you’ve managed to keep your secret up to this point, he’s going to know someone who knows.

Completely betrayed. How dare you not tell him about your powers? All this time you could have been magically enhancing his natural beauty and you weren’t?

You’re going to have to work hard to get back in his good books. And that means mixing up a few batches of magically enhanced skin care products.

Once he forgives you, he’ll pull out all the stops to make sure your secret stays a secret. He knows the dangers of being a witch and wants to keep you from harm.

Much like the other ghouls in Sinostra, Ritsu’s going to find out pretty fast but he’s going to learn your secret through his own methods, not from someone else.

He’s going to be quite taken aback to start with and his trust in you will decrease. He needs to be able to trust his partner and this is a breach of that trust in his eyes.

But once he does more investigation into witches, he comes to realise that you had good reason to keep your secret.

He will apologise for the actions he took based on his ignorance and, moving forward won’t treat you any different to before he found out. He’ll also do everything in his power to defend you from those who aren’t as understanding.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey, did you enjoy this? If you like my writing, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi page! This will allow me to make some money off my writing, something I enjoy doing.

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[cod-thoughts]

I can feel the heat on my face

Word count: 1.6k

Relationships: NikPrice, PriceNik

Tags: Price wears a crop top, Nik loves it, fade-to-black, suggestive themes, fluff

So this was written based off of this post from @on-a-lucky-tide and the subsequent beautiful art by @nekrosmos, your brains collectively made me write this and then i left it for like a month rip but i finished it!! its short and i may or may not have a smutty second part that im debating sharing too, we'll see how brave i get 0_0

Nik bought Price some new gym outfits as a bit of a joke, little did he know that seeing his Captain in a cropped hoodie and shirt would alter his brain chemistry the way it did Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

The early morning sunlight filtered through the edges of the curtains, casting faint, golden lines onto the bedroom floor. The flat was quiet save for the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows, distant and unobtrusive. Price stirred under the duvet, one arm stretching lazily across the bed, his hand brushing against the cool, empty space where Nik had slept. He cracked an eye open and frowned. Of course Nik was already up.

A low groan rumbled in his chest as he shifted, rubbing a hand over his face to chase away the lingering fog of sleep. His beard scratched against his palm, grounding him in its familiar texture. He blinked blearily at the room, catching sight of the small pile of neatly folded clothes resting on the chair near the bed. Nik’s doing, no question.

It was routine—whenever they planned to hit the gym together, Nik would leave Price’s kit ready to go. A silent nudge, Price supposed, to stop him from lazing about and rolling back into bed. It was thoughtful, in its way, though it always carried a hint of Nik’s stubborn insistence.

With a resigned grunt, Price swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool wood floor shocking against his bare feet. He stretched, his muscles stiff from sleep, before padding over to the chair. His eyes were still half-closed as he grabbed the shirt first. The fabric was soft and lightweight, practical enough for a workout. He tugged it on, his movements sluggish, only for his hand to freeze midway.

The shirt wouldn’t go any lower. Price frowned, blinking himself into full awareness as he glanced down. His brow furrowed deeper as he tugged again, to no avail. The hem of the shirt barely reached his navel, leaving his stomach—firm and solid, marked with faint scars and the unmistakable trail of dark hair—completely exposed.

“Bloody hell…” he muttered, scratching idly at his side as he reached for the sweater Nik had left with it. Surely that would sort things out. But no—the sweater, though soft and comfortable, was equally cropped, and it left just as much skin on show. Price stared down at himself, incredulous. He didn’t have chiselled abs, but he was built—a broad chest, strong arms, and a stomach that spoke of years of proper meals and hard-earned strength. The outfit, however, seemed determined to make him look like some kind of showpiece.

He tugged experimentally at the sweater, as though sheer force of will might make it longer. When that failed, he turned to the mirror. And that’s when he noticed the shorts.

The shorts. Price blinked at his reflection, dumbfounded. The shorts were snug, hugging his thighs—thick, hairy, and as solid as the rest of him—while cutting so high they left nothing to the imagination. He looked… different. Not bad, necessarily, but certainly not what he’d expected to see when he got dressed.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his lips twitching as a sarcastic comment began to form. But before he could properly articulate his thoughts, the soft creak of the floorboards outside the bedroom broke his train of thought.

The door opened, and Nik stepped inside, already dressed in joggers and a well-fitted T-shirt. His hair was slightly mussed, his expression relaxed, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed his ever-present alertness. His gaze landed on Price almost instantly.

Nik froze.

“Well,” he started, his voice full of easy humour, “what a sight to wake up to.” He smirked, stepping further into the room, his tone warm but laced with his usual teasing edge. “Did not know you would be modelling for me this morning, Captain.”

Price didn’t look over his shoulder, still too busy fiddling with the sweater. “Nik,” he said flatly, his voice heavy with exasperation. “Care to explain why I’m dressed like this?” He gestured vaguely to himself, the motion half-shielding his stomach. “And don’t tell me this is gym kit, because I know bloody well it isn’t.”

“It is gym clothes,” Nik countered, his smirk widening. “Just… minimalist.”

“Minimalist?” Price echoed, finally turning to glare at him through the mirror. “Minimalist, my arse. I feel like you bought this more for yourself than for me.”

Nik chuckled, stepping closer, his eyes sweeping over Price. “Maybe,” he said, dragging the word out with mock consideration. “But can you blame me? Look at you.”

Price huffed, muttering something about needing a proper kit as he dropped his arms with a resigned shake of his head. The movement was casual, almost careless, but it left his midsection entirely exposed. Solid muscle, tan skin, and the faintest curve of softness—all framed perfectly by the absurdly short sweater and shorts.

That was when it hit Nik.

The teasing comment on his tongue faltered, replaced by silence as his gaze lingered, drawn to every detail. The scars scattered across Price’s skin, the way his shoulders filled out the snug fabric, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of those shorts. It wasn’t funny anymore—not even a little. Price, with his perpetually gruff exterior and quiet strength, looked… stunning.

Nik blinked, his lips parting as though to say something, but no words came.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Price asked, finally turning to face him fully. His tone was dry, but there was a faint smirk tugging at his lips, betraying his usual stern demeanour.

Nik blinked, as though snapping out of his trance. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, the teasing remark he'd prepared slipping away as he caught another full look at Price in the morning light. The cropped sweater framed him in a way that wasn’t just flattering—it was outright distracting. Nik’s eyes lingered on the faint trail of hair that dipped below the waistband of those shorts, and then further down, where Price’s solid, muscular thighs stretched against the fabric.

He swallowed, trying to regain his composure. “I—” His voice faltered for a beat before he cleared his throat. “I knew it would not look bad,” he managed, though his voice was quieter now, laced with a growing tension. “But… I did not expect it to look this good.”

Price cocked an eyebrow, his smirk growing slightly. “Didn’t know you had such a thing for crop tops, Nik.”

Nik didn’t reply immediately, his gaze flickering up to meet Price’s eyes. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at him now, a rare moment of Nik’s usually cool exterior faltering. The teasing grin he so often wore softened, replaced by something more vulnerable, almost reverent.

“Not the top,” Nik said, words clipped and stepping closer, his hands finding Price’s sides almost instinctively. His fingers brushed over the exposed skin there, the faint calluses catching against the warmth of Price’s skin. “But you.”

Price blinked, thrown off guard by the sincerity in Nik’s tone. His smirk wavered, and for a moment, he wasn’t the seasoned captain, wasn’t the gruff, no-nonsense man who could command a room with a single glance. He was just John, standing barefoot in their bedroom, feeling inexplicably flustered under Nik’s gaze.

Nik’s hands lingered at his sides, his thumbs brushing against the edge of the sweater as though testing how much further he could push. “You are fucking breath-taking, you know that?” he said softly, his accent thickening in a way that always made Price’s stomach twist.

Price scoffed lightly, shaking his head as if to dismiss the comment, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “That right?” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

Nik grinned, though there was something softer behind it this time. “Mhm” he replied, his hands sliding lower, fingers curling lightly around Price’s hips. “We might have to change the plan, Captain.”

“Yeah?” Price asked, his voice edged with humour, though there was a faint hitch in his breath as Nik’s hands tightened slightly.

“Oh, absolutely,” Nik murmured, his grin turning wicked as he leaned in closer. His breath was warm against Price’s ear as he added, “We could skip the gym. Do some… private training instead,” he paused thinking, “Cardio! yes, cardio, plenty of it, too.”

Price barely had time to process the words before Nik bent slightly, his arms wrapping securely around Price’s thighs. The motion was smooth, effortless, and before Price could protest, Nik straightened, lifting him clean off the ground.

“Nik!” Price barked, his voice sharp with alarm, though his hands instinctively gripped Nik’s shoulders for balance. His face burned now, the rare flush spreading from his neck to his ears. “Put me down, you daft—”

“No chance, lyubov moya,” Nik interrupted, his laughter rich and unrestrained. “You are far too dangerous to let out of our flat dressed like that.”

Price huffed, trying—and failing—to school his expression back to something stern. “Dangerous? Bloody ridiculous, more like.”

Nik carried him across the room as though he weighed nothing, his grin only growing. “Ridiculous? Maybe,” he said, his voice dipping lower. “But you are still mine.”

He reached the bed and, with a practiced ease, dropped Price onto the mattress. The captain let out a startled noise as he bounced slightly, propping himself up on his elbows to glare up at Nik. But whatever sarcastic retort Price had been about to deliver died the moment Nik leaned over him, bracing one arm on the bed beside him.

Nik’s free hand trailed down Price’s side, his touch slow and deliberate, as though savouring every inch. “Stay here,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. “You are not going anywhere, John.”

Price’s breath caught, his heart thudding in his chest as Nik dipped lower, his lips brushing against the edge of the sweater. The teasing grin on Nik’s face softened, replaced by something deeper, hungrier, as his hands trailed further down.

Their morning gym plans were forgotten entirely.

[mimuta-muta]

A SCARRED HEART // a secret & last life artpiece, minific, and headcanon

dedicated to those desertduo scar-focused angst enojyers 🍷 THIS IS FOR YOU GUYS!! I LOVE YALL!!! I AM YOU. I AM YOU ALL. im going insane anyways,

first tumblr post i think? dropping a more refined version of my secret life / last life scar headcanon/art/minific from twt here, praying that someone as insane as me will see it 🙏

[Based off of Last Life and Secret Life, in which Scar was intentionally permakilled by Grian the season prior.

Minific in italics first, followed by official headcanon transcribed & slightly modified from art ^^ taking this much more seriously than i should hehehe

Might make a full fledged fic on Ao3 if this turns out well though!! Hope yall enjoy <3. - mimuta]

- The desert. The betrayal. It all comes back to him in a dream, lucid and laced in sorrow…

And as he awakens from his slumber, he’s left shrouded and alone.

Again.

Perhaps they were a cruel mockery, these “secret”scrolls. A bitter reminder of the contracts he’d never be able to control. Of the friends he’d never be able to keep.

It’s almost as if some god up above had descended from their watchful throne to spit in his face and show him how it should be done.

Or… perhaps they were a sign.

Perhaps, by experience or some strange instinct, or by insight or spite, he took it as such.

And perhaps that’s why he emerged victorious this time around.

Alone, of course, as always.

Alone, but alive.

-

Following the desertduo divorce arcs in Third and Limited Life that end in Scar’s death by Grian’s hand (double life dont count that was the warden), Scar returns to the next season as a cloaked iteration of his self, doomed to insanity and isolation: first in Last Life, and second in Secret Life.

Cloaked Scar/Scarred Heart Scar’s (i cant think of a better name ToT these sound so bad T_T will take suggestions aldbskshxbsk-) “friendship/ally” contracts in Magical Mountain also inadvertently influenced the secret task/contract of sort kinda gimmick in Secret Life, what with the life reward system for tasks and etc.: only this time, people can’t get away without consequence.

Through the tasks given to him in Secret Life, Scar was outcasted as an enemy to all, loyal companion to none. Similarly, the contracts Scar made in Last Life granted him half-assed “allies,” but never a true friend. Like the one who had killed and betrayed him all those years ago. wink wink. wink wink.

Secret Life Scar, being the second version of his cloaked self, retains an “instinct” or like muscle memory but.. idk how to describe it- hazy underlying memories from Last Life scar, and later realizes this w/ the winner’s theory (or whichever hc out there that says that they remember past seasons upon winning) *kaboom*

TLDR: desert duo divorce arc so bad it results in grian killing scar, and scar’s left as a reclusive cloaked maniac in last life, returns as same maniac in secret life and learns from his mistakes, and wins secret life through nuances left over from last life 💪💪 or something or other

ALSO//side headcanons::

grian’s life given in servitutde to scar + scars life given to grian in 3rd life somehow influenced their soulbind in double life- although this may not be as solid as a hc due to the fact scar was giving hearts away like crazy moneys in last life iirc… buuut it kinda still works either way

lilacs and poppies on scars skin, yet another callback, another reminder of his loneliness, of the desert, of his death, of the desert, of the desert, of the desert, of the desert, of the dese-

if scar dies to grian in wild life i blame it on secret scar being left alive and he cant return as hes permanently stuck in secret life this crap is staying canon to me no matter what trust 🧍‍♂️

theres a similarity in appearance between scar and the secret keeper (hood) ik its watcher evo stuff,,, but… do with thatbwhat you will hehe—

oooh bou that was a lot :,) if you made it to the end, thanks for reading through all of this!! im totally normal!!! please like or whatever the equivalent is and feel free to leave comments or whatever im desperate for traffic interaction 🧎🧎🧎 i might take a bit to respond but KSBDKDBSKSBS

i shall be off to do ap bio work now before i fail my test tmrw WOOOOOO thanks again for reading this far if you have :Df and i hope you have a wonderful dayyyyy <33333

[eksvaized]

[ Previous ┃ Next ] [ All In One ] part 10, MDNI

The hot, stinging tears have dried on your cheeks, leaving behind a salty residue that serves as a painful reminder of your anguish. Your chest aches, a deep, nagging pain that seems all-consuming. It feels as if someone is squeezing your heart, their nails digging into its soft flesh like a relentless vulture, determined to rip it out of your ribcage. Your mind is in turmoil. It's a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that seems to swirl and collide with one another, creating a torturous cacophony that only intensifies the throbbing in your head. You want - no, need - to cry more, to let the sobbing distract you from the torturous pain that seems to consume every fibre of your being. Yet, you can't shed a single tear. There's no left. The well of your sorrow has run dry, leaving you with nothing but the hollow echo of your pain.

Slowly, you raise your head. As you pull away from his embrace, your damp cheeks detach from the soaked fabric of his shirt. You straighten your back. Your hand skims over your face, brushing aside the stray strands of hair that are sticking to your flushed skin. Simon stays silent when his brown eyes meet yours. His hand, which had been moving in comforting circles on your back, halts. He lets it rest on your lower back. You can feel the warmth of his fingers as they curl around your side, offering silent reassurance. Ever since the moment he pulled you out of the basement, a heavy, almost palpable silence filled the air between you two. But now, some words are begging to be spoken, thoughts that you need to voice out loud.

"I have to find my brother."

Simon's lips press together into a thin, tight line. You notice a barely perceptible shudder in his throat as he swallows. The muscles in his jaw clench and unclench, betraying the tension that he's trying to hide. His face is an unreadable canvas. It's devoid of any telling expression that might give away his thoughts. Despite the lack of any discernible response from him, you find the courage to continue speaking; you push away the overwhelming anxiety that has settled inside you.

"If he's there… at-at that base, I can't leave him there," your voice wavers, breaking mid-sentence. It gets caught in your parched throat, which has been turned arid from the endless tears you've shed. "I know I can't do anything about my mother — I wish I could lay her to rest, beside my father — but I don't even know where her body is." Your gaze falls to your lap. You have to pause and take a deep breath because tears well up in your eyes. "I can't help her, but… I can help my brother. I-I refuse to hide in this house, to sit and suffocate behind these four walls. I won't be able to live with myself if I d-don't…"

Your voice trails off, fading into silence. There's so much more you want to say, but the words just won't come out. They get stuck in your throat, choking you. You stand up, feeling a desperate need for some fresh air. As you stride towards the window and slowly pull the curtains back, you catch sight of several biters wandering around. The sun is rising. It casts a soft glow that illuminates the backyard well enough for you to know you could take the dead out. But exhaustion weighs upon you. Your limbs feel like lead, and you know that the moment you pick up a knife, it will slip out of your hand because of fatigue. So instead, you decide to crack open the window just a sliver, just enough to let the light breeze flow in. The faint noise alerts the dead. But they are far enough away that even though they hear something, they continue to wander around, not paying attention to the house.

Simon watches as you curl on the floor, pressing your side against the icy wall. You close your eyes and fold your arms over your shoulders, burying your face in the crook of your elbow. The mere thought of you going to the base, where the men who killed his team are, fills Simon with dread. He knows it's too dangerous, too risky, and akin to signing your own death wish. But despite the looming threats, Simon isn't naïve. In his heart, he knows that if the circumstances were to be reversed, if he were to discover that his team was still alive and trapped in the enemy's clutches, he would stop at nothing to rescue them. He would exhaust every ounce of his strength, tap into every resource at his disposal, and risk his life and every limb to bring them back. And so, he understands your burning desire to save your brother. He is the only family you have left.

"We can't just leave, march to a heavily guarded military base, and demand that they release your brother," Simon says in a grave tone. You stare into his eyes, aware that he will try to change your mind, convince you to stay at home, and demand that you don't do anything reckless. Your bottom lip quivers and you bite it, trying to cage the quiet whimpers threatening to escape. But before you can utter a single word, before you can tell him that you will go there either way, with or without him because you refuse to forget about your brother, he says something that leaves you stunned and causes your heart to skip a beat. "We need a plan, and a damn good one."

When reality sinks in that he intends to go with you instead of trying to keep you at home, a tidal wave of relief and gratitude drenches you. It's as if a heavy burden has been lifted off your shoulders, replaced by a lightness that has you almost floating. You can hardly contain the rush of a whirlpool of emotions that course through you. You leap to your feet. Overcome with emotion, you stumble into his arms. Your heart tells you to do what your lips have been yearning to - you lean in and kiss him.

"The base is guarded. They have a team of dedicated people who patrol the confines of the perimeter, ensuring that no one sneaks in. Each and every one of them is armed," he sighs, and his hands fall into his lap in a gesture of defeat. He sinks further into the couch, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. His fingers run through his hair before he rubs his face. "I need to prepare you, to teach you how to fight, how to handle a gun, how… how to kill a man — because killing people is a lot different from sticking your knife into the biters' skulls."

You nod your head, ready to do whatever it takes, to learn whatever you need to in order to survive. The thought of going alone terrified you. You were sure that if you had to venture into the unknown by yourself, you wouldn't return alive. But you had to try, for the sake of your brother. Now, however, knowing that Simon will go with you, you feel safe. With him by your side, there's no way that your little rescue mission could fail. After all, he's a skilled soldier, familiar with the layout of the base and so, you will be able to slip in and out undetected, without anyone even realising you were there.

Simon lowers his chin. His intense gaze, simmering with a plenitude of emotions, fixates upon you. His eyes wander over your face, graze the contours of your lips, and travel along the soft line of your cheeks. He cups your cheeks with his warm palms; the heat soaking through your skin and seeping into your bones. His fingers weave their way into your hair, getting entangled in the soft strands as his thumb grazes over the shell of your ear. His every touch sends waves of warmth cascading through you, causing you to melt like ice under the summer sun.

His lips part, quivering on the verge of voicing the turmoil churning inside his mind, yet only a sigh eludes him. Sensing his inner struggle, you wrap your fingers around his wrist. Turning your head to the side and squishing your cheek against his palm, you press your lips against his hand. The soft, lingering kiss serves as a comforting gesture, urging him to say whatever he is trying to hold back.

"What's wrong?" You ask. Your voice, laced with worry, is barely above a whisper. There's a part of you that fears his answer, uncertain of what he might say. You know Simon well enough to realise that if he's holding something back, if there's something he's hesitant to tell you, it's only because he thinks it could hurt you.

"I don't want to lose you…. I don't want anything bad to happen to you," he murmurs. The sincerity in his words hits you like a tidal wave as he pulls you into his arms in a protective embrace.

"Everything will be fine. I will be safe with you," you assure him, striving to keep your voice steady, to infuse confidence into your words, even if you aren't fully convinced of their truth.

"Of course, but—but I still need to teach you a lot of things before we go," he says, and you nod. "We need to have a plan, to figure out a way to sneak in — and I know a couple of ways — because we can't risk being seen. If something happens, if we get caught… as soon as they see us — you and me — I'm doomed. They will kill me. But not before making me suffer, and you… I don't want to even think about you and what would happen because—…”

The words he says become distant echoes, muffling and fading into the background as if you're trying to discern a voice through a thick, disorienting fog. Your heart drops, plummeting to the very pit of your stomach. It feels as though the air has been sucked right out of your lungs, rendering you immobile, paralyzed by a sudden onslaught of terror.

You were so ensnared in your own worries, so consumed by your brother's predicament, that you have completely forgotten that this entire situation isn't just about you. It's a horrifying, gut-wrenching realisation that seizes you, shaking your world to its core. To save your brother, you may have to make the unthinkable sacrifice—Simon.

The mere thought sends chills down your spine. The dreadful possibility of being forced to choose between the two people you cherish the most in this world is heart-wrenching. Your stomach twists into painful knots, and your chest tightens with overwhelming anxiety that threatens to consume you. How are you supposed to pick who to sacrifice when Simon and your brother are the only two people you truly care about?

TAG LIST: @randointhecloset, @lurkinwbreexy, @breadpitt69 , @browtfyoudoing , @yelenassafeplace, @itsthealice, @naxxsstuff If you want to be added, let me know!

[one-britt-to-rule-them-all]

Being marked by Satan

Character: Satan

Genre: NSFW

CW: | Fem!Reader | Consesual rough sex | Dacryphilia | Biting/Scratching | Marking | Slight manhandling | Slight blood |

Format: Drabble

Word Count: 1.1K

NOTICE: This drabble kinda references my headcanons regarding the demon brothers' anatomy. So, if you haven't checked those out, you might want to at least check Satan's part. It's not mandatory, though, so don't feel obligated.

NSFW content below.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

That’s what Satan had told you, tone as calm and collected as ever, and you believed him – you truly did. Only Satan could say such things while maintaining a front of utmost nonchalance, and perhaps that’s the very factor that had the alarm bells blaring in your head.

A romantic at heart, Satan made love, especially when it came to you – the sweet human exchange student who had stolen his heart. But Satan remained a demon, and demons had strong urges – urges to mark and possess. So yes, you believed him when he said he’d ruin you.

You've never truly experienced the Avatar of Wrath in bed yet, but the moment he spoke those words after having caught far too much of Lucifer's scent on you for his liking, you knew that you would be crawling out of his room, body worn out and used.

Lifting your head, you could see the stains of tears and smudged mascara on the fabric beneath you. You most likely looked like a mess: runny mascara accompanying your tears from the myriad of overwhelming sensations you were receiving.

“S-Satan… please…! I-“ your words get cut off by a loud, broken moan as Satan mercilessly rammed his cock deep into your aching pussy. “C-Can’t… anymore!”

“Nonsense, darling. You’re perfectly capable of handling this.” Satan says, almost perfectly collected; only the slight breathlessness in his tone betrayed his true feelings.

Could you even orgasm anymore? With the size of the puddle of your cum that stained the sheets, you’d be surprised if you had any more left in you, but Satan was far from done with you. You’d severely misjudged his stamina – his restraint. Because you knew damn well he, too, wanted nothing more than to paint your walls white.

Your head flopped back down onto the mattress, and as you lay completely face down and on your stomach, you were at Satan’s complete mercy. You bit down on the sheets, your fists clenching onto the blankets with a white-knuckle grip in an attempt to ground yourself, but there was no way to keep your mind coherent with the unforgiving pace Satan had set.

“Then again, love, you know what to say if you want to stop.” Satan starts, gripping your hair to lift your head off the bed. Lowering his mouth to your ear, he whispered to you: “But I don’t quite think that you want to stop. Isn’t that right, kitten?”

His taunting words were accentuated by slow, but deep and rough thrusts, the thick knot at the base of his cock getting pushed deeper and deeper into your core. Your breath was completely taken away, eyes rolling at the back of your head as you looked nothing short of pathetic.

“N-No…”

“That’s what I thought. Such an insatiable little human,” Satan chuckled, gripping your chin to turn your head so that he could press a quick kiss to your tear-stained cheek. “How precious. Truly.”

Satan then pressed his nose against the back of your neck, and to his displeasure, he could still pick up a faint trace of Lucifer’s scent, making the Avatar of Wrath growl in an animalistic manner. He couldn’t have that. No way in hell.

You inhaled sharply as you felt Satan’s tongue soothe your skin, only to yelp loudly as he suddenly sank his fangs into your neck, quietly snarling. The sudden, combined pain and pleasure had you balling your hand into a fist, hitting the mattress.

Though you wouldn’t have free rein over your hands much longer. Satan grabbed a hold of both your wrists, pinning them above your head. With his mouth still latched to your neck, Satan nearly laid his full weight on your back as he fucked you.

“F-Fuck…! S-Satan…!” You moaned loudly, voice hoarse from the wear of your screaming.

Bottoming out, hitting and nearly bruising your cervix, the ripples at the underside of Satan’s cock had you a mess, the texture perfectly sliding against your most sensitive areas. 

Satan’s room was filled with growling and screaming, accompanied by the unmistakable, lewd noises of skin slapping against skin and the rattling of the bed against the wall. You’d be willing to bet that any of Satan’s brothers would be ready to barge in and tell the two of you to shut the fuck up.

And when Satan finally let go of your neck, he assessed the damage, his pace never faltering as he felt pride swell in his chest as he took in the raw, red bite mark decorating your neck. Little specks of blood could be seen, which he promptly cleaned up with his tongue, sending a multitude of shivers down your spine.

“Perfect,” he chuckled. “Now, perhaps my idiotic brothers will think twice about rubbing their scent all over you.”

Satan sat back up, lifting his weight off of your back. Still gripping your wrists, he held your arms behind your back with one hand, claws digging into your skin, his free hand serving to press your face into the sheets.

And you, poor little thing on the receiving end of the brunt of Satan’s wrath, could only pathetically moan between sobs. Were you crying because of overstimulation? Of the pain of Satan’s claws digging into you and the burn of the fresh bite mark on your neck? You didn’t know, but what you did know, was that the way Satan’s hips snapped against your ass, cock filling you up so sinfully good, there was no way in hell you’d have him stop. Not until he filled you up to the brim and covered your body in pretty, red streaks.

And when Satan’s sharp claws slid down your back, your whole body shivered, the sensation going straight between your legs. His claws didn’t dig deep enough to leave noticeable marks, but you could imagine the little white lines being left in their wake, teasing the possibility of what could be.

“Hah… you gave me a nice little squeeze there, Kitten,” Satan groaned, his pace never faltering. “Tell me, do you like the feeling of my claws on your skin?”

“M-Mhm…!” You managed.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so? Well, if it’s a demon’s claws that you want, then a demon’s claws are what you're going to get, love,” Satan said in a dark tone. 

And then you felt them – his claws – slowly but surely digging deeper into your back, promising to paint you with the pretty marks you so desperately wanted. You provoked a demon lord, and so ask, and you shall receive.

“I’m going to ruin you, love.”

[her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1]

Pairing: Leliana/ Female Tabris

The first bottle is nestled at the base of a tree, its red ribbon fluttering faintly in the breeze. Leliana pauses, staring at the glass.

Antivan Red.

(It’s the kind of wine she hasn’t touched since—)

Her throat tightens. She reaches down, brushing her fingers over the bottle’s neck, where a stem of Andraste’s Grace has been tucked beneath the ribbon. The petals are delicate, their pale pink edges only slightly wilted. Leliana’s breath hitches.

She pulls the parchment note free.

*Oi, you coming or what?*

The messy scrawl pulls a faint smile from her, but it doesn’t quite reach her chest. She straightens, taking the bottle and the flower before she moves on.

More bottles follow, each with another note tied around its neck and another stem of Andraste’s Grace tucked carefully into the bow. The trail winds deeper into the woods, sunlight catching on glass and ribbons, and Leliana’s steps slow as she collects them.

*Better be worth all this sodding effort.*

*Zev says I’m being dramatic. He can piss off.*

(Her lips twitch at that one.)

The flowers are clumsily tied, some of their stems snapped where they’ve been forced into place. Leliana brushes her fingers over one of the petals.

The faint sound of cursing pulls her attention ahead. Leliana steps through the trees and into a clearing.

Kallian is there, wrestling with the laces of a crimson Orlesian gown. The dress clings awkwardly to her frame, one shoulder slipping down to bare the bronze of her skin. The hem drags in the dirt, catching on roots.

"Sodding—bloody—who even wears this shite—"

"Kallian," Leliana calls.

Kallian freezes mid-yank, spinning toward her. Her golden-brown eyes narrow beneath the edge of a silver-and-red mask, her mouth curling into something between a smirk and a grimace.

"Oh. Uh." She clears her throat. "Didn’t think you’d get here so fast."

"You left quite the trail," Leliana replies, stepping into the clearing. Her gaze sweeps over Kallian—the dirt streaked on her arm, the ribbons tied at her wrists, the faint tension in her posture.

(And the dress. And the mask. And the fact that she’s standing in the middle of nowhere with Andraste’s Grace practically spilling out of her hands.)

Kallian shifts, rubbing the back of her neck. "Figured you might miss the fancy Orlesian shite. Thought I’d… I dunno. Bring some of it back."

Leliana’s steps falter.

Fancy Orlesian shite. Marjolaine, lounging in a gold-trimmed chair, boots on the table, laughing low and sharp. Leliana’s hand brushed a ribbon, its knot uneven.

And here is Kallian—tangled in lace and ribbons, surrounded by bottles and flower

"it's not good enough, Ain't it?” Kallian asks, her voice aiming for casual but missing the mark.

One of her ears flicks faintly, betraying her.

Leliana forces herself forward, her hand brushing the slipping strap of Kallian’s dress.

"It’s perfect," she murmurs.

Kallian stiffens, her mouth twitching. "Maker’s tits, you’re laying it on thick."

"Am I?" Leliana tilts her head, her hand lingering before stepping behind Kallian. "You’re meant to lace it like this."

Her fingers work at the fabric. The laces are tangled, and the dress is too loose to sit properly, but Leliana takes her time.

(There’s no rush. Kallian is practically vibrating under her touch anyway.)

"And the mask?" Leliana asks softly.

“Might’ve pinched it off some fancy bastard," Kallian mutters. Then, quickly: "Bought it. Proper-like."

"Of course." Leliana hums.

"And the wine?"

"Zev nicked it."

"That explains a lot."

Leliana finishes the last lace and steps back, her gaze lingering as Kallian turns to face her.

"Well?" Kallian mutters, her voice gruff. "You gonna say I look ridiculous or what?"

Leliana lets her gaze trail over her—ribbons slipping loose at her wrists, dirt smudged at her elbow, the faint sheen of sweat on her brow. "Ridiculous? No." Her voice softens. "Beautiful."

Kallian blinks, her ears flicking faintly. Leliana sees the way they angle forward, even as Kallian’s mouth curls into a crooked grin.

"Right," Kallian mutters. "If you say so."

"I do."

The silence between them stretches, warm and weighted. Leliana tilts her head, her gaze lingering on the mask. She reaches for it without thinking, her fingers brushing its edge.

"May I?"

Kallian nods stiffly.

The mask comes away slowly, revealing sharp features and freckled skin. Leliana’s breath catches at the flush high on Kallian’s cheeks, the golden-brown eyes that flick to hers before darting away.

Leliana exhales softly. "This," she begins, her voice quieter now, "was thoughtful of you."

Kallian shifts, her ears angling back slightly. "Figured it might help."

"It does." Leliana’s fingers brush the edge of Kallian’s dress again, trailing over a stray ribbon. She doesn’t step closer—not yet. Instead, she lets the moment linger, the clearing falling quiet save for the faint rustle of leaves.

"I don’t know if you realise," Leliana murmurs, "just how much this means to me."

Kallian shrugs, muttering, "It’s nothing, really."

(It’s not nothing, but Leliana doesn’t push.)

She steps closer now, her voice quiet as her fingers curl lightly around Kallian’s wrist. "Thank you,"she whispers.

Kallian doesn’t speak. Her breath hitches slightly when Leliana’s touch lingers. The silence stretches again, steady and warm, until Leliana tilts her head just slightly, her lips curving faintly.

And then—slowly, carefully—she leans in.

The kiss is soft, unhurried, and quiet. There’s no urgency, no clash of teeth—just the gentle press of Leliana’s lips against Kallian’s. She feels the tension in Kallian’s shoulders ease by degrees, the slight tilt of her head as she leans in, too.

When they part, neither speaks for a long moment. Kallian’s ears flick faintly, her expression unreadable until she mutters, “Well. That wasn’t terrible.”

(Leliana’s laugh feels lighter than it has in weeks.)

---

[eluminium]

Skizz Week 2 day 5! This one is short and sweet! Just the hermits being helpful in the silliest ways. As always, thank you to @skizzlemanweek for today's prompt!

Prompt 5: Work / Rest

The first thing he notices is the darkness. His base is completely coated in it, which he finds pretty strange. Usually, he can see moonlight peaking through the various openings to his base, or at least one torch somewhere! Actually, how did he even get in bed? He doesn't remember going to sleep last night. Eh, he's not slept at all lately, so a memory gap isn't the most unimaginable thing.

The second thing he notices is that he's tied to the bed, but not uncomfortably so. He can still shift around and even grab things on the nightstand next to him. Whoever tied him here clearly took great care in doing it, even using softer leads and knots to make sure his skin wouldn't be rubbed red. Heck, there's even a few extra pillows strategically placed so he won't hurt his back or neck! How sweet!

The third thing he notices is that someone is in the room with-

WAIT.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-" He eloquently yells as he sits straight up, now fully awake and aware. And tied to his bed. HE'S TIED TO HIS BED???

In the darkness, three instantly recognizable laughs taunt him. One of them lights a torch, and yep. Just as he suspected. It's Gem, Grian and Scar. His fellow Magic Mountain people have betrayed him!

He scowls at them, which makes them laugh harder.

"Awww, don't look so grumpy! It's not helping with the wrinkles," Gem says with a wink. Little does she know that he's fighting for his life to hold that scowl on his face. Watching his friends laugh makes him want to laugh, okay? Even if they're laughing at him tied up on his own bed.

Grian approaches him, finally getting himself together after having had the laugh of his life. Skizz raises an eyebrow, and Grian only grins. "It's for your best, homie buddeah!"

"Oh yeah, for my best, totally. I'm not buying that for a second, G!" Skizz counters, crossing his arms. He's grateful that he always sleeps with something on, otherwise this would have been way more awkward. For them, not for him!

Gem walks to stand beside Grian. "It is, though! I found you passed out on top of your pyramid yesterday! ON TOP! How- How did you even do that?!"

Oh, so that's what this is about. How much he's been working lately

Well… Erm…. UHMMMMMM… Shit, they kinda have a point.

"I plead the fifth!" He squeaks, knowing he's been cornered. Gem gives him the most unimpressed look. "You're going to stay in this bed for today. No working! We don't want you to get sick again!" She says with an accusatory point.

Now, normally Skizz would fight this. Say that he's got everything under control. But honestly, he is really tired.

"Fineeeeeee. Only because you asked so nicely," he surrenders. They've gone through all the effort to make sure he's comfortable and also they TIED HIM TO HIS BED. Might as well take advantage of it.

"Wait wait wait! We're not done yet!" G interrupts, before he points to Scar. "We're not gonna leave you tied to your bed alone. Scar is gonna stay and make sure you don't try anything."

"Hey! You told me I was gonna get to talk about the Sequal trilogy and that new Outlaws game-!"

"SHHHHH YOU'RE SPOILING IT!"

Skizz rolls his eyes. Of course. He'd been goading Scar into his rant-able topics lately just to piss off Grian.

"You know this is not very good revenge, right? I like listening to Scar talk about what he loves!" He points out. He doesn't like how Grian gets an evil glint in his eyes.

"Well, you keep saying that…So we're gonna put it to the test. We'll leave Scar here with you, and see how long it takes until you break. Your comm is on your nightstand for when you give up."

Now this is something Skizz can get behind! A challenge where he basically does nothing and wins!

"Bring it on, G!" He smugly comments, knowing that he's using the tone that will activate Grians own competitiveness. He sees it work in action as the avian's face hardens.

"You guys are..something special alright," Gem comments with the most deadpan tone.

Grian grabs her shoulder and pushes her towards the exit. "You two have fun! See ya!" is the last he gets out before both he and Gem leave Skizz's base.

Scar and Skizz meet eyes.

"Between you and me, Skizzy, I know they put me here to make sure I didn't try to work, either. They're not very subtle." Scar says with a wink.

A hint of surprise crosses Skizz's face. "Really?" Scar nods in response.

"You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, I can just-"

"Nonsense!" Scar cries out, wheeling himself closer to Skizz's bed. "I wasn't going to get any work done anyway, and now instead of being bored in my base, I get to hang out with Skizzy Wizzy! Now, don't you think it's really stupid that Disney made Kylo Ren and Rey kiss-"

And the conversation goes from there. Back and forth, back and forth. Star Wars to TOOL to Watches to Poker and on and on and on. For any other Hermit, it would probably be a nightmare scenario. But for these two talkative nerds, it's a dream come true.

If this is what constitutes "mandatory rest" on Hermitcraft, Skizz can't help but feel even more grateful that he gets to be in such a wonderful place, with such wonderful people.

[watcheraurora]

Wing Lessons

This was supposed to be 1.2k words of simple silliness. I don’t know what happened. Just a little thing between "brothers." Takes place after Double Life 4.0k words

Potential CW: one very brief flashback with Mild Body Horror that can easily be skipped over. It's one paragraph that’s inspired by ezzriin’s Blackest Hand animatic

—

Knock-knock!

Creak!

"Grian?"

Grian looked up from his drafting table where he'd been planning out his next build. "What is it, Tim?" He pulled his glasses off and set his pencil down. He stood and approached the doorway, stretching out his wings as he did. He'd been sitting for a while and his bones were sore.

Jimmy shifted a little so the door was still blocking most of his body. "Could I ask a favor?" he asked.

"Depends on what it is," Grian replied.

"You know how I've been the first one out of the Games every single time?"

"Of course." Grian suppressed a giggle.

"Well... it's changed me. I'm... I'm not used to this."

"What do you mean?"

Jimmy finally pushed the door away from him.

Revealing small, juvenile wings poking out from his back. They were mostly brown with streaks of yellow. Not quite downy, not quite proper adult plumage either.

Jimmy, unable to meet Grian's eyes and turning red from embarrassment, cleared his throat. "Will you teach me how to preen them?"

Grian stared. "Canary wings," he said. Not a question. "They'll get more and more yellow the more they mature." He made a shooing motion. Jimmy backed up and Grian pursued him out of the office. "C'mon. Let me show you." He led Jimmy down the hall into the bathroom.

"When did you get yours?" Jimmy asked as Grian opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a few wingcare tools. "You didn't have them in Evo."

Grian felt his wings twitch and try to puff up at that. He forced them to remain still. "Not long after I left," he replied. "What do you remember about how I left?"

"The Watchers took you. Said they were going to keep you."

Darkness, purplish lightning, the empty hoods and long sweeping robes. Screaming as wings tore themselves from his back and eyes began to open in the skin of his face—

"Something like that, yeah," Grian replied. "After I got away from them, I got wings." A simple lie. One Jimmy wouldn't see through.

Tucking his wings in close, Grian grabbed the back of his red jumper and pulled it off, leaving him in the collared white button-down he wore beneath it. Jimmy followed his lead, though he had on a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up his arms and a white T-shirt underneath.

"Alright. So. First thing's first. It's best to rinse our wings in the shower first. Do not use soap on them. Just the water is enough. They sort themselves out much better without soap. After that, you'll want to ruffle them and puff them up to, sort of, reorder the feathers where they're supposed to be. You might need to do this with your hands too, if your feathers are too messy. Once they're in order, it's time for the oil. This brush right here—" He lifted the instrument in question. "—is to get the feathers closest to your spine that your hands can't reach, but it also spreads the oil from our uropygial glands over our feathers. Actual birds only have one gland and it's usually at the base of the tail. We don't have tails and we have a lot of normal skin in-between each wing. As such, we have one gland per wing. We also have much larger wings than any bird in existence. More glands, bigger glands, more oil. More surface area. You get the point."

The unfocused look in Jimmy's eyes betrayed that he did not, in fact, get the point.

Grian sighed. "Let me show you." He grabbed a tea towel and soaked it in the sink. "Stick your wing over the bath."

Jimmy did as he was told. Grian transferred the tea towel over and stood on the ledge of the bath to be tall enough to reach the top of Jimmy's wing. Jimmy was taller than Grian, and his wings were going to be much larger and longer. At the moment, his were a little smaller than Grian's, and not big enough to support Jimmy's weight for full flight. Grian already knew he'd be the one teaching Jimmy to fly. He wouldn't trust anyone else to do so. As Jimmy's older "brother," sure he would mess with him a lot, but Grian would never allow Jimmy to fall out of the sky.

He wrung out the tea towel over Jimmy's wing, then used the tub faucet to soak the towel again and again until the wing was thoroughly soaked. Goosebumps prickled across Jimmy's arms and he shuddered.

"Oi!" Grian protested. "No shaking off the water yet! I'm not done!"

"It's cold!"

"Yes, because the water has rinsed off the oil that keeps your wings insulated. We're going to be reapplying it. But you have to be patient and not shake off the water."

Jimmy shivered again, but not as dramatically. "Okay. I'll try to hold still."

A few minutes of squawking, slinging orders, and shouting at each other later, both of Jimmy's wings were sopping wet. In seconds, Grian had doused his own wings in water as well, somehow managing not to even get his shirt wet, despite Jimmy's T-shirt being soaked.

Grian took a tool off the bathroom counter and showed Jimmy how to ruffle and puff his feathers to put them back into place. The tool was used to carefully fix feathers that didn't easily fall back into place. Then passed the tool—like long, strong tweezers—over. Jimmy fluffed and shook and reordered his feathers.

"Like that?" he asked hopefully.

Grian assessed him. "Actually, yeah. Didn't expect you to get it right on the first try. Proud of you."

Jimmy looked flabbergasted at the compliment, but didn't have time to bask in it.

Grian scooped up the brush he'd showed off first. "This is where it gets complicated." He twisted and extended one wing straight backward, primary feathers brushing the wall. "Right there. In the middle of the base of my wing, see that dark spot?"

Jimmy leaned closer, eyebrows scrunched. "Oh! Yeah!"

"That's where the gland secretes the oil that we use to finish the process. I'll go fast on the first wing and then slow so you can see what I'm doing, but we have to spread that oil everywhere. It's how we waterproof, insulate, and protect the feathers from parasites and bad bacteria. Also, feathers are essentially dead like hair. So without the oil, they'll get dry and brittle and fall apart. Which is why preening is so important." He used the brush to drag the oil across the underside of his wing first, and then used the specialized, scoop-like brush bristles to carry it over to the backside of his wings.

Jimmy watched with a dropped jaw. "How do you do it so fast?"

Grian smiled. "Years of practice, Tim," he replied. "Don't expect yourself to do it this fast and still be thorough for your first year or two. Now let me do this one slow so you can actually see what I did."

Jimmy watched closely, bent close to Grian's wings, his own juvenile ones moving around with excited twitches. Wings were like a second facial expression to anyone who knew how to read them. And Jimmy's showed off how intrigued and excited he was to learn.

Grian hoped Jimmy was actually paying attention, rather than just looking without seeing. He doubted this would be the only time he taught Jimmy how to do this. And that was fine. Preening was a process. He'd had to teach himself after leaving the Watchers and it hadn't gone well. If he could make it easier for Jimmy than it had been for himself... well. Maybe that made up, somewhat, for all the teasing.

Once his second wing was freshly oiled, he cleaned his preening oil off the brush before handing it over.

"Why'd you clean it?" Jimmy asked.

"To avoid passing any bacteria or viruses from me to you," Grian answered. "Now. Hold your wing out behind you, like I did." Jimmy did as he was told. Grian guided Jimmy to look at himself in the mirror from the side. "See the oily spot?" He pointed to a dark patch of feathers that weren't fluffy like the rest of the air-dried plumage.

"Yeah!" Jimmy exclaimed.

Grian pointed to the brush. "That's where you're going to brush from. Careful not to go against the direction of the feathers if you can avoid it. You don't want to rip any of them out."

Carefully, he guided Jimmy's hands through the oiling process, boosting himself to sit on the bathroom counter when he was confident Jimmy could do it on his own with only verbal guidance, rather than physical assistance.

"By the way," he said when Jimmy was halfway through his second wing. "We'll get you your own preening tools. It's best for every Avian to have their own. To avoid passing along bacteria. Like how you wouldn't want to share a toothbrush with someone. It's fine for this one time because it's not actually exactly like sharing a toothbrush, but in the future, you'd be better served to have your own. You'll need a longer brush, I imagine."

"Why?" Jimmy asked.

Grian gave him a skeptical look. "Our wings are proportional to our heights. Yours are going to be significantly bigger and longer than mine. Just to reach around them to the back, you'll probably need a longer handle when they're fully mature."

"O-oh. Okay."

"I'll get a set ordered for you. Call it a birthday present."

"Awww! Thanks, Grian!"

Grian pulled his red jumper back on, easily slipping his wings through their slits in the back of it. His glamour on them—the one that made his plumage look like that of a parrot, rather than the purple-tinted-black of a Watcher—flickered for a moment. Jimmy was too absorbed in his own wings to notice.

"So how often do I have to do this?" Jimmy asked, tangled up in his own arms and feathers while he tried to finish his second wing.

Grian leaned back a bit on the counter, keeping his freshly-oiled wings away from the mirror to avoid smudging it, and crossed his legs. "Well... that's a good question. Ideally, every day. At maximum, every three days. Your feathers will get really itchy and uncomfortable if you wait even that long, but sometimes things happen and you won't have time."

"Every day?!" Jimmy squawked. "This takes forever!"

"That's because this is your first time," Grian said flatly. "If you preen every day, right after you shower, you'll be as quick as I am in no time and it'll be as much of a routine as brushing your teeth within a few weeks. Also, you missed a bit."

Jimmy spun in circles, looking for a patch of feathers that hadn't been oiled, using the mirror to see the backside.

Grian snorted. "Nah, I'm just kiddin'," he said.

"You absolute buffoon!" Jimmy exclaimed in frustration.

Grian hopped nimbly off the counter and dodged out of the bathroom. Jimmy pursued him, preening brush still in hand. They ran through the base. Jimmy was shouting and Grian was cackling.

The moment he pushed through a door and out into the fresh air, Grian's wings snapped out and he took off. A powerful downdraft blasted Jimmy's hair and feathers backward as Grian launched into the sky.

"You get back here, mister!" Jimmy called. "You get back here and—and—"

Grian cackled as he soared higher, spinning and rolling. Banking in a circle while Jimmy kept shouting for him. This high up, with the wind roaring in his ears, Grian couldn't hear him.

"What's that, Tim?" he teased. "I can't hear you!" He laughed harder. Jimmy was gesticulating wildly, trying to mime for Grian to land.

Grian didn't. Just twisted into an aileron roll and shot off. Laughing the whole time.

—

It only took a week for Jimmy's wings to fully mature. Given how quickly after the Games they manifested, Grian wasn't surprised that they matured fast.

Which was how he found himself standing opposite his "brother" next to a cliffside near the base via the Nether, letting the sun warm his feathers. Jimmy's wings had indeed grown much bigger than Grian's and were so blindingly bright yellow they almost hurt to look at.

"Alright, Timmy. Put these on." He handed over a pair of flight goggles. "You'll get used to the windburn in your eyes eventually. For now it's best to wear those."

Jimmy pulled them on—and Grian snorted so hard he hurt his throat.

"What?!" Jimmy demanded.

"You look ridiculous," Grian managed to say between giggles. "No matter, no matter." He fought to get himself back under control while Jimmy pouted. Grian took several deep breaths, reining himself in. "Okay. Lesson one: flying."

"Shouldn't lesson one be, like, taking off?"

Grian laughed. "No. Lesson one is learning how to fall. Lesson two is learning how to land. Lesson three is learning how to fly. And lesson four is learning how to take off."

"How... how am I supposed to learn in reverse order?" Jimmy asked.

"Easy. Like this."

Grian shoved Jimmy off the edge of the cliff. Jimmy was bigger and taller than Grian and should have been able to stand his ground easily. But nothing a little Watcher power couldn't overcome.

Jimmy screamed as he plummeted.

Grian cackled as he hurled himself over the cliff, wings tucked close to his spine, and dove after Jimmy.

He caught up, since Jimmy was fighting to fall slowly and Grian was diving.

"Spread your wings, Timmy! Face the ground and unfurl them!"

"I can'tIcan'tIcan't!" Jimmy cried.

Grian eased his wings a little bit out to help guide him. He got close to Jimmy and grabbed his hands. "Come on! I'm holding onto you. I won't let you crash! Let them out!" He twisted so his back was facing the ground and Jimmy was above him.

Screaming, Jimmy unfurled his wings.

His falling momentum arrested abruptly.

Grian let him go, flipped over, and snapped his own out. Wind filled his feathers like sails. He navigated so he was gliding beside Jimmy. Their wings were so long that they were nearly thirty feet apart.

"Grian! Grian, I'm doing it! I'm flying!" Jimmy screeched, voice high-pitched.

Grian laughed. "Not yet! You're gliding. You fell, and now you're coasting." He lowered his wing closest to Jimmy and swept below him so they could be a bit closer to talk. "Step two is learning how to land! And it's best to run into your landing so you don't just drop and destroy your knees." He pointed toward a beach not far from the cliff. "Dip your left wing and we'll glide over there. You can watch me before trying for yourself!"

Jimmy struggled, but managed to angle himself into a bank heading for the beach.

Grian dipped and plunged through the air toward the ground. Jimmy followed at a much shallower angle. Grian pulled up at the last possible moment to slow down significantly. He banked in a circle like a vulture to get even slower as he lowered himself toward the ground. He got his legs under him and braced them to run the second they hit the ground. Jimmy kept circling overhead.

Grian ran into his landing. He could land without a run at this point, but he was a Watcher—too durable and immortal to royally screw up his joints. And he needed to teach Jimmy the easy way first.

Once he stopped and looked up, he snapped his wings back out and threw himself back into the sky. "Your turn! I won't let you crash!"

Jimmy screamed the whole way down as he spiraled ever closer to the beach. Grian stayed in tight formation just above, carefully monitoring. He had an instinct for flying now—

And he knew Jimmy was coming in too hot. At the wrong angle.

Jimmy seemed to realize it too. He was still screaming, but it got louder and more frantic.

Grian pulled up short and flapped in place, hovering as best he could. He lashed one hand out, the other wound back behind him. Both of them with strained fingers.

Purple light surrounded Jimmy and adjusted his angle. He slowed down until he was at nearly a standstill and stumbled to a landing.

Grian released the power holding Jimmy and twisted into a sharp dive, landing only a wings-length from Jimmy. "Bad angle, Timmy," he said.

Jimmy whirled. "How did you do that?!"

"Do what?"

"You stopped me from falling. I don't know how—but you did it!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Grian said flatly, just the right amount of obliviousness in his eyes for Jimmy to believe it.

"Then how did I land?"

"Favorable wind, is my guess." It was so difficult not to smile or giggle.

"Do I get to learn how to take off now?"

"Nope," Grian said. "We're going to hike back to the clifftop and we're going to jump again so you can learn to fly first. There's no use knowing how to take off if you don't know what to do afterwards."

"We have to hike?!" Jimmy complained.

Grian gave him a look. "Coming from the athletic one between the two of us," he said sarcastically, already heading for the path that would lead them back to the top.

Jimmy sighed dramatically and ran to catch up. "Grian—Grian—talk me through it while we walk, yeah? Once we get up there, how do I fly?"

"I believe in learning as it happens," Grian said blithely. "Besides, you don't listen."

"I do too!" Jimmy protested, blustering a bit. "Just—just talk me through it! Like, the flapping or whatever."

Grian snickered. "Fine."

He gave very thorough, clear instructions the whole way up. Jimmy looked overwhelmed about two minutes in. But, at the very least he looked like he was trying to understand. He asked questions and sought clarification.

Soon enough, they were back atop the cliff.

"Okay. Just hop off and give it a try, then," Grian said. "Running jump to give you as much outward momentum as possible."

Swallowing hard, Jimmy backed up several long steps, looking at the ocean beyond the cliff. "Okay. Okay, okay, okay. I got this. I'm Big Man Jim. I can do this. I can fly." He nodded to himself. "I'm gonna fly. I will."

He ran toward the precipice.

And stopped within a foot of the edge. "I can't do this! I can't just yeet myself off the side of a cliff! Into midair! I can't." He shook his head, staring over the drop.

Grian rolled his eyes. "Oh, for goodness' s—" One quick pull and push of his arm smacked Jimmy in the back with a gust of wind that sent him off the edge screaming again. Grian ran to the edge and launched himself off. "Get your wings out, Tim!" he shouted.

Thankfully, Jimmy figured that bit out. He righted himself and got back into gliding position. Grian dove beneath him, coming back into the same formation as before.

"Okay! Now remember what we talked about! Flapping for height and distance. Banking for direction. We'll get to rolls and tricks in a long time."

Jimmy nodded, gathering his courage back up.

He started—slowly—navigating the sky.

"Yes! That's how you do it! Tim, you're doing amazing!" Grian shouted. He churned the air with his wings and surged up to follow after Jimmy.

"Grian! Grian, I'm flying!" Jimmy shrieked. An ear-to-ear grin covered his face.

Grian laughed, brushing the outside tips of his primary flight feathers against the tips of Jimmy's in a moment of reassurance. Before he flipped into an aileron roll and came to a glide on Jimmy's other side.

"How'd you do that?"

"Practice." Grian took a deep breath. "Feel that warm breeze? Use it to ride higher. It's an updraft!"

Jimmy caught a couple more meters of altitude, but when Grian hit the same updraft, he soared much higher, laughing with joy and glee.

They flew around for a little bit, practicing, before Grian came to a gentle glide above Jimmy. "Ready to practice landing again? Are your wings getting tired?"

"A bit."

"Let's land. Then we'll do a quick takeoff lesson, land again, and then call it a day."

Jimmy nodded.

Instead of returning to the beach, they landed at the top of the cliff. Jimmy managed to catch the angle much easier since he hadn't gotten too much higher than it this time. He ran into his landed much smoother. Grian just dropped onto the ground and tucked his wings back easily.

"Not bad. Now, for takeoff, it's easier to take a running start. Fill up your wings with air, and such. Standing takeoff is a lot harder. Let's start with the running."

"Okay. Yeah. Okay."

"I'll show you first." Grian opened his wings and took off at a dead sprint before beating his wings at the air and taking to the sky.

Jimmy followed. Taller, longer legged, and more athletic, he hit the air with his take off quicker and stronger, surging upward.

Grian cheered. Jimmy laughed hysterically, like he didn't believe he'd done it.

"Grian! It worked!"

Still in the air, Grian managed a pretend bow. "You've learned from the best, my young apprentice," he teased in a goofy voice.

They both banked into an easy landing. Jimmy snatched Grian into a bone-crushing hug, still careful to avoid his wings. "Ooooh! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Grian chuckled. "You're welcome, Tim." He squirmed out of the hug and took a few steps back. "Nether portal home?"

Jimmy nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah." His face was flushed with windburn and exhilaration as he pulled the flight goggles down around his neck. "That was the most amazing thing I've ever done. It's so much cooler than an Elytra!"

"Harder, but better," Grian said. "The Elytra and rockets do most of the work for you when it comes to landing and taking off, but flying under your own power is much more rewarding."

Jimmy nodded enthusiastically.

They hiked a short way to the Nether portal they'd made on the way here and ducked into it.

The journey through the Nether wasn't long. The whole way back, Grian was lost in thought as Jimmy rambled.

It had been a long time since he truly appreciated the gift the Watchers had given him by giving him wings. He took them for granted. But watching Jimmy discover the joys of real flight, not just Elytra gliding, reminded him of when he first learned to fly properly and thought it was the most amazing thing.

He glanced over at his younger "brother"—who had no memory of how Grian had been torn away from Evo and turned into a Watcher, whose wings were the result of a Canary Curse—and the smile still covering Jimmy's face was enough to make him smile himself.

Yeah. Being a Watcher wasn't always so bad, if it meant he got to share fun experiences like this with his friends.

One quick beat of his wings got him up high enough to sling his arm around Jimmy's neck and give him an affectionate, soft noogie. "I'm glad it got to be me, to teach you how to fly, Tim."

Jimmy, his big hazel-brown eyes suddenly getting a little misty, smiled. "Me too, Grian. Even if you did push me off the cliff." He gave Grian a playful shove. Grian shoved him back. They started pushing each other all the way back to the Nether portal that would take them back to their overworld base, laughing and calling out playful jibes at one another, tumbling through the portal home.

[tjodity]

Loose Transfem C!Tommy thoughts:

@maigetheplatypus57

transcript below cut:

I think Tommy would be fine still going by Tommy and it's easier to remember but she would get so so much gender euphoria from being called Clementine I think when she's younger she doesn't feel any attachment to being a guy and really really wants to look like the girls she hangs out with but doesn't have any context for those feelings and just assumes it's kinda normal and tries to make a joke out of it. Hence "Manly man ulimate man tommyinnit" and "I love women" being running bits. She really idolizes Schlatt just from commercials and interviews and stuff she sees as this guy who seems to just. nail being a man so flawlessly. When Tubbo transitions she's like wow that's so cool I wish I could do that. Anyways. but that's kind of the first even incling that she'd like to be a girl but she doesn't think about it again for a while. Then everything with Manberg happens and she gets to see Schlatt and realizes 'oh this guy is so fucked up. oh this guy was an insecure wreck who ended up destroying everything around him and himself while pretending so hard that he was fine. huh' and the feeling that something is wrong with how she's going about things gets a bit stronger. But she keeps putting it off because of everything happening. BUT THEN WE GOT EXILE. nothing can force you to think about your own identity like being kicked out by your best friend and completely isolated on an island for a few weeks and grappling with suicidal ideation. At this point she's kinda like fuck I don't wanna be me but is having a hard time sorting out what's gender and what's depression and what's escapism. I think her habit of trying to ignore it and overcorrect flares up really badly when she's living with Techno. Cuts her hair short and tries to put on this very cold, violent exterior-

because she's just very scared and feels completely betrayed and alone and deeply uncomfortable in her own skin. Post Disc Finale she spends a lot of time trying to grapple with herself. She finds some of Niki's old clothes that she abandoned somewhere and tries them on in private and gets really freaked out by the fact that she likes wearing them and puts them away. She's not really on speaking terms with Eret and Tubbo at this point she's friends with but he's not always very approachable. Ironically I think the first time he voices any of her thoughts about gender is when she's trapped in prison because Dream won't tell anyone and she doesn't really care about what he thinks of her. And cDream is. a very bad person. But he's also not transphobic, and he also cares about Tommy in his own horrible fucked up way, and he can kind of relate just based on wanting to be someone else and weeks spent in different performances and disliking parts of how he looks. He comes across as dismissive but also tells Tommy that she can just be a girl if she wants, and that she's stupid for stressing out over something like gender. Then a few days later he beats her to death but yknow. I think the first person she'd properly like. come out to would be Sam Nook. Basically saying like hey could you act like i was a girl for a little while pleaseplease please and Sam Nook's just like Okay ^_^ I think she might come out to like. Ranboo next. She doesn't know him suuper well but she just finds them easy to talk to and it ends up slipping out

It would take her a whiiiile to tell Tubbo because she has a hard time talking to him and doesn't want to mess with anything that could upset their friendship but after they start making an effort to hang out more and Tommy starts living in Snowchester she would try to mention it very very casually just when they're doing chores one day. Then Tubbo is hit with like several years of memories of Tommy being arguably very clockable as an egg and him just. not realizing and he has a crisis about not noticing something like that. But when he calms down he becomes #1 Tommy girl supporter. He calls her pretty and cute and Miss and Ma'am and drags her out to go shopping so that they can get dresses and makeup and things for her. Tubbo vaguely remembers how to do makeup and Ranboo wants to learn with Tommy so they have a fun time with that. I think Tommy would love love love wearing dresses and doing her makeup and stuff but would not give any fucks about being traditionally pretty or presentable. She'd run around with very cute dresses wearing a t-shirt and cargo shorts below it with very assymetrical makeup having the time of her life

also she'd grow her hair out and loooove braiding it. Her transition also comes with a lot of relief because for a loong time she's enjoyed things that are traditionally feminine (sewing, domestic chores and upkeep, etc) but wasn't letting herself enjoy them and just letting go is so nice.

I also think with cTubbo #1 Tommy being a girl supporter and also Tommy living in Snowchester with him and Ranboo and them being so close Tubbo would absolutely accidentally call Tommy his wife at some point in conversation. And then there's a beat and then he's like ohmygod im so sorry i didnt mean to say that and Tommy's just like no I'm that from now on. Husband<3 and Tubbo's just completely dumbfounded