#i’m spiralling and my life is bursting into flames

[mywhisperingwords]

the chocolates | fred g. weasley

summary: fred weasley, a love potion, and a closet—the perfect recipe for disaster word count: 2.5k masterlist

The Gryffindor common room was alive with its usual post-dinner chaos—laughter, shouts from an impromptu game of Exploding Snap, and the faint scratching of quills from students rushing to finish essays.

You were curled up in your usual spot near the fire, absently chewing on the end of your quill as you debated whether your essay on Bezoars needed another paragraph. The warmth of the flames combined with the lively hum of the room almost lulled you into a state of contentment.

That is, until the portrait hole slammed open with a bang, silencing the room.

Fred Weasley burst in, looking like he’d sprinted all the way from the Great Hall. His tie was askew, his hair sticking up in several directions, and his face—well, his face was set in an expression of utter determination.

“There you are!” he boomed, pointing directly at you.

You blinked. “What—”

But before you could finish, Fred crossed the room in long strides, his eyes locked on you with unsettling intensity. He dropped to one knee in front of your chair, clutching your hand in both of his as the entire room watched in stunned silence.

“My darling,” Fred said, his voice trembling with emotion. “My light, my muse, my reason for existing—I’ve been a fool to wait so long to tell you this, but I can’t hold it in any longer. I love you.”

The quill slipped from your fingers. “What?”

“I love you!” he repeated, louder this time, as though sheer volume would make his words more believable. “You’re the sun to my Quidditch pitch, the sugar to my treacle tart, the spell to my wand. Say you’ll be mine forever!”

A beat of stunned silence followed. Then—

“Did he just compare you to a Quidditch pitch?” George’s amused voice cut through the stillness.

Fred whipped around, glaring at his twin. “Shut it, George. You wouldn’t understand true love if it hit you with a Bludger.”

The absurdity of the situation might have been funny and a bit sweet if you weren’t so mortified. You yanked your hand out of Fred’s grip and stood, glaring at him.

“Fred, what is going on?” you demanded.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Fred said, springing to his feet with alarming energy. “I’m in love with you. Have been for ages. But tonight, I ate those chocolates and suddenly realized that life without you is meaningless.”

Your stomach dropped. Chocolates?

“Wait,” you said slowly, your mind racing. “What chocolates?”

Fred grinned. “The ones in the green box on my bed! Absolutely delicious—did you make them for me, darling? A little token of your affection?”

You froze, realization crashing over you like a tidal wave. The chocolates.

You had made them, but not for Fred. They were part of your Potions homework—Professor Snape had tasked the class with brewing a subtle love potion and incorporating it into a confection. Your plan had been to dispose of them after class. But you’d gotten distracted while helping George brainstorm a prank and probably accidentally left the box in the boys’ dormitory.

Fred had eaten them.

The rest of the evening spiraled into chaos.

Fred followed you everywhere, loudly declaring his undying devotion to anyone who would listen. The common room was no longer just alive with its usual noise—it was filled with Fred’s dramatic serenades and heartfelt speeches.

At one point, he climbed onto the back of the sofa to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen! I would like you all to know that I, Fred Weasley, am in love. Truly, madly, deeply—”

“Fred, get down!” you hissed, tugging at his arm.

“—with the most beautiful soul in all of Hogwarts!” he continued, completely ignoring you. “And I don’t care who knows it!”

The younger students cheered enthusiastically, while the older ones groaned in exasperation.

“I’m begging you,” George muttered, rubbing his temples. “End this madness.”

You’d had enough. Grabbing Fred’s wrist, you dragged him out of the common room and into an empty corridor.

“Fred, listen to me. You’re under the influence of a love potion. This isn’t real.” Even if you secretly wished it was, but you would never admit that out loud.

Fred’s response was to grab your hands again, gazing at you with heartbreaking sincerity. “But it feels real, my love. Isn’t that what matters?”

“No!” you snapped, pulling away. “Because you’re going to feel very stupid when this wears off.”

It took until the next morning for the potion to wear off, leaving you sleep-deprived and thoroughly annoyed.

When Fred stumbled into the Great Hall, you could tell instantly that he was back to his normal self. His wide-eyed horror when he spotted you was proof enough.

“I—oh no,” he said, freezing in the doorway. “I didn’t… did I?”

You folded your arms. “You did.”

Fred groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he sank into the seat across from you. “How bad was it?”

“Bad enough that half the school thinks we’re engaged,” you deadpanned.

He groaned louder, burying his face in his arms. “Merlin, kill me now.”

Despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile, a flicker of hope in your heart. “Well, at least now I know what you’d be like if you fancied me.”

Fred froze, his arms still covering his face. For a moment, you thought he hadn't heard you. But then, slowly, he sat up, avoiding your gaze as he forced out a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Yeah, well, lucky for you, that'll never happen," he said, his tone a little too casual. "Can you imagine? Me, fancying you? Talk about a nightmare."

His words hit harder than you expected, your chest tightening uncomfortably.

"Right. A nightmare," you echoed, keeping your voice light even though his dismissal stung more than you wanted to admit.

Fred shifted awkwardly in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Anyway, thanks for, uh, not hexing me last night. I think l'll just... be going now."

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone at the table with your thoughts.

Over the next few days, things didn't go back to normal like you'd hoped.

Fred was acting... strange. He didn't avoid you outright, but he also wasn't his usual self. Gone were the easy grins and playful jabs he always threw your way. Instead, he seemed quieter, more distant, and almost hesitant whenever you were around.

At first, you thought he was embarrassed about what had happened, which made sense. After all, he'd spent an entire evening serenading you and professing his undying love in front of half the common room. Who wouldn't want to disappear after that?

But the longer his odd behavior went on, the harder it was to shake the nagging feeling that it wasn't just embarrassment keeping him away.

Maybe he regretted it-not just the potion-induced spectacle, but all of it.

The chocolates, the confessions, even spending time with you.

The thought made your chest ache in a way that surprised you. You hadn't realized just how much you'd grown to enjoy Fred's attention, his laughter, the way he always managed to make even the most ordinary moments feel brighter.

But now, it felt like he was slipping away, and there wasn't anything you could do about it.

You tried to convince yourself that it didn't matter, that Fred Weasley would never feel that way about you. And even if he did, it was only because of a stupid potion. Nothing real.

Still, the ache didn't go away.

&

The days dragged on, and the awkwardness between you and Fred showed no signs of fading. It was as though an invisible wall had gone up between you, and neither of you seemed willing—or able—to break it down.

Unfortunately for you, George Weasley had noticed.

One evening, as you sat in the common room trying (and failing) to focus on your Potions essay, George dropped into the seat across from you with a casual grin that immediately put you on edge.

“Hey there,” he said, propping his chin on his hand like he had all the time in the world.

You raised an eyebrow. “What do you want, George?”

“Why do you assume I want something?” he asked, feigning offense. “Maybe I just enjoy your company.”

You shot him a flat look.

“Alright, fine,” he said, leaning forward. “I couldn’t help but notice you and Fred have been acting… weird lately. Care to explain?”

Your stomach clenched. “We’re not acting weird.”

George snorted. “Right. And Peeves isn’t a menace. Come on, what happened? Did you two finally confess your undying love for each other and now you’re too shy to make eye contact?”

Heat flooded your face. “What? No! That’s not—”

“Relax, I’m kidding.” George smirked, but his eyes were sharper than usual, like he was trying to piece something together. “Still, you two have been avoiding each other like the plague, and it’s getting pretty pathetic. So, here’s the deal—I’m going to help.”

You groaned. “I don’t need your help, George.”

“Too bad,” he said cheerfully, standing up and dusting off his robes. “Because you’re getting it anyway.”

Before you could argue, he was gone, whistling as he disappeared up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory.

The next day, you found yourself standing outside a supply closet near the Charms classroom, clutching a note George had pressed into your hand that morning. “Meet me here at seven,” it read, the handwriting unmistakably his.

You had half a mind to ignore it, but curiosity—and a faint flicker of hope that he might have some kind of plan to fix things with Fred—got the better of you.

When you opened the door, the last person you expected to see was Fred, but you should’ve.

He was leaning against a stack of boxes, arms crossed and looking just as startled to see you. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“George told me to meet him,” you said, stepping inside. “Why are you here?”

“He told me the same thing,” Fred muttered, narrowing his eyes as he glanced at the door. “Wait a minute—”

Before either of you could react, the door slammed shut behind you with a deafening clunk.

Fred lunged for the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, jiggling it uselessly.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly, crossing your arms. “It’s locked?”

Fred sighed, resting his forehead against the door. “Yeah. It’s locked.”

The silence in the cramped closet was unbearable. You could hear every breath Fred took, every restless shuffle of his feet. He was standing close—too close—his familiar scent of soap and something faintly sweet filling the air.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to laugh. Mostly, you wanted to get out of there before you said something you’d regret.

“I don’t understand why he’s doing this,” Fred muttered, pacing the tiny space like a trapped animal.

“Maybe he’s sick of you avoiding me,” you snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from your voice.

Fred froze mid-step, his back to you. “I’m not avoiding you.”

You scoffed. “Really? Because you’ve barely said three words to me in the last week, and you won’t even look at me.”

Fred’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn around. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” you pressed, stepping closer despite yourself. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you can’t wait to get away from me.”

“That’s not true,” Fred said, his voice tight.

“Then explain it!” you demanded, your frustration spilling over. “Because all I can think is that you’re embarrassed about what happened. About me. And honestly, Fred, if that’s the case, then—”

“It’s because I like you, alright?” Fred exploded, spinning around to face you.

The words slammed into you like a rogue Bludger, knocking the air from your lungs.

“What?” you whispered, barely able to process what he’d just said.

“I like you,” Fred repeated, his voice softer now but no less intense. “I’ve liked you for ages, and that stupid potion just… it made it impossible to hide. And then when it wore off, I panicked because I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to ruin things, so I thought maybe if I stayed away…”

He trailed off, running a hand through his hair as he looked at you, his eyes pleading. “I was avoiding you because I’m a coward. Not because I’m embarrassed. Never that.”

Your heart was racing, your emotions a chaotic swirl of disbelief, anger, and something else—something warm and fragile that you’d been too afraid to name until now.

“You’re an idiot,” you said, your voice trembling.

Fred blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“You’re an idiot,” you repeated, stepping closer until you were mere inches apart. “Because I like you too, and you could’ve just said something instead of making me think you hated me.”

Fred’s eyes widened, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then, like a dam breaking, he surged forward, cupping your face in his hands and kissing you with a desperation that made your knees weak.

You kissed him back, your hands clutching at his robes as the tension that had been building between you for weeks melted away, replaced by something infinitely sweeter.

The sound of the door creaking open barely registered until a familiar voice drawled, “Well, well, well. About time.”

You and Fred broke apart, spinning to see George leaning casually against the doorframe, his grin so wide it was practically criminal.

“George?” Fred said, his voice laced with both shock and irritation.

“Don’t mind me,” George said, waving a hand. “Just here to check on my brilliant plan. Which, I must say, worked beautifully.”

Your stomach dropped. “Plan?”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” George said, crossing his arms. “Who do you think left that box of chocolates on Fred’s bed in the first place?”

Fred’s jaw dropped. “You knew about the love potion?”

“Of course I knew,” George said, looking offended. “I took them from your bag after you got distracted helping me brainstorm pranks. Figured it was the perfect opportunity to give you two a little push.”

Your mouth opened and closed, words failing you. “You—you tricked me?”

“I prefer ‘strategically intervened,’” George said, flashing you a cheeky grin. “And before you get too mad, just remember—it worked. You’re welcome.”

Fred groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin, George, you’re insufferable.”

“Insufferably brilliant,” George corrected, clapping Fred on the shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a very smug letter to write to Mum about my matchmaking skills. Ta!”

With that, he sauntered off, whistling a jaunty tune and leaving you and Fred standing in stunned silence.

Fred let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Only George.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the weight of the last week finally lifting. “Remind me to kill him later.”

“Only after I thank him,” Fred said, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “Because, for once, his meddling actually worked out.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around your waist. “It did.”

This time, when he kissed you, there was no tension, no uncertainty—just the kind of warmth that made you wonder how you’d ever lived without it.

[cece693]

Calm Down Cowboy (Jasper Whitlock x M! Reader)

I never expected much love to come from my first Jasper fanfic, so as thanks, here's another one :)

Summary: You were a social butterfly, however, that doesn't excuse your husband's actions. However, was it really all bad if it led to him being possessive and taking charge.

tags: jealous Jasper, social butterfly male reader, petty cowboy, happy ending, smut, past mention of Tanya/reader

It was almost funny, looking back on it now, but in that moment, you were steaming like a kettle ready to burst. After all these centuries spent by Jasper’s side—dozens of weddings, countless anniversaries, and endless reassurances—how could he still get jealous just from you talking to someone? You were well aware of your own charm; a social butterfly whose charisma, suaveness, and good looks drew people to you like moths to a flame. But Jasper knew this too. He knew you never encouraged those who fawned over you, nor did you let any past lovers hold sway over you anymore.

Yet, Tanya Denali seemed to light a fire under your cowboy like no other. It didn’t matter how many times you’d promise it while fucking him that Tanya was nothing—just a brief fling in your long, immortal life, severed the moment he'd come into it—he still couldn't stand the sight of her.

It started innocently enough. The Denalis were visiting Forks, and you'd found yourself chatting with Tanya. The conversation was light, inconsequential—a quick catch-up on each other's lives. But then Tanya, ever the flirt, edged closer, her hand brushing against your arm, her laugh a little too soft, too familiar.

Jasper, who had been watching from a distance, stiffened immediately. You could feel his emotions boiling over, his usual calm demeanor cracking as Tanya leaned in, her fingers trailing down your sleeve. You glanced over your shoulder, trying to catch his eye and silently communicate that it was nothing, but Jasper was no longer standing in his spot.

Instead, he was striding toward you, his eyes dark and full of a possessiveness that made your stomach twist. "That’s enough." he said sharply, stepping between you and Tanya. His tone was harsher than you’d ever heard from him, a growl that had everyone around you suddenly going silent.

Tanya raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Oh, come on, Jasper. I’m just catching up with an old friend. No harm in that, is there?”

Jasper’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. "Funny how you always seem to forget what ‘no harm’ means. You don’t belong here, stirring up old shit.”

You quickly put a hand on his arm, but Tanya wasn’t done. “Oh, Jasper, I had no idea you were so insecure,” she cooed, her eyes flicking to you with a knowing glint. “I thought you’d trust your mate by now, especially after all these years. But I suppose some habits die hard.”

Jasper’s muscles tensed under your grip, his temper flaring hotter than before. “How would you know? You haven’t found your mate yet," he snapped back, his Southern accent thickening with every word. "Why don't you take your desperate ass back to Alaska and leave what's mine alone?"

“Jasper!” you hissed, pulling him back before things could spiral out of control. This was so unlike him—he was usually composed, especially around others. But Tanya had a way of needling under his skin, and she knew exactly how to make it worse. You tugged at his arm, dragging him away from the porch and out of earshot of the others, who had started murmuring in shocked whispers. Emmett’s booming laughter grated on your nerves, adding to the tension.

But Tanya wasn't finished. She threw a final parting shot over her shoulder, her voice laced with venom. “You know, maybe Jasper’s right to be worried. It must be exhausting, trying to keep up with someone like you. All that fire and passion—maybe he’s just not enough for you anymore.”

Jasper jerked against your hold, his eyes flaring with fury, and it took everything you had to keep him from lunging at her. "You listen here, you conniving bitch—" he started, but you cut him off, practically dragging him away from the scene before he could finish his sentence.

“Jasper, stop!” you pleaded, your voice tight as you struggled to keep him from breaking free. His anger was like a living thing, wild and uncontrollable, and you knew that if you didn’t get him away from Tanya, things would get ugly fast. “She’s just trying to rile you up! Don’t give her what she wants!”

He stopped struggling, but his whole body was tense, vibrating with barely suppressed rage. “I’m not letting her get away with that,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “She thinks she can just waltz in here and—”

“And she’s not worth it,” you interrupted, stepping in front of him and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You know she’s just trying to get under your skin. Don’t let her win.”

Jasper’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, his eyes still blazing with anger, but slowly, he began to calm under your steady gaze. “I can’t stand her,” he muttered, his voice still laced with venom. “She thinks she can just say whatever she wants, like she knows us.”

“She doesn’t know anything,” you assured him, your hands sliding up to cup his face, forcing him to focus on you and not the lingering venom in Tanya’s words. “And I don’t care what she says. You’re the only one I want, Jasper.”

For a moment, it seemed like your words would be enough to soothe him. But the tension was still there, simmering beneath the surface. His eyes darkened, his hands gripping your waist possessively. "Show me." he demanded, voice raw, an edge of desperation beneath his anger.

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift, but you saw the need in his eyes—the need to prove himself, to reclaim what was his. You nodded, giving him permission to take the lead, knowing this was a big step for both of you. Jasper didn’t waste a second. He backed you up against a nearby tree, his mouth crashing onto yours with an almost feral hunger. His hands roamed over your body, rough and urgent, as if he was staking his claim with every touch.

He was never like this, never so commanding, but you let him take what he needed. His lips moved down your neck, his sharp teeth grazing your skin before a burning fire settled on your collarbone. His venom would create a scar there, a mark that you were his and vice versa. "Mine." .

"Yours." you assured, threading your fingers through his honey-blonde hair. "Only yours."

He didn’t slow down. If anything, your words only spurred him on. The heat between you two built quickly, his need palpable. He pulled away, his eyes locking onto yours, searching, almost as if he was begging for you to understand. "I need to know." he whispered. "Need to feel it."

You nodded, letting out a soft sigh. “Then take it. Take what you need.”

And he did. His movements were intense, almost punishing, as if he was trying to erase any doubt Tanya had planted with each thrust. You met him with equal fervor, matching his intensity, your bodies colliding in a raw, unrestrained dance that left you both breathless. His hands were everywhere, gripping, claiming, reminding you of exactly who you belonged to.

As the tension between you two reached its peak, Jasper buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the bite. “I love you.” he murmured, his voice shaking with emotion. “Don’t ever doubt that. I’d burn the whole world down before I’d let anyone take you from me.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close. “I love you, too, Jasper. And I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”

For a moment, everything was still. Then, slowly, Jasper's grip on you loosened, his anger ebbing away as he relaxed into your embrace. You both stayed there, holding each other tightly, knowing that nothing could break you guys apart.

[one-sunny]

Bounty

Portgas D. Ace x F!Reader drabble

Summary: When your bounty sees a significant increase without seemingly any reason, Ace comes to terms with himself that it is all his fault. angsty, typical Ace hating his father behavior

Masterlist

“They’re here!”

Thatch’s voice booms as he bursts into the room. A bright grin is plastered on his face and a few of the other crew members sit up eagerly as the stack of papers are slapped down onto the table.

Marco makes the move to snatch them up as everyone watches in anticipation.

It was that time of month again. When bounty posters were sent out and the Whitebeards eagerly waiting to see if any of their bounties increased. Most of the time, they only saw an increase in the commanders, namely Marco and Ace. They were the first and second division commanders, after all, and were often sent out on their own missions.

You were always at Ace’s side during this, beaming with pride at your boyfriend. There was, of course, some nerves about your love being a wanted man. But you were a pirate with your own bounty anyways.

That thought stops short as a hand claps on your shoulder. “Looky here.” Marco offers out one of the papers towards you. Your own image reflects back at you, a smug expression on your dirty face, and a new amount on the poster that nearly rivals Ace’s bounty.

Now, of course, you were a Whitebeard Pirate. An enemy of the government. A nuisance to the world. A pirate with a rather high bounty for the things that you had done.

But those things that you had done couldn’t justify this.

You jump into chatter with the crew, voicing your shock, and being hyped up by the others. The only silent party in that moment was Ace. He sat close by your side, staring back at your pretty face printed into the paper, nausea wrecking him in that moment. It had been a long time since you had went out for a mission. A long time since you wrecked havoc. A long time since you had done anything to justify such an increase.

And that fact made him want to jump into the sea. Because the only thing that you had done to warrant this was be seen with him. To allow others to witness you holding his hand. Kissing him. Sharing those moments together that you often did on the ship, so why would it matter when you were docked? But his past haunted him, looming over him and ready to strike when it saw fit.

He was the son of a monster. A bloodline to squash. And you? You could be the key to continuing his bloodline. To carry on the pest of the Fire Fists. To bring more descendants of Gol D Roger into the world.

The world government couldn’t have that.

Ace places a hand on your leg and squeezes the flesh, eyes fluttering shut, trying desperately to ground himself. To not blames himself for this, just as he did everything else. Just as he knew you would tell him not to do.

And yet, it wasn’t enough. He abruptly stands from the table as eyes turn in confusion and stalks out of the room. Met with the salty air, he attempts to allow the familiarity to wash over him. To calm himself.

None of it is working, however, and he feels his temperature rising. He wanted to burst into flames. To send a flaming fist right into what ever government official made he decision to raise the stakes on your life. To burn it all.

“Ace, what’s going-“ A hand places on his bicep, an attempt to comfort, but you immediately jerk back as if your fingers were seared. They hadn’t been but you were certain it would happen if the man spiraled any further.

“Sorry, i’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath before reaching out to you, delicately taking your hand in his to kiss the tips of your fingers. “I’m okay, it’s just, sorry.” Ace quickly shakes his head as he feels tears pricking at his eyes.

His fault.

A monster.

You’re ever observant of the shift in his eyes. It wasn’t unfamiliar to you. “You’re clearly not okay, my love, what’s going on?” You coax the man closer to you, placing your hands over his chest to feel his heart hammering in its place.

His eyes are cast to the ground in shame.

Hands slide up to cup his cheeks, “Come on, get out of that head of yours.”

Ace sighs lowly and allows himself to relax into your embrace. He still feels hot, but not nearly as intense as the inferno threatened to be. “Your bounty.” Ace simply states, continuing before you could roll your eyes and dismiss it. “Feel like it’s my fault it went up.”

“Why on earth would that be your fault?” You laugh.

Ace sighs again, grabbing your wrists to guide your hands from his face. He didn’t want space from you but he feared what would happen if you continued to be close to him. If the world deemed you too to be a monster. “You know about my past. About him.” The way he speaks the word with venom allows you to easily catch up. “The world government doesn’t even want me alive, if we ever have kids,” He shakes his head. “It would be a man hunt until they were found.”

A wave of emotions hits you at once, battling against each other. On one hand, Ace had thought about having children with you. That thought made your heart soar. On the other hand… those children would be enemies of the government before they were even born.

“Maybe we-“ His voice breaks and he takes a step further away from you. “Maybe we shouldn’t be together anymore. I care about you too much to see you be taken out over-“

“Shut up.” Your voice is stern, but it lacks any anger. Ace’s mouth gapes open as he stares at you almost dumbfounded. “That’s not even in the realm of possibilities, Ace, I’m in love with you and there’s no way I’m turning my back on you because of the world government.” You scoff at the thought. “Those guys have wanted me dead for a while now but I’m still here. I’m still standing.”

“But this is different.” He sighs exasperatedly. “You’re worth a lot more now, your bounty is almost as high as mine is! That means the big name bounty hunters are gonna be after you-“

“And i’ll be able to handle myself.” You cross your arms defiantly.

“I know,” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his freckled nose. “But one wrong move-“

“It’s always been like that, Ace.” You sigh loudly. “I was wanted well before I met you, so you can stop blaming yourself.” Stepping closer to him, closing the gap that he opened, you reach out to him again. “The world government has never controlled our lives before.” You hold his cheeks and meet his watery gaze. “They’re not gonna start now.”

“It’s not like that-“

“Do you love me?” You prompt.

Ace rolls his eyes at the more than obvious answer. “Of course I do, but that’s the problem-“

“Well, I’m in love with you.” You declare. “And when we told each other that, we agreed to face the world together.” His eyes close for a moment and he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to face this world with anyone else.”

His eyes meet yours again and you can already tell his resolve has dropped. Left entirely defenseless. “Even if it could get you killed?”

“Even then.”

With a deep sigh, Ace steps forwards to embrace you fully. His forehead rests against your own as you run your hand over his tattooed back, a shiver running down his spine and making you smile. Fingers guide your chin to tilt up until your lips meet his, soft and warm. A gentle kiss filled with all the warmth and emotion he held for you.

When he finally pulls away, he is smiling.

Taking this as a sign that your playful Ace was back, a mischievous smile pulls to your lips. “So,” You begin, leaning against his well built chest. “Wanna circle back around to you wanting me to have your babies? That whole thing?”

Ace sighs dejectedly as he rolls his eyes at you, “Shut up.”

[zeroseuniverse]

Not The Time!

Word Count: 1.2K Summary: "Haechan, do something!" you yelped, whipping around to find him standing—smirking—amidst the chaos. T Pairing: Haechan X Reader

Navigation

The fire alarm screamed.

Your heart pounded as you fanned at the billowing smoke with a dish towel, coughing as the acrid scent of burnt sugar filled your lungs. Somewhere behind you, the oven let out an angry pop, and your mind immediately spiraled to worst-case scenarios—this is it, this is how I die, they're going to find my body covered in flour and regret.

"Haechan, do something!" you yelped, whipping around to find him standing—smirking—amidst the chaos. The kitchen was a war zone: flour streaked across the counters, batter dripped from the cabinets, and something unidentifiable oozed from the remains of what used to be a baking tray.

Haechan, completely unfazed, leaned against the counter like this was just another Tuesday. "Okay, but hear me out," he said, his voice annoyingly casual. "Have you considered marriage? Specifically, to me?"

Your brain short-circuited.

"We're in the middle of a FIRE!" you shrieked, scrambling to grab the nearest fire extinguisher. Your hands fumbled uselessly with the safety pin as panic surged through you. "Oh my god, oh my god, we're going to die, and your last words are a proposal?!"

Haechan tilted his head, expression entirely too pleased for someone actively inhaling what was probably toxic smoke. "That wasn't a no," he pointed out.

"Haechan!"

"Y/N." He grinned, like you weren’t about three seconds from throwing the fire extinguisher at his head.

You turned back to the stove, finally managing to yank the pin free, and aimed the nozzle with trembling hands. A thick burst of white foam shot out, smothering the flames with a whoosh. Silence followed, save for the lingering beeps of the fire alarm and your own heavy breathing.

For a moment, you just stood there, staring at the now-extinguished disaster zone.

Then, very slowly, you turned back to Haechan. "What. Is. Wrong. With. You."

His eyes sparkled. "You still haven’t said no."

"You—!" Words failed you. You smacked his arm with the extinguisher. "What kind of lunatic proposes during a literal fire?!"

Haechan just grinned, rubbing his arm as if you'd actually hurt him. "I mean, if we can survive this, we can survive marriage, right?"

You wanted to strangle him. You also wanted to laugh. Instead, you groaned, shoving a hand through your soot-dusted hair. "If I agree to marry you, will you at least help me clean this mess?"

Haechan lit up like you'd just handed him the moon. "So that’s a yes?"

"It's a maybe if you actually help."

And for the first time that night, Haechan scrambled to grab a sponge like his life depended on it.

Maybe, just maybe, he had a point.

The kitchen still smelled like burnt sugar, and you could feel the lingering smoke in your lungs as you wiped down the counters. The fire extinguisher lay discarded in the corner, its foam residue still white against the blackened floor. You were halfway through scrubbing a stubborn spot on the counter when Haechan, with a sponge in hand and a glint of amusement in his eyes, dropped to his knees beside you.

"What are you doing?" you snapped, not bothering to hide the exasperation in your voice.

"I'm helping," Haechan chirped, dipping the sponge into a bucket of soapy water with far too much enthusiasm for someone who'd nearly burned down your kitchen. He smiled up at you, entirely unbothered by the mess and the still-echoing beep of the fire alarm. "You’re welcome, by the way."

You glared at him, your frustration mixing with a strange sense of relief that at least the fire was out. "If you weren't so busy making dumb jokes, we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with."

"Me?" He gasped dramatically. "You’re blaming me?"

"Yes!" you yelled. "You’re the one who decided to bake with me, and now I’m choking on smoke and scrubbing what’s left of our dinner!"

Haechan’s eyes softened for a split second, his playful demeanor dimming for just long enough to show you that he wasn’t as flippant as he liked to seem. He reached over, taking the sponge from your hand and gently pushing you back. "Hey, hey, it's fine. You don’t have to do all the work."

His hands started scrubbing the counter with slow, deliberate motions, the tension between you both thickening in the silence. You watched him for a moment, noticing the way his shoulders relaxed as he focused on cleaning. It was an odd contrast—his usual hyperactive, teasing self juxtaposed with this quiet sincerity.

You sighed, your anger slowly deflating as you leaned back against the kitchen island. “Fine. But I’m still holding you accountable for this.”

Haechan flashed you a playful grin. “You’re not holding anything over my head if we’re married, remember?”

You froze, your eyes snapping back to him. “Wait, are you seriously still bringing that up?”

“Well,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “if we’re being honest, I’m actually kind of relieved.”

“Relieved?” You were still trying to process the absurdity of this entire situation, the fire, the proposal, the absolute insanity of it all.

“Yeah, relieved that you didn’t just leave me in the middle of that,” he admitted, pausing in his scrubbing to look at you seriously. “I mean, you were about two seconds away from yelling at me to get out, and honestly, I thought I might end up sleeping on the couch for the next month.”

You blinked at him. "Are you... worried about that?"

"Well," he grinned again, "you didn’t say no. So there’s hope for me yet."

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. The absurdity of the situation was wearing off, replaced by a strange warmth that you couldn’t explain. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love it,” he shot back, as confident as ever.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t disagree. “I swear, I’m going to be scarred from the trauma of this fire for the rest of my life, and you’re just here, making jokes about marriage.”

“I know,” he said, finally standing up and tossing the sponge back in the bucket. “But honestly? I’m just glad you didn’t go full apocalypse mode on me.”

You stepped toward him, narrowing your eyes in playful annoyance. “What exactly does that mean?”

Haechan held his hands up in surrender, stepping back with a teasing smirk. “Nothing. Just that you have way more of a dramatic flair than I thought.”

"You're lucky you’re cute," you muttered, crossing your arms. "Otherwise, I would’ve kicked you out for real."

The silence between you two stretched, but this time it wasn’t awkward. In fact, it was strangely comfortable. And before you could stop yourself, you found yourself speaking without thinking.

“I’m not saying no, you know.”

Haechan’s eyes lit up instantly, and his grin returned. “You can’t just leave me hanging like that. Are you saying yes?”

“I’m saying…” You hesitated for a moment, watching his excitement bubble to the surface. “I’m saying maybe, but you owe me a lot more than just cleaning up the kitchen.”

"Deal." He extended his hand to you in a mock-serious gesture. "You just say the word, and I’ll marry you in front of the next fire. I’ll even keep the fire extinguisher on hand.”

“God, you’re impossible,” you said, taking his hand despite your better judgment. "But fine. Maybe we’ll make it work."

And just like that, you were back to where you started, but somehow... this felt better. The chaos of the night, the panic, the mess, and even the ridiculous proposal—it all seemed to fit perfectly into the weird little world you’d somehow built together.

Maybe this fire wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened after all.

[rafeskai]

Starstruck | Drew Starkey

Chapter Three

Summary: In the bustling crowd of a premiere event for Outer Banks, you find yourself caught up in a chaotic moment, lost in the sea of fans. Desperate for a way out, you stumble into an alley where fate leads you to an unexpected—and painful—encounter with Drew Starkey. What starts as a simple misstep soon spirals into something far more complicated, and your life takes an unexpected turn.

Pairings: Drew Starkey x Reader

Warnings: N/A

Author's Note: SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO UPDATE OMG. HERE'S A LONG CHAPTER FOR Y'ALL.

Masterlist Here

The faint buzz of your phone woke you before the sun had fully risen. Groggily, you reached for it, expecting some random notification or perhaps an email that could wait. But as you squinted at the screen, Ava’s name popped up, her message in all caps: “CHECK TMZ NOW.”

You rubbed your eyes and mumbled, “What?” It was too early for any kind of drama, but Ava rarely texted in all caps unless it was something urgent—or, more likely, celebrity gossip. Your curiosity finally nudged you to open your browser and type in the site’s name.

The headline on TMZ’s homepage made your stomach drop:

“DREW STARKEY SPOTTED WITH MYSTERIOUS WOMAN”

Your breath hitched as you clicked on the article. There it was: a grainy photo of Drew and you, blurry but unmistakably you. Your heart pounded in your chest. The mask you’d been wearing at the bar covered most of your face, and the dim lighting made it difficult to make out any details. But the white tank top, courtesy of Ava’s insistent styling, was unmistakable.

The article buzzed with speculation.

“Who’s the masked woman spotted with Drew Starkey last night? The Outer Banks star was seen leaving an intimate LA hotspot with an unidentified companion. Sources say the two appeared comfortable and spent several hours together inside the bar. Could this be Drew’s latest flame? Or just a casual night out? Our team are on the case!”

Your stomach churned. You scrolled through the comments section.

“Another mysterious nobody who’ll ghost him in two weeks, I bet.”

“Imagine being her. I’d die to just breathe the same air as Drew Starkey.”

“The way she’s covering her face... suspicious much?”

“She’s definitely hiding something. Maybe she’s married?”

A few deep breaths later, you set your phone down, but the sense of dread didn’t leave. Before you could even collect your thoughts, Ava burst into your room, her messy hair looking like a halo of chaos.

“Y/N!” she squeaked, waving her phone around frantically. “You’re famous.”

You groaned, falling back onto the futon. “No, I’m not. No one even knows it’s me.”

“They will,” Ava said with way too much enthusiasm. “TMZ doesn’t just let this go. They’ll start connecting the dots—who was at the premiere, who’s wearing that outfit in public, and eventually, they’ll figure it out. It’s only a matter of time.”

You ran your hands through your hair. “I’m never wearing that outfit again.”

Ava ignored you, pacing back and forth. “Look, we have two options. One: deny everything, keep your head down, and hope the internet finds someone else to obsess over. Or two: lean into it. You’re the enigmatic mystery woman. Milk it for all it’s worth.”

You shot her a flat look. “Option two isn’t happening.”

“Fine, fine,” Ava said with a dramatic sigh, flopping onto the futon next to you. “But come on! You have to admit, it’s kind of cool. You’re the first non-celebrity girl to pop up in Drew Starkey’s dating rumors without getting immediately torn apart. That means something.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, rubbing your temples, “it means I have to be extra careful. I don’t want my life blasted all over the internet.”

“Don’t worry,” Ava reassured you, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. And honestly? If Drew’s as decent as he seemed, he won’t let this get weird.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Later that afternoon, as you sat in the corner of your room, your phone buzzed again. This time, the name on the screen made your heart skip: Drew.

Drew: “Hey, you good? Saw the TMZ thing. Sorry if this is overwhelming. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

You stared at his message for a moment, a mix of relief and panic flooding you. You could feel the weight of the situation pressing down. Part of you wanted to brush it off, pretend it wasn’t a big deal. But another part of you—the one that was still a little overwhelmed by the chaos—was grateful for his words of concern.

You: “I’m fine. Just... not used to this. Do you deal with this kind of thing a lot?”

Drew: “More than I’d like, yeah. But it usually blows over fast. People move on to the next headline. If you need me to talk to PR or anything, I can.”

You winced at the thought of involving PR—public statements, press releases—it all felt too formal, too... invasive.

You: “I don’t think it’s necessary. As long as they don’t figure out it’s me, I’ll survive.”

There was a pause before Drew’s response came through.

Drew: “If it helps, you’re handling this way better than I did the first time TMZ came for me. If you need to vent or just want a distraction, hit me up.”

His offer to just talk made you smile. You weren’t entirely sure what to say back, so you typed a quick reply, thanking him for the message, and then set your phone down.

As the day wore on, things quieted down. TMZ didn’t update the story, and the internet’s attention began to shift. Without a clear shot of your face or any definitive details about your identity, people started to lose interest. But that didn’t mean it was over for you. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The day crawled forward, each passing hour a mix of relief and unease. It seemed TMZ's interest in Drew’s “mystery woman” had dwindled without a fresh lead to stoke the flames. By early evening, the frenzy online was noticeably quieter.

Still, the tension in the air lingered, like a storm that had passed but left the skies unsettled.

Ava had mercifully stopped treating the situation like a red-carpet event. She sat cross-legged on the living room floor, scrolling aimlessly through her phone while munching on a bag of popcorn. You paced nearby, trying to shake off the knot of nerves in your stomach.

Then your phone buzzed. It was Drew again.

Drew: “Can I come over for a bit? Just got done with a photoshoot and paparazzi are everywhere outside my place, and I need to lay low for a while.”

Your heart leapt at the thought of him showing up at your apartment—your quiet, nondescript little corner of the city suddenly becoming a refuge for Drew Starkey. You glanced at Ava, who raised an eyebrow as she noticed your sudden stillness.

You: “Yeah, sure. How are you going to get here without being seen?”

Drew: “I’ll figure it out. I know a back way in. Just text me your address.”

You hesitated for a moment, then sent the details. It wasn’t long before he replied.

Drew: “Be there in 15. Thanks, by the way.”

The next 15 minutes passed in a blur. You hurriedly cleared the living room of any clutter, your nerves bubbling into a chaotic energy. Ava, meanwhile, perched on the couch with a dazed grin, clearly trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

When the soft knock finally came at the door, your pulse quickened. Ava bolted upright, her excitement palpable. “This is it,” she whispered, clutching the couch cushion like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

You opened the door, and there he was—Drew, in a plain hoodie and baseball cap, looking like any regular guy. He offered a small smile, his eyes scanning the hallway before stepping inside.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Thanks for this.”

“No problem,” you replied, closing the door behind him. “Figured you could use some peace.”

Ava, standing awkwardly by the couch, let out a shaky laugh. “Hi. Um. Wow. Hi.”

Drew chuckled, clearly used to this reaction but handling it with grace. “Hey. You must be Ava.”

She nodded rapidly, then promptly sat back down, her face bright red. Drew turned to you, his smile warm but tired. “I hope I’m not imposing.”

“Not at all,” you said, motioning for him to sit. “Make yourself at home.”

As he settled onto the couch, Ava finally seemed to snap out of her starstruck trance—at least a little. “Do you need anything? Water? Snacks? I have... popcorn?” she offered, holding up the bag as if it were a peace offering.

Drew smiled. “Popcorn sounds great, actually.”

Ava handed over the bag, then promptly excused herself to the kitchen under the guise of making tea, though you suspected she just needed a moment to compose herself. That left you and Drew alone in the living room.

“So,” he said, leaning back slightly. “How’s your day been? Any more chaos?”

You laughed softly. “Thankfully, no. The internet seems to be moving on. I think we’re in the clear.”

“That’s good,” he said, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. “I feel bad for dragging you into this.”

“It’s not your fault,” you said, sitting down on the armchair across from him. “It’s not like you invited TMZ to follow you.”

He gave a wry smile. “Still, I appreciate you being so cool about it. Most people would be freaking out.”

“I think Ava freaked out enough for both of us,” you joked, glancing toward the kitchen. Drew laughed, the sound light and genuine, and you couldn’t help but feel the tension in the room ease.

Over the next hour, the conversation flowed surprisingly easily. Drew talked about his hectic schedule, his favorite low-key spots in LA, and a few funny on-set stories that had you laughing until your sides hurt. Ava eventually returned, having calmed down enough to join in without squealing every time Drew spoke.

As the evening wore on, the initial awkwardness faded entirely. Drew’s presence felt natural—like he belonged there, sitting on your couch, sharing popcorn and swapping stories. It was almost too easy to forget who he was, how absurd this situation really was.

At one point, Ava let out a dramatic yawn and stretched. “I’m gonna call it a night,” she said, giving you a not-so-subtle wink before retreating to her room.

That left you and Drew alone again, the apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside. He leaned back against the couch, his gaze soft as he looked at you.

“Thanks again for letting me crash here,” he said. “I really needed a break from... all of it.”

You smiled. “Anytime. Seriously. It’s nice having company.”

He held your gaze for a moment, and you felt a flutter of something unspoken pass between you. Then he grinned, breaking the moment. “Well, if TMZ ever finds out about this, at least I’ll have a great story to tell.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The evening stretched on, a slow dance of easy conversation and laughter. It felt surreal—Drew Starkey, the star of Outer Banks and Queer, sitting in your living room, eating popcorn and talking about his favorite movies like any regular person. But the longer he stayed, the more normal everything felt. He wasn’t a celebrity in this space. He was just Drew, the guy sitting across from you, making you laugh and sharing little bits of his world.

Ava had retreated to her room after her not-so-subtle hint about bedtime, leaving you and Drew alone in the living room. You didn’t mind—it gave you the space to talk without interruptions, to get to know each other a little more.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Drew said after a pause, setting the popcorn down on the coffee table and shifting slightly on the couch. “What do you do when you’re not dealing with... all of this?”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little at the way he gestured vaguely around the room “Nothing nearly as exciting as your life, that’s for sure.”

He smiled, his eyes softening. “I’m sure that’s not true, although it’s definitely a different world, being in the spotlight like this.” He paused for a moment, his tone thoughtful. “I think people forget that celebrities are just people, you know?”

“I think people forget that about anyone, really,” you said with a shrug. “Everyone’s got their own thing going on. Whether you’re famous or not, it’s all the same. We all have our struggles, our ups and downs.”

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, nodding. “I think that’s what I miss most sometimes. Just... being able to go out without feeling like everyone’s watching, analyzing your every move.”

You looked at him, the weight of his words sinking in. You hadn’t really considered how strange it must be to live under that kind of constant scrutiny. You found yourself wanting to offer him something more than just sympathy. “You don’t have to be ‘Drew Starkey’ tonight,” you said gently. “You’re just... Drew. And I’m just me. No TMZ, no cameras, no headlines.”

His smile returned, a little softer this time. “I like that. I really like that.”

The conversation drifted effortlessly from one topic to another. You talked about favorite childhood memories, your go-to comfort foods, and the last book you’d both read. He listened with an openness that made you feel like you could share just about anything, and the more you spoke, the more at ease you became.

Drew revealed little snippets about his life that were both surprising and comforting. Like how he had a weird obsession with vintage comic books or how, despite being a well-known actor, he still had the same group of friends he’d had since high school. You learned he was surprisingly humble, almost self-deprecating at times, and he had this way of laughing at himself that made him even more relatable.

“You ever go to concerts?” you asked after a moment, trying to steer the conversation toward something lighter.

He grinned, his eyes lighting up. “Oh, I love concerts. I try to hit up a few whenever I can. Nothing like live music, right?”

“Right,” you agreed, smiling back. “There’s just something about the energy in the air. It’s like everyone’s in the same vibe.”

“I’m a sucker for the energy,” Drew said with a nod. “What’s your favorite genre? Or are you more of a ‘whatever’s on’ type?”

“Definitely more of a whatever’s on type,” you said, laughing. “I like a little bit of everything. But I do have a soft spot for indie rock. You?”

“Indie rock, too,” he said without hesitation. “I swear, I could spend hours listening to bands you’ve never heard of and not even care.”

“That’s the best part, though. The discovery,” you said. “I love finding those hidden gems. The stuff that feels like it’s just yours.”

“I totally get that,” Drew agreed, and there was something about the way he said it—like he really meant it—that made you smile. It was nice, sharing something like that with someone, especially someone you’d barely known just a few hours ago.

As the night wore on, the conversation became less about anything significant and more about just... being. The silence that fell between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that happens when you’re with someone you trust, someone you don’t feel the need to fill every moment with words.

You glanced over at the clock on the wall and realized it was past midnight. You yawned, your body starting to feel the effects of the long, unexpected day.

“I think I’m about ready for bed,” you said, stretching a little.

Drew chuckled. “Yeah, me too. It’s been a long day.”

“Thanks for hanging out,” you added, not sure if it sounded too casual, but it felt right. “It’s been nice—just, you know, talking and not worrying about anything.”

Drew smiled, his expression sincere. “Yeah, it’s been nice. Really nice. I’m glad I could... hide out here for a while.”

You grinned. “Anytime.”

He stood up from the couch, stretching his legs. “Well, I guess I should let you get some rest. You’ve probably had enough of me by now.”

“Not at all,” you said, standing as well. “But I think I’m gonna crash before I regret it.”

“Fair enough,” Drew said, his voice warm. “Sleep well, Y/N.”

“You too, Drew. And thanks, again,” you said quietly.

With a final smile, Drew grabbed his hoodie and headed toward the door, turning back for one last glance.

“Goodnight,” he said, before stepping out into the night, leaving you standing there, a feeling of warmth spreading through you.

As you made your way back to your room, you realized just how much you’d enjoyed the unexpected company, the quiet conversation, the sense of connection with someone who, for a few hours, was just like you. No drama, no paparazzi—just two people talking about life.

You crawled into bed, your thoughts swirling with everything that had happened, the night’s laughter still echoing softly in your mind. And for the first time that day, you felt... peaceful.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The next morning, you woke up to a quiet, almost peaceful stillness. The events of the previous day felt like a dream—Drew in your living room, hanging out like any other person, sharing stories and laughter. The time spent with him had left you feeling light, surprisingly at ease considering everything that had happened. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d spent an entire night without feeling the weight of your worries, the world of social media, or the endless noise in your head.

You sat up, stretching, and reached for your phone. The screen lit up with a message from Drew.

Drew: "Hey, hope you slept well. I know we just met, but I was wondering if you’d be up for an adventure today. I’ve got a couple days left in LA before work picks back up, and I could use a break from the usual."

Your heart skipped a beat. An adventure? Just the two of you? The idea was tempting, and, honestly, you hadn’t expected him to reach out so soon after everything that had happened. But there was something about his message that felt... genuine. Like he just wanted to spend time with you, not because of the headlines or the drama, but because you’d connected.

You chewed on your lip for a moment, debating the logistics. It was sudden, but at the same time, it felt like a chance to break away from the chaos, to have a normal, carefree day. Maybe that’s exactly what you needed.

You typed back quickly, the excitement creeping in.

You: "I’m in. What do you have in mind?"

A few minutes later, his reply came through, and you couldn’t help but grin.

Drew: "Perfect. How about we start with a hike? I’ve heard this great spot in the hills with a killer view of the city. We can grab breakfast after and see where the day takes us. No paparazzi, no drama—just a chance to be outside for a bit."

You could almost hear his grin through the text, and you found yourself feeling a little giddy. It had been forever since you’d just wandered, no plans, no expectations.

You: "That sounds perfect. What time do you want to meet?"

Drew: "How about 9? Gives us a little time to get our bearings, but still plenty of daylight. I’ll pick you up at your place."

You: "Deal. I’ll be ready."

The exchange left you buzzing with excitement. There was something about this—a spontaneous day with Drew, exploring LA without the pressure of anything. Just... living in the moment.

You quickly jumped out of bed, got dressed, and packed a small bag with the essentials: water, sunscreen, a hat—anything that would make the day more enjoyable. As you glanced in the mirror, you couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious. It was one thing to hang out with Drew at your place, but hiking? A day out in the open? You weren’t sure what to expect, but you figured you’d roll with it.

A few hours later, the knock on your door jolted you from your thoughts. You opened it to find Drew standing there, dressed casually in a t-shirt, athletic shorts, and sneakers, his hair slightly windblown as if he’d already been out for a little while. He was holding a water bottle in one hand, a wide, genuine smile on his face.

“You ready for this?” he asked, his eyes glinting with the same excitement you felt bubbling inside.

You grinned back, nodding. “I think so. Lead the way.”

He chuckled and gestured for you to follow him down to the car, where the day’s adventure would begin.

The drive was surprisingly calm, with Drew playing some laid-back tunes and chatting about random things—his love of LA's hidden gems, how he’d gotten into hiking recently, and how crazy it was that he was actually getting a few days to relax between filming schedules. You felt yourself easing into the rhythm of the day, his presence comfortable, easy.

As you reached the trailhead, you couldn’t help but stare at the sprawling view of the city below, the sprawling landscape unfolding in front of you like something out of a postcard. The hills were quiet, a peaceful escape from the noise of LA.

Drew turned to you with a playful grin. “Ready to get your steps in?”

You raised an eyebrow, matching his grin. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

And so, the two of you set off, the trail winding upward through trees and rocky paths, the air crisp with morning freshness. The conversation flowed easily between you both, sometimes serious, sometimes silly. You talked about your favorite movies, shared memories of childhood adventures, and joked about the ridiculousness of modern-day life, social media, and the constant pressure to perform.

The higher you climbed, the more the city seemed to disappear, swallowed by the dense trees and distant mountains. You took breaks along the way, sitting on rocks and chatting, letting the quiet calm of nature seep into your bones. There was something so refreshing about being away from it all, away from the spotlight and the noise, and just sharing these small, human moments.

After a few hours, you finally reached the summit. The view was nothing short of breathtaking. You could see the entire city sprawled out below you, the glittering skyline on one side, the ocean stretching off into the horizon on the other. Drew sat down on a large rock, motioning for you to join him.

You settled next to him, the moment stretching out peacefully between you. Drew glanced over at you, his gaze soft and contemplative.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he teased lightly.

You shrugged, letting the view speak for itself. “It’s just... a nice change of pace. Everything feels so loud sometimes, especially in LA, you know? But up here, it’s just... quiet.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Drew said, his voice quieter now, a touch more serious. “It’s nice to get away from everything, even if it’s just for a few hours. No expectations, no noise. Just... living.”

You smiled, your heart feeling lighter than it had in days. It felt like this was exactly what you needed—a simple day of adventure, of discovering new places and enjoying the company of someone who wasn’t focused on all the distractions of the world.

After a long while, you both stood up and started the trek back down the trail, still laughing and joking, your connection growing deeper with every passing moment.

When you reached the car, Drew turned to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, breakfast time?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve never earned a meal so much in my life.”

“Great,” Drew said with a wink. “Let’s go get some pancakes.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The drive to the diner was easy, the calm of the road soothing your nerves. Drew didn’t put on any music this time, letting the hum of the tires on the pavement fill the air as you both enjoyed the simple comfort of the drive. It felt grounding to be out of the whirlwind, just the two of you cruising through LA, away from everything else. No flashing lights, no rumors. Just a quiet moment.

When you arrived at the diner, it was an unassuming little place on a corner, a slice of nostalgia with its neon sign flickering invitingly. The retro décor inside felt like stepping into another time, and you immediately felt at ease in the warm, cozy atmosphere. Drew led the way, holding the door open for you with a smile that made everything feel effortless.

“Welcome to the best pancake spot in LA,” he said with a grin. “Trust me, they know what they’re doing here.”

You smiled, following him inside, and the waitress greeted you both with a friendly nod before leading you to a booth by the window. It wasn’t crowded, and the faint murmur of conversations filled the background as you both settled into your seats. It was the kind of place where you could be left alone to enjoy your meal, and the thought of it made you feel even more relaxed.

The waitress handed you both menus, and Drew glanced at his for a moment before looking up at you. “So, you’ve been in LA for what, a couple of days now?” he asked, his eyes bright with curiosity. “How’s it been? Adjusting from your small town?”

You hesitated for just a moment, taking in his question. It felt strange to admit just how big the change had been. In your small hometown, everything was familiar, comfortable, but LA was… overwhelming, in a good way, mostly. You had come here for something new, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a challenge.

“It’s been… different,” you said, shrugging slightly. “I mean, I grew up in a town where everyone knew everyone. You can’t walk into a store without running into half the people you know. LA’s kind of the opposite—huge, anonymous. It’s been nice, but also a little isolating. That’s why I’ve been trying to make sure I don’t get stuck in my own head too much. I’ve been trying to actually explore, you know? Get out and see the city.”

Drew nodded, his gaze steady, like he was really listening. “Yeah, I get that. LA can swallow you up if you let it. But it’s all about finding your rhythm. I think that’s why I love getting out of the city sometimes, doing stuff that reminds me what life’s like beyond the buzz.”

You smiled, feeling like you could connect with that more than you expected. “Exactly. It’s easy to forget there’s more to life than all this. I’m still figuring out how to balance it all.”

“That’s the thing with LA,” Drew said with a half-smile. “Everyone thinks you’re supposed to be constantly on the go, constantly working. But sometimes the best days are the ones where you’re just… present.”

His words made you pause, and you felt like the weight of the conversation wasn’t just passing by—it was something real. For someone who had so much of the world watching him, Drew seemed to get it, more than you expected. He was speaking to something you’d been trying to figure out since you’d gotten here: what life could look like outside the noise.

Before you could respond, the waitress returned, and you both ordered your meals, Drew sticking with his usual blueberry pancakes and you opting for a classic stack of buttermilks with a side of crispy bacon. The conversation drifted for a moment into lighter territory—favorite foods, places to visit in LA—but you felt the undercurrent of a real connection building between you.

As the waitress set down your pancakes, the sun had already climbed higher in the sky. You dug in, savoring the warmth and comfort of the food. It wasn’t just the pancakes you were enjoying—it was the feeling of normalcy, the feeling of being with someone who made you forget all the distractions.

“So,” Drew said between bites, “I remember you telling me that you came out here for a change. What was it like before? Your small town, I mean.”

You glanced at him, taken a little off guard by the question. You hadn’t really talked about your past in detail, and you weren’t sure how much to share. But Drew seemed genuinely curious, and something about the way he asked made it easier to open up.

“It was a lot quieter,” you said, your voice soft as you thought about your hometown. “A lot of people stick to the same routine, year after year. It wasn’t bad, but I knew it wasn’t the life I wanted. I needed something… bigger, I guess. Something where I could challenge myself. I didn’t want to wake up in ten years and feel like I hadn’t tried.”

Drew’s eyes softened with understanding. “Yeah. I get that. LA’s definitely a place that pushes you out of your comfort zone. I think that’s what I like about it, too—if you’re brave enough, it’ll make you grow.”

You nodded, feeling the truth of his words sink in. “I guess I’m just figuring out what that looks like.”

“I think that’s the beauty of it,” Drew said. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. The point is just… living it, you know?”

His words hit home in a way you hadn’t expected. Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice or the ease with which he spoke, but you felt like you were hearing something important. Maybe it wasn’t about having everything lined up or planned out. Maybe it was more about being open to the journey.

You smiled, realizing that being here, right now, with Drew, was a part of that journey.

After finishing your pancakes, Drew leaned back in his booth, looking satisfied. “So, what’s next? I know you’ve probably seen all the tourist stuff by now, but I’m thinking we hit some places that aren’t on the usual list. You up for an adventure?”

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought. You had only just started getting to know LA, and the idea of seeing it through someone else’s eyes—someone who had lived here long enough to know the best hidden gems—sounded perfect.

“Adventure sounds great,” you said with a grin. “What do you have in mind?”

Drew grinned back, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “You’ll see. Let’s go.”

And just like that, you were back on the road, ready for whatever Drew had planned. You didn’t know what the day would hold, but you were more than ready to find out. The city, with all its chaos and beauty, didn’t feel so overwhelming anymore. Not when you had someone by your side who understood what it meant to be in search of something more.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

As you and Drew cruised through the winding streets toward the beach, the excitement you felt earlier in the day had started to shift. There was a sense of unease building in the pit of your stomach, and you couldn’t put your finger on why. You’d spent the morning laughing, talking about your favorite places in the city, and getting to know each other more. But as the car neared the coast, something began to feel off.

Drew was in high spirits, excited about showing you something he loved. But just as you started to relax again, you noticed something—you hadn’t seen a single paparazzi yet. For a moment, you told yourself it was just coincidence. LA wasn’t that small, right?

Then, the first click of a camera caught your ear.

You froze, eyes darting toward the rearview mirror. Drew, blissfully unaware, was focused on the road, humming lightly to the music. But you could see them now—two cars trailing a little too closely. Paparazzi.

Your stomach dropped, and before you could say anything, Drew swore under his breath, his expression darkening.

“Shit,” he muttered, hands tightening on the wheel. “Of course, they found us.”

You started to speak, but Drew was already acting. He began weaving through traffic, trying to shake them off, but the paparazzi followed relentlessly. You felt yourself growing more anxious with each passing second, the buzz of the chase creeping into your nerves.

“This is ridiculous,” you said, glancing over at him, trying to make light of the situation. “We were just going to the beach.”

Drew’s eyes flickered toward you, but it wasn’t the same relaxed, playful Drew from earlier. He looked frustrated, panicked almost. “Yeah, well, this is what happens when you’re seen with someone like me.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. You blinked, processing. “What do you mean, someone like you?”

Drew shook his head, his jaw tight. “I mean, me—a celebrity. People want to know every little thing about me. And now I have to deal with it because I invited you along. People are going to start thinking you're just another hanger-on, someone who wants to use me for the attention.”

His voice wasn’t cruel, but the implication stung all the same. It felt like he’d just dismissed everything about you—everything you were. As if your presence wasn’t your own choice but something tied to his fame, and he didn’t even see how that could hurt. You could feel the heat rise in your chest, the hurt twisting in your gut.

You opened your mouth to respond but stopped yourself. What could you say? You weren’t sure if you were hurt more by the words themselves or by the way they seemed to come so naturally to him. It felt like you were an accessory to his life, just something he had to keep in line to avoid drama. And yet, you hadn’t asked for any of this.

Before you could process it any further, Drew pulled into an alley near a side street, his car screeching to a halt as he scrambled to hide. He turned to you quickly, his eyes frantic. “Put this on.” He reached into the back seat and threw a dark hoodie at you.

“What’s this?” you asked, holding it up.

“A disguise,” he said, voice clipped. “Just do it, okay? I need you to look like someone else right now.”

You stared at the hoodie in your hands, a sinking feeling growing inside you. He was treating this like a game, like you were just a prop to be hidden away. You didn’t have time to argue, though—he was already turning the car around, trying to make his escape.

Your fingers fumbled with the hoodie as you quickly pulled it over your head, the oversized fabric swallowing you. Your mind was spinning, and you couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at you. The way he’d talked to you, the way he was treating you—it felt like he was just seeing you as a part of his world, not you. And that hurt more than anything else.

“We can switch cars with Ava.” You offered. Within minutes, you were back at Ava’s apartment, and Drew was practically dragging you inside, his eyes scanning the street as if expecting a mob to pop up at any moment. He rushed you into the apartment, clearly panicked, and you could tell his nerves were getting the better of him.

“We need to go. We can’t stay here,” he said urgently, tossing a bag into the back of Ava’s almost-broken-down car. He had barely taken a second to notice the difference in the car’s condition before he threw the keys into your hands.

You didn’t protest—this was his world, after all. You just followed him, your stomach twisting, feeling more like an afterthought in his plans. The more you saw of this side of Drew, the more you realized that it wasn’t just the paparazzi that were a problem—it was the way he expected you to just fit into it, without a word.

The car started, and Drew floored it as he raced toward the mountains, hoping to escape the frenzy for a while. The roads became more winding, the city skyline fading behind you. But the paparazzi didn’t give up so easily, and just when you thought you were free, you saw the familiar outline of the cars in the rearview mirror.

You sighed. “They’re still following us.”

Drew’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath. “They can’t leave us alone for five minutes.”

In an effort to lose them, Drew took a sharp turn onto a stray road, one that seemed to go deeper into the mountains. The road grew narrower, the trees thicker, but the paparazzi stayed right behind. You felt your patience wearing thin, and as the car started to slow, Drew cursed again.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” you said dryly, looking out the window at the dense trees that surrounded you.

“I’m just trying to shake them,” Drew replied, trying to hide the frustration in his voice, but you could hear it clearly.

A moment later, the car sputtered and came to a stop.

Drew swore again, banging his hands on the steering wheel. “Shit! We’re stuck.”

You groaned, leaning back in your seat, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “Are you kidding me? We’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, and we’re lost?”

“I didn’t plan this,” Drew snapped. “You think I wanted this?”

“Obviously you didn’t think this through,” you retorted, your voice rising in frustration. “We’re out here because you couldn’t accept that people are following you. You forced me into a disguise, dragged me out of the city, and now we’re stuck in the mud!”

Drew turned to you, his face hard. “You think I wanted any of this? I didn’t ask for this either, you know. I didn’t ask to be followed around by paparazzi all the time. I didn’t ask for people like you to get involved in my life.”

The words stung, and for a moment, you felt something inside snap. “You don’t get it,” you said, voice trembling with emotion. “I didn’t ask for any of this either. I came to LA for a fresh start, to get away from all of that. But now I’m just here, stuck with you in the middle of nowhere, pretending to be someone I’m not, and for what?”

Drew’s face softened, but the damage was already done. You couldn’t look at him anymore. The silence between you both was deafening as you sat in the car, the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

You weren’t sure what you were more upset about—the situation itself, or the way Drew had made you feel so small.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The car sat idling in the middle of nowhere, its engine sputtering one last time before dying with a sad cough. You stared at the dense forest surrounding you, the humid air creeping into the small confines of Ava’s beat-up car. Drew banged his fists lightly on the steering wheel and groaned, muttering something under his breath.

“I can’t believe this,” you muttered, unbuckling your seatbelt. “We’re literally stuck in the middle of nowhere because you—”

“Because me?” Drew interrupted, incredulous, turning toward you with wide eyes. “Let’s not forget, the only reason we’re here is because I’m trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” you shot back, your voice rising. “You mean forcing me into a disguise, dragging me into some wild goose chase to avoid a couple of cameras, and now stranding me in the wilderness counts as protection?”

“You think I enjoy this?” Drew countered, gesturing wildly at the forest. “You think I wanted to get stuck in mud, in a car that sounds like it might explode at any moment?”

“Don’t you dare blame Ava’s car!” you snapped, your voice almost a growl. “It’s a miracle this thing even runs, and honestly, I’d trust it over you right now!”

Drew opened his mouth, then shut it, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “We should be working together, not blaming each other.”

“Oh, now you want teamwork?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. “You mean after you implied I’m some leech who can’t handle your celebrity life?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Drew said quickly, his tone defensive. “I was frustrated, okay? You don’t know what it’s like having your every move watched.”

“I didn’t ask for this!” you yelled, finally stepping out of the car. The humid air hit you, but you didn’t care. You needed to move. “You dragged me into this! I just wanted a nice day out, and instead, I’m in the middle of nowhere, wearing your hoodie, and wondering if I’m about to be eaten by a bear.”

Drew stepped out of the car too, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay, first of all, there are no bears here—probably. Second, I was just trying to make the day fun.”

“Oh, yeah, super fun,” you shot back sarcastically, pacing in front of him. “Getting chased by paparazzi, being forced into a hoodie that smells like Axe body spray—real thrilling.”

Drew blinked. “Axe body spray? That’s Tom Ford.”

“Whatever,” you said, throwing your hands up. “It all smells the same when you’re stressed out and stuck in the mud!”

Drew sighed, leaning against the car, his head tilted back. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think it would get this bad.”

“You didn’t think at all!” you snapped, poking a finger at his chest. “And now we’re stranded, because apparently, your grand plan to escape paparazzi is to drive until the Earth swallows us whole.”

“Hey!” Drew said, his tone turning defensive again. “I was improvising. I didn’t see you coming up with any ideas!”

“Because I didn’t sign up to be part of your personal action movie!” you shot back.

There was a beat of silence before Drew’s lips quirked upward, the tiniest hint of a smirk forming.

“What?” you demanded, narrowing your eyes at him.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” Drew continued, leaning slightly closer, “the way you’re all fiery and passionate right now—it’s kind of hot.”

You gaped at him, utterly speechless. “Are you—are you seriously trying to flirt your way out of this argument?”

“Depends,” he said, his smirk growing. “Is it working?”

You let out a sharp laugh, more out of disbelief than humor. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably charming?” he quipped, raising an eyebrow.

“Unbelievably infuriating,” you corrected, throwing your hands up. “I’m out of here.”

You turned on your heel and started walking toward the road, your footsteps crunching against the gravel. Drew scrambled after you.

“Wait! You can’t just storm off into the wilderness!” he called.

“Watch me,” you shot back, not breaking stride.

“Y/N,” Drew said, his voice dropping into a softer, coaxing tone. “Come on. You don’t want to leave me here all alone, do you?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, turning around to glare at him. “I’m sure you can charm the forest animals into helping you out.”

Drew stopped in his tracks, his mouth opening and closing like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he sighed and threw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. You win. I screwed up.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Go on.”

“I’ll admit,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I didn’t think this through. I was trying to be... I don’t know, spontaneous? Adventurous?”

“Well, congratulations,” you said dryly. “You’ve succeeded in creating the most chaotic adventure of all time.”

Drew chuckled softly, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of guilt. “I’ll fix it. I promise. Just... don’t walk away, okay?”

You sighed, the fight draining out of you as his expression softened. “Fine,” you said reluctantly. “But if we get eaten by a bear, I’m haunting you.”

“Deal,” Drew said, grinning. And despite everything, you found yourself smiling back—just a little.

© 2025 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[thebarontheabyss]

As I mentioned before, I am completely spiraling with the 2.5 update—adding more content, rewriting everything, and questioning my life choices.

But! I finally have a clear vision for Spirit Gifts and have already begun overhauling the story using their mechanics.

So, instead of being glorified “skill check” free passes, Spirit Gifts now function much like the grief paths, offering unique ways to experience the game.

So what does that mean? Let’s reintroduce them:

Navia’s Earring

Replaces Pythia’s Bracelet from the previous iteration, whispering thoughts and secrets directly into your mind. Let’s be honest—this was the best gift by far, so I’m keeping it mostly unchanged, except now it’s available for non-insight MCs too!

Everyone deserves intrusive whispers.

Voidcutter

This blue-flamed sword replaces the Sword of Damocles and is perfect if you want your MC to be a spirit-killing machine.

Now available for non-physical MCs as well!

Lens of Daezur

A pair of leather goggles containing the fractured knowledge of history, realms, and cosmic law.

Your very own personal, slightly haunted encyclopedia!

Mask of Shapeless Visage

An ever-shifting mask that allows the wearer to alter their appearance at will. Even for spirits, this is quite the feat.

Who is your MC today? More importantly—who do they want to be?

Ring of Chronos

A ring infused with the sands of time, granting you the ability to slow time in controlled bursts.

Just enough to react, just enough to change fate—if only for a moment.

The Murmuring Necklace

An eerie chain that allows you to speak to objects—and, more disturbingly, allows them to talk back to you.

Every object holds a story, whether you want to hear it is another question.

[anomalyaly]

Golden

[AO3/Wattpad]

Sebastian had always been told that he loved too much, but he had never expected to be loved as much in return OR A fluffy oneshot of how Sebastian and Elsie spent Valentine's Day together.

Word Count: 1.5k

Tags: SFW, Fluff, established relationship, Sebastian is spiraling but that's nothing new

Sebastian had always been told he loved too much.

When he was three, he grew attached to a wild mooncalf that was frequently spotted near their family home. The impulsive little toddler that he was, he had approached it too quickly in his excitement and spooked it. The mooncalf never returned after that, and he cried and cried, even as his parents tried to reassure him that wild animals are meant to roam free. Anne made fun of him, but Sebastian loved that mooncalf.

When he was five, he hit Anne when she teased him for making her a card out of noodles and parchment. He had tried to show his sister how much he loved her, and it broke his little heart that she had resorted to taunting, tossing his present to the floor, and stomping on it. He felt bad that he made her cry, especially when he saw how much it disappointed his parents and how much it hurt her. He never hit her again.

When he was seven, he didn’t cry when his parents died, not because he didn’t love them, but because he needed to be strong for Anne when they were being uprooted from their family home and moved to their Uncle Solomon’s cottage in Feldcroft. He would do anything for Anne, even if it meant hiding his tears until he was alone, in the quiet and the dark, with nobody around to hear. Solomon would punish him for it, but he couldn’t stop him from loving.

And when she was cursed years later, love was what led him to search the darkest corners of the earth for something, anything that would stop the universe from taking away the person he had sacrificed everything for.

Still, it hadn’t been enough. And his twin had abandoned him anyway, a consequence of his Unforgivable choices.

Just like that mooncalf.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, during his fifth year, a small glimmer of hope entered his life in the form of a Ravenclaw girl with a soft heart and kind eyes. And as time went on, that glimmer almost too suddenly burst into a roaring flame that he had been more than happy to burn from.

Yet she had given him the worst possible answer to his question.

“I’m not a fan of big gestures,” Elsie said as she took a bite of her breakfast. “I’d rather do something simple.”

He had asked her what she wanted to do for Valentine’s Day.

“A trip to Hogsmeade?” He offered. “Or we could fly out to the coast. Or,” Sebastian grinned wryly, “there’s a rather interesting tomb nearby. We could —“

“Sebastian.” She took his hand in both of hers and smiled softly. “I’m content as long as I get to spend it with you. Besides, Valentine’s Day wasn’t a widely celebrated holiday in my family. It was considered vulgar.” She paused. “Hang on — did you say tomb?!”

“Merlin, if I had known that was what would get you going —“

“No!” Sebastian laughed at the blush on her face. “I only meant that I hope you were joking.”

Sebastian shrugged, still smiling mischievously. If taking her to a tomb for an adventure was what she wanted, he would have taken her to five hundred tombs.

It was clear that wasn’t how Elsie wanted to spend Valentine’s Day by the look she was giving him.

“How do Muggles back at your home celebrate anyway?” he asked.

She scoffed and rolled a potato on her plate with her fork. “They send extravagant love letters with decoupage.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Old bits of postcards and paper glued together?” She chomped down on the potato slice. “It sounds innocent until someone sends cuttings of their undergarments. Or worse, if one receives a Vinegar Valentine.”

Before Sebastian could even wonder what that was, she said, “A hate letter.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I can assure you that I won’t be sending you a hate letter or my undergarments.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Unless—“

“No.” She sighed, and he tried to hold back another laugh. “Simple Valentine’s Day, please. If we have to celebrate, that’s all I ask.”

That had been days ago, and he still hadn’t understood what she had meant by ‘simple.’ The boy who loved too much didn’t know anything besides large, over-dramatic gestures of affection. It wasn’t possible for him to give anything less than…everything.

Sebastian, it’s too much.

You’ve gone too far.

You need to stop.

Hours upon hours of circling, pacing Elsie’s Room of Requirement, meditating on the words spoken to him so many times before in his life by the people he cared about. He had finally settled on setting up a picnic in her favorite Vivarium, the permanent autumn leaves the perfect backdrop for a romantic evening with no one else but the two of them.

Would she hate him for it? Criticize his extravagance? He had spent a pretty galleon on the bouquet of roses. And she didn’t even particularly care for plants. Maybe, like Anne all those years ago, she would laugh in his face and toss his present at his feet, insisting that it was all too much and refuse to speak to him again, too embarrassed by how much he loved her.

He loved her.

If only love didn’t make him hurt so much.

He wondered if she felt the same way when she told him she loved him. If she experienced that same aching pain as he did in the depths of his heart, suffocatingly strong that it kept him up at night, struggling to breathe when he was away from her. He had always felt too strongly, but this…

The noises in his head grew to an agonizing clamor, the roaring that he could never seem to silence when he was alone, voices that would remind him that he was a murderer, that he was unlovable, irredeemable —

“Sebastian?”

And then, it all went quiet.

Elsie stalked up the hill in her Vivarium toward him. “I saw you from the entrance. You left me this note— “ She gasped. “What…what’s all this?”

Sebastian shifted from side to side, suddenly forgetting what he was supposed to be doing with his hands. He gestured to the picnic spread behind him. “I…w-well, you said you wanted simple.”

“Did…” She blinked at him, still not moving from her spot. “Did you do all of this?”

She hates it.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut, pushing back the headache that was starting to bloom between them. “I’m sorry, Elsie. I don’t know how to do simple. I know it’s too much, but I don’t know how to show you I care any other way, and I go too far every time, and I—“

“Stop.” He hadn’t realized she was standing right in front of him until she pulled his hands away from his face and cupped his cheek. “It’s perfect.”

“You —“ He gaped. “You like it?”

She giggled and stroked his hair, and he melted at her touch. “I love it. This is exactly what I wanted.”

“It’s not…too much?”

I’m not too much?

Elsie shook her head, still smiling from ear to ear. “I think the word ‘simple’ was probably a bad choice on my part. Honestly, you could have arranged a coordinated dance performed by Hippogriffs and I would have still appreciated it. It was never about the gesture, really.”

Sebastian smirked. “I could— “

“Maybe not that,” she interrupted before he could get any ideas, “I…I was being selfish. I only meant to ask to have you all to myself today. No Hogsmeade or adventure or big presents and parties, just…you.”

“Well if that’s all you wanted,” he beamed as he watched the blush creep up her cheeks, “you should have just said that.”

Just me. She just wants me.

She laughed, the sound bright and musical, and he wished he could turn back time just long enough to hear it on repeat forever. He pressed a light kiss to her forehead and savored every ounce of happiness radiating from her.

Sebastian used to believe that love was passion, raging, all-consuming. It was a wildfire that devoured everything in its path, taking all that he had to give and begging for more — hot, intense, greedy. But standing here, wrapped in Elsie’s embrace, he realized that he was wrong.

Passionate and intense, yes, but something softer — not fire, burning and taking and destroying, but light, golden and warm, bathing him in its glow and welcoming him home. Sebastian had always been told that he loved too much, but he had never expected to be loved as much in return.

Calm washed over him as he kissed her, his mind finally quieting from the earlier darkness that had been circling his thoughts. And when their lips parted, he refused to stray too far, holding her close to him as he rested his forehead against hers.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Elsie.”

She wrapped her arms around him, her eyes fluttering closed, her face still radiating the joy that he wanted to spend all of eternity enveloped by.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sebastian.”

Not too much. Just enough.

[suguwu]

WRAP YOUR TEETH AROUND THE WORLD I PART ONE

A child of the harvest, your life is forfeit when you're chosen for the Hunt's Rite.

You don't expect the god to take an interest in you instead.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

pairing: gn!reader x millions knives

notes: if you've followed me for a bit, you know that i've been thinking about this concept for a long while. it's such a delight to be able to finally share it. with massive apologies to my beta, who has not read this because i am too impatient.

the title is, of course, from hozier.

content: god of the hunt nai au, reader is specifically a vegetarian, slow burn, human sacrifice, implied murder, predator/prey aspects.

wc: 5.2k

The sun is setting when they come for you.

Light is still pouring golden over the horizon, dripping along the edge of the sky like honey, sweet and thick despite the teeth of the encroaching night. It casts the High Priest’s face into shadow, blurs the edges of her until she is something else, something more. God-touched.

You watch her disappear into the temple, absentmindedly holding the lantern-lighter to the wick. The flame catches quickly, a kiss of light, flaring like a shooting star. The bright flash makes you blink. It makes you refocus on your task. The next lantern is lit just as quickly, and you make your way around the courtyard, until a constellation bathes the courtyard in soft, flickering orange. 

You’re lighting the final wick when you hear your name. It rings out like the toll of a dour bell, deep and sad. Frost spirals down your spine, winter come early. You take a moment to blow out the lantern-lighter before you turn around. 

The High Priest of the Hunt flashes her teeth. The forest lives in the sharpened edges of them, each carefully filed to a knife’s deadly point, smooth and sharp. You shudder.

“Child,” your High Priest says. “You have been chosen for the Hunt’s Rite.”

Your next breath hurts. It shears through you, drags up between your ribs to split you apart, carves its way out of your throat. You choke on it.

“But—” you gasp out. “I’m a child of the harvest.” 

“You are not claimed,” the High Priest of the Hunt says, her voice billowing out like smoke. It fills the cracks in you with char, with something you cannot name. “And you have been chosen.” 

You have no words; they slip away from you like mist rising from the lake’s surface, wispy and intangible. The harvest god does not claim. It is not his way, but you had thought it would be different for you. 

(The man smiles at you, soft and sweet and edged with something like sorrow. “Eat,” he says, holding his hands out, his palms suddenly overflowing with plump fruit. The berries gleam in the dappled sunlight, little multi-colored gems. 

Your stomach aches at the sight. 

“You’re—” you breathe. 

“Eat,” the man—the god—repeats. “It will do you well.”

The berries burst beneath your teeth. They’re salt-kissed, a remnant of his touch. You devour them, ravenous with months of famine settled into your weakened bones, and only taste devotion.)

You had thought it would be different for you, you who had supped from his palms. 

“Please,” you say softly. “Please.”

Your High Priest looks away. His mouth twists, going sour at the edges, and his eyes are glassy in the low light, shining brightly with unshed tears.

The High Priest of the Hunt’s eyes glimmer too and you think of a predator peering out from the depths of the woods, eyes flickering beneath moonlight. 

“It is an honor to be chosen,” she tells you. “The hunt has always provided.” 

You stay quiet. 

She hums low in her throat, the sound like the distant baying of the dogs, and reaches out. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. The pain shatters beneath your skin, a lightning strike sting, and you concentrate on that as she traces her thumb over the apple of your cheek.  Her touch is reverent, skimming over your skin like silk.

“Come,” she breathes. “We must ready you.”

Your High Priest protests, but the sound of his reedy voice is lost under the pulsing thrum of your blood as it echoes through you. It’s loud, like the purr of the pebbles that tumble over themselves each time a wave draws back from the shore. You stumble back a step.

There’s a ribbon woven around your chest, you think, and it’s growing tighter, compressing the bones until they start to creak. You suck in a sharp breath; it burns.

The High Priest of the Hunt studies you. In the lantern light, her features are stark, flickering shadows dancing over her face. She tilts her head and her blonde hair spills over her shoulder like starlight. It illuminates her, a galaxy spread sparkling in the sky, and again, she seems like something more. Something bigger. She flashes her sharpened teeth in a mockery of a smile.

“Come,” she says again. “There is nothing for you here.”

“Elendira,” your High Priest says. “Please.”

Her eyes harden. “The child is ours. The rite must be prepared.”

“They are to be given one night—”

“That is for those with family.”

You cast your eyes to the ground. The guttering flames of the lanterns send undulating patterns over the packed-down dirt of the courtyard; they writhe like snakes. The two High Priests continue to go back and forth, but they sound distant, as if they’re just echoes of themselves.

“Child.”

You look up. Your High Priest gives you a ghost of a smile; there’s a deep sorrow tucked up in the corner of his lips. He takes your hand in his. His fingers are bird-boned, delicate things. They’re trembling.

“You must go,” he says.

“Must I?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yes.” 

You blink back the tears. Just behind him, Elendira watches the two of you, her eyes gleaming in the lantern-light. There’s a triumphant curl to the crimson slant of her mouth, a brutal slash of victory. You squeeze your High Priest’s hand and draw in a ragged breath. 

“I would bring some of my things with me,” you tell them. It will help, you think, to have them with you. 

Elendira scoffs. “There is no need,” she says. “You are in the care of the hunt now. We will provide all that you want.”

“Then the hunt can provide me with my things.”

She eyes you, her lip curling up into a fierce little smile. “You have bite after all,” she says. “The hunt lives in you yet.”

You resist the urge to bare your teeth. “The harvest lives in me.”

She arches a perfect brow. “We shall see.”

Still, she relents. Two of her acolytes silently accompany you to your room at the temple; you pack in a daze, plucking up a few keepsakes, though you’re not sure why. You know the fate you are heading towards. You let your fingers play over the spirals of seaglass that line your dresser, the deep blues and the soft greens misted over by the ocean’s touch, years of gifts from the woodcarver.

You pick up one of the pieces, rubbing your thumb over the rounded edge of it. It’s the gentle blue of a mid-morning sky, of a speckled robin’s egg tucked carefully into the mess of a nest. You bring it to your lips and think that you can still taste salt. 

The acolytes urge you from your room, their hands reverent against you. One of them has callused fingers, a bow’s lingering kiss, and you shrink back from the abrasive feel of them.

Elendira is waiting for you in the temple’s courtyard. She hums, low and resonant, as you approach, eyeing the few things you’ve gathered, but she says nothing. You bite at your lip as you take in your own High Priest beside her; he’s stooped over, heavily slumped, an eroded rock. He can’t meet your eyes.

You look away and into Elendira’s keen gaze. She smiles, a crimson slash that shows off her sharpened teeth, and beckons you close.

“Come here, little one,” she says. 

You follow her command, coming to a halt in front of her. She slips a finger under your chin to make you look her in the eye. Her sharp nail digs into the softness there, just shy of breaking the skin. She examines you again. Her eyes—blue as the nearby lake, glittering like the water beneath the sun—are keen. You set your jaw and meet her gaze.

She laughs. She pushes your chin up higher for a brief breath before she withdraws, her nail dragging against your delicate skin like the tip of a knife. You draw in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t hurt. 

“We leave now,” she says.

“Let me say goodbye.”

She considers you again. “Is that a demand, child?”

“You said the hunt would provide.”

“You’ve already used that once,” she says, but she sounds amused. “This is the last time I’ll allow it.” 

She turns around and strides away before you can reply, her hair rippling behind her, a comet’s blazing trail. One of the acolytes trails behind her; the other remains in the courtyard, stepping back into the shadows cast by the lantern light. 

“Child,” your High Priest says softly. He still can’t look you in the eye. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I know,” you say, and the tears beading crystalline on your lashes finally spill over, running hot down your cheeks. He reaches out and cups your cheek. He hushes you quietly, his thumb running softly beneath your eye, brushing away the falling tears. His own eyes are shimmering. 

“The woodcarver,” you say. “Will you—”

“I will go to her as soon as you’re gone.”

“Thank you.” 

“Is there anything you wish for me to say?”

You shake your head. “She’ll know.”

“As you wish,” he says. 

The acolyte shifts. “It is time,” they say, stepping forward into the light. “Come.” 

Your High Priest’s hand tightens against your cheek before he lets it fall. You miss his warmth; the cool night air erases the ghost of his touch in an instant. “Goodbye, child,” he says softly. 

“Goodbye,” you whisper.

The acolyte steps up beside you and gestures you forward. They lead you to where Elendira lingers in the shadows at the temple’s entrance. She steps forward and raises the hood of your well-worn cloak, her long fingers careful. The smile on her lips is sharp. It sinks down into your marrow, a well-placed knife. You shiver, frost spiraling down your spine. 

The acolyte chivvies you into a carriage. Elendira slips gracefully in across from you, her cloak flowing around her like a gentle river. You turn your gaze outwards, unwilling to face her.

She laughs, the sound billowing out from her like smoke. But she doesn’t try to engage you; you watch the darkened countryside roll by, blurring like a mirage. You mark things familiar to you to try and ground yourself: the half-bent oak, the overgrown path to the long-dried lake, the curl of smoke rising from the temple.

It doesn’t work. You feel wool-headed, as if it’s stuffed between your ears. The world is a watercolor, smearing across your vision in flickers of color. You close your eyes against it, stomach roiling, and concentrate on breathing from your mouth, low and slow. 

You only open them when the carriage creaks to a halt. 

Elendira gives you no commands; she merely flashes her sharpened teeth at you in a mockery of a smile before sliding from the carriage. You have no choice but to follow. 

There are two acolytes waiting for you, their curious eyes tracing over every inch of you. Elendira beckons one of them close.

“Ready them,” she orders. “They need to be prepared for the coming days before the rite.” 

The acolyte bows and ushers you forward. You don’t bother to fight it. You barely look at your surroundings, too focused on each heavy step towards your fate. They guide you through the temple carefully. People bow as you go by; you catch the shadows of them out of the corner of your eyes, each one wispy as they yield to you and the acolytes. A shiver trickles down your spine like icemelt. 

The air changes as you step into another hallway. There’s a dampness to it now, like the humid touch of a midsummer’s afternoon, when there is a promise of a storm in the air. The baths, then, you think. You’ll be scrubbed clean of the remnants of your temple, stripped of the very last of it, the scent of your soap. 

For a moment, you consider running, but there’s no point. Instead, you let them herd you through a door and into the baths.

Once you’re in the steamy room, they strip you of your clothing with reverent fingers. You sink into the bath without a word, barely taking in the magnificent stretch of it, the bath so large it could almost be a pool, lined with tiles as blue as the sky. 

You don’t fight it when they begin to wash you. Their touch is gentle, as sweet as a spring lamb. The soap smells of clover, of the meadows that edge the village, and it’s almost enough to mask the rusty tinge of blood that lingers in the air. The acolytes murmur to you as they bathe you, but their voices are distant, burbling like the river current. 

They rinse you by pouring ladles of cool water over your head. It’s a balm against your heated body; you turn your face into it despite the gasps it brings. The water cradles you like a lover. Their murmurs meld into something songlike, rising and falling like the wind, fluting high and rasping low. Prayer, you think. You don’t bother to listen.

They dry you with towels scented like the forest, like the deep woods, all moss and loam. You do not receive your clothing back; instead, they dress you in fine silks that stick to your skin, that cling to your body like a gossamer spider’s web. You shiver as they sweep against your skin, as cool as a river. 

The bath starts to darken as they blow the candles out. They chivvy you forward, back into the halls. Your cheeks heat as you go, aware that the silk sticks to each inch of you, a second skin, and that all eyes are upon you. The murmurs echo off the walls, rolling across you like waves against the shore. 

The room they bring you to is a lavish one. There are luxurious pelts spread on the large bed, ready to keep the chill air of the encroaching fall at bay. They nudge you through the door. You stumble through it, your foot catching on the draping silk, and catch yourself against an ornate chair.

By the time you turn around, the acolytes are gone, the door scraping closed behind them. The click of the lock rings through the air. You cannot help yourself; you try the door. It does not budge.

The tears start to sting your eyes. You sniffle, willing them back, and make your way to the bed. It’s soft as you sink down upon it. You stare up at the ceiling until it starts to blur, and then you finally close your eyes.

You do not fall asleep for a very long time.

—

Dawn comes too early. 

You’ve barely stirred in the bed when the door opens; an acolyte sweeps in. She’s keen-eyed, almost vulpine, with the sharpened teeth to match. You sit up as she draws near, huddling under one of the pelts. 

“Come,” she says, her voice rolling like summer thunder. “You must eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll find your appetite once there is food in front of you.”

You shake your head.

Her expression doesn’t change, but suddenly, there’s something cold to her, the slow creep of the first frost. “It wasn’t a request,” she says. “Now come.” 

You grit your teeth, your fingers tightening in the thick fur of the pelt you’re under. Then you let go and slide out from under it. 

“Good,” the acolyte says.

She dresses you in silence, brushing your hands away when you try to smooth out the silken clothing they’ve brought you. It’s finely made, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever owned, and it makes your stomach twist.

She takes you through the winding temple halls, your bare feet quiet against the cool stone floors. The other acolytes stare as you go by, just as they did last night, and you shrink into yourself, make yourself small. It does little to alleviate the weight of their gazes. 

The room she takes you into is a small one, but it seems cavernous, with its high ceilings and sparse decor. Elendira is there, her long blonde hair gleaming in the light, a falling star. She turns as you enter. She beckons you forward; you slink towards her, a cowed dog. 

“Sit,” she tells you, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You must eat.”

You hesitate for a breath before you sink into the chair. She smiles, clearly pleased, and when she nods, another acolyte places a plate in front of you. 

You pause. The plate is laden with seasonal vegetables, cooked and raw. For a moment, you almost feel like you’re home. “There���s no meat,” you say. Your own voice startles you, small as it is. 

Elendira hums. “No,” she says. “It would make you sick.”

It would, considering how long you’ve gone without it, but you hadn’t expected to be accommodated. Perhaps you should have; it’s easy to forget that you’re important to them now. That you are something bigger than yourself. You gaze down at the plate and your stomach churns.

You think you might be sick anyway. 

Under Elendira’s gaze, you pick away at the food, mostly pushing it around on the plate. When you finally lean back, unable to take even a second more, she purses her lips but says nothing. Instead, she beckons to you, a silent command.

You follow her out into the courtyard in the middle of the temple. You’re surprised to see the garden that fills it, the scent of wet loam rising to your nose as an acolyte waters a patch of summer roses, their petals the color of the dawn, a sweet, pearly pink. There’s a basket of them on the ground, their cut stems still oozing sap. You pause.

“Go on,” Elendira says, sounding amused. 

You pick one up, twirling it between your fingers before hissing out a breath as a thorn catches the pad of your thumb. The blood wells up, a crimson seed, and you press your thumb between your lips to suck it away. Iron spreads on your tongue. 

There’s a drop of blood clinging to the thorn; it trickles down the stem a bit. You wipe it away as Elendira watches, something like a smile blooming on her lips, but she says nothing. 

Instead, she takes you through the garden to a set of rooms on the other side. There are acolytes waiting inside.

“Take care of them,” Elendira says. Before you can protest, she turns on her heel and glides from the room, her blonde hair flowing behind her like a comet’s tail. 

“Come,” one of the acolytes says, holding out a hand. 

You almost shrink away, but you take a deep breath and straighten your spine instead. You do not take their hand, but you follow them anyway. They bring you deeper into the chambers, into a room that smells of incense. It’s heavier than what your temple uses, but there is comfort in it nonetheless. 

You spend the day in that little room, retreating deep into your mind as they prepare you, engaging in little rituals that are beyond your knowledge. Normally, you would ask, always curious, but you cannot bring yourself to do so. 

By the time they lead you from the room, night has fallen. The scent of incense lingers on your skin as you walk through the courtyard, your face lifted towards the sky to better see the rising moon. It shines silver on the garden, painting petals with its soft touch. 

A different acolyte chivvies you along. He’d joined the group later, taking over from faces that had just started to grow familiar. Part of you thinks that is exactly the intent—that you gain no true companionship with anyone. It is utterly lonely, like living amongst shadows. 

He leads you to your room; once inside, you again hear the click of the lock. This time, you don’t bother to try the door. Instead, you shimmy out of the silken clothing and into the bed, closing your eyes.

When you open them again, you know that you are dreaming. 

You are small again; you barely come up to the woodcarver’s hip. She presses your face against her skirts, her hand gentle but firm. The words are lost to the dream, but you remember them well enough—the elders discussing your fate after your father was lost to winter’s teeth, claimed by  a cliff disguised by drifting snow. 

The gods are not kind. That much is clear.

The elders say your father’s name like a funeral knell. You think it will haunt you forever. 

When you look up from the woodcarver’s skirts, she is older, time smearing together as it only can in a dream. The edges of her eyes crinkle like parchment, laugh lines etched into her skin. They do not show now her face is solemn, her lips pinched together. She is thinner, her cheekbones sharp, and you realize it is the famine years.

The world swirls and suddenly, you are in the town square, desperate cries echoing around you. The woodcarver is next to you, her face grim, and she pulls you close as the crowd—the mob—pushes forward. 

You know what happens next. It’s already written, a history you can’t change. But you turn away anyway, hiding your face back in the woodcarver’s skirts, as if it can block out the cries of the harvest god’s acolytes as they fall. 

You wake with a cry, char and blood lingering in your nose, a phantom of the past. You sob once, twice, and bury your face in the furs of your fine bed. 

The gods are not kind, but neither are men.

—

The morning dawns red.

It streaks through the sky, crimson fingers of light smearing against the horizon, the sun bleeding it like a cracked egg. It spills into your room through the high window, pooling on the stone floor. 

The ruby sky fades into something softer as the sun continues its rise, but the damage is done. The burning spectacle haunts you as you dress for the day, unaccompanied by any acolyte. You can hear them in the hallway, the temple stirring to life, but no one comes through your door. Something in you burns cold.

When the door finally opens, you know. 

The acolytes take you to the bath through deserted halls. The water is warm and sweetly scented with a perfume that you don’t know. It winds around you, soft and soothing. You drift as they bathe you. 

Your skin prickles with gooseflesh when they rinse you, the air dragging its cool fingertips over the length of your body. The acolytes dry you with soft towels before they wrap you in clinging silks yet again. You trail your hand over the material, take in the icy slip of it. 

You look up as one of the acolytes approaches with a piece of fabric in his hands. You dip your head at his gesture; he ties it over your eyes, leaving you in darkness, with just the tiniest hint of light seeping in at the edges, like the sun peeking over the horizon. 

Blinded, you’re entirely reliant on the acolytes to lead you. You take deep breaths, trying to loosen the knot that’s wound itself around your ribs. You drift in the darkness, your mind fleeing.

The light hurts when the blindfold comes off. You wince, blinking away the sting, and find yourself in a grove at the forest’s edge, surrounded by the temple’s acolytes. They cry out at the sight of you, and you shrink into yourself, feeling your heart fluttering between your ribs, a trapped bird. Your hands are shaking.

Smoke billows around you, the scent of char settling over your skin as the acolytes disrobe you. Elendira watches from her place by the altar. Her blonde hair glints in the light, haloed by the sun, and her gaze is heavy upon your form. 

The silk you were wearing puddles at your feet, iridescent, an icy lake reflecting the moon’s glow. They dab oil behind your ears and in the hollow of your throat. You choke on a sob.

It was not meant to be like this. 

(Eat, the god of the harvest says, his smile sad. So that you may live as you are meant to.)

You let the acolytes wind pelts around you, the heat of them settling into your bones, a stoked fire caught up in fur. They’re for the deepest parts of the forest, you think, where the trees still murmur to each other. Where it stays chilled even in the height of summer.

It’s kind of them to think you’ll get that far. 

“Please,” you say quietly, as one of them dips near to smear crimson juice on your lips. 

She ignores you. 

Elendira raises her arms at the altar. The others turn their attention her way; you glance to it and see a pearly pink rose laid out against the stone. You turn away and stare at the ground, at the forest loam full of moss. There is a spider skittering across a leaf. You watch it run. 

Elendira is speaking, her cool voice filling the meadow. You cannot hear her. The acolytes move with her, at her command. You glance up and cannot make sense of what they’re doing. They whirl around you, snapping their sharpened teeth into the air with sharp clicks of their jaws, the muscles working beneath their skin. It’s too different from your own temple, all vicious, violent movement. 

You only know the rite is complete when you feel him.

He blazes into being behind you, his presence oppressive, the weight of his gaze dragging at you like an anchor and its heavy chain. It sinks into you. Crawls beneath your skin. Flays you open and touches the deepest parts of you. 

It’s almost familiar, like a dream within a dream. 

Elendira cries out, her voice fluting like a bird’s before it grows rougher, crueler, until you hear the hunting dogs in her voice, nipping at your heels. Behind you, his presence grows, a stoked fire. 

You don’t flinch when he touches you. His touch blazes like cold fire, a frostbitten thing. His thumb—thick and callused—dips into the oil that’s gathered on your neck.

He smears it up the soft underside of your throat to the tender skin just beneath your jaw. He presses there, just against your fluttering pulse. 

Please, you almost say, but you know better.

The god of the hunt is not known for his mercy. 

(Knives is just one of his many names, but it’s the one that rings truest. A blade is a blade is a blade. It cares little who it nicks.)

“Acceptable,” he says, and there is the forest in his voice, something ancient. It echoes around you. Thunders through your bones. 

He leans in close, his breath warming the nape of your neck. Your chest goes tight.

He murmurs, almost fond, into your ear:

“Run, little rabbit.”

You do. 

You know better than to look behind you; you bound off towards the forest, where the saplings rise like ribs, their shadows long against the ground. You feel the grass beneath your feet give way to the loam of the woods, dirt cushioned with moss. 

The forest blurs by as you dash through it, nimble-footed as you dodge around the massive oaks that soar to the sky, their canopies darkening the woods around you. You gasp in a breath, your chest tightening more, anxiety spooling around your ribs like thread. 

The woods have gone quiet. There are no birds calling; even the rustle of the trees is gone, as if fall has already consumed them, given them over to winter’s slumber. You only hear the pounding of your heart as it flutters against your ribs, a hummingbird's frantic beating of wings. You duck beneath a branch but not far enough. It scores your cheek, a whip crack of pain that fades quickly.

You have no time for it; you hurtle over an old, old root system, the tangle of them gone mossy with age. You barely clear it, your toes brushing against the mushrooms blooming from the bark. 

You land hard.

It knocks the breath from you, rattles up through your bones, the earth's admonishment. Air rushes from you in a great, gasping breath and you cannot pull it back in. Your chest aches with it, a bruise freshly pressed. 

Still, you don't dare stop.

You can feel Knives behind you, pacing like a wolf behind its prey. He keeps his distance, but never too far, nipping at your heels each time you slow with his massive presence, something too big to name. You hadn't known how divinity devours.

There is a maw at your heels and you can only go forward.

You dance between the saplings, breath caught in your throat. The woods are hungry around you; everywhere you look there are only trees.

Your feet pound against the dirt. They ache, a bone-deep bruise. You're slowing, you know, but you cannot help it. Your legs feel encased in resin, the slow drip of exhaustion trickling down them.

"Please," you pant. "Please."

(“Slowly,” the god says, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone. “I will be here to give you more.”) 

The blackberry bush to your left blooms into being, berries pouring from it, ripened to a plumpness that's beyond anything you've ever seen.

You change directions instantly, veering towards it. 

Another one blooms, and then a raspberry bush, the berries little blood-red rubies, thick and juicy. You follow the verdant path coming to life, something bright starting to burn in your chest, something that you barely dare think of as hope. 

You choke on your next breath.

Knives' presence has roared to life behind you, a freshly stoked fire. It drapes over you like the nighttime, deep and oppressive. Ozone crackles in the air. It's stark on your tongue. Suffocating. 

Then there's an arm around your waist.

It stops you in your tracks, so sudden that it hurts. It shakes the sense from you. You gasp, the air forced from your lungs in a long, low hiss, a rattlesnake’s vibrating tail. Only the arm—thickly muscled, unyielding as iron—keeps you upright.

When your breath returns, it only catches in your throat once more.

There's heat against you; air stirs the fine hairs at your nape. You can feel the slow, steady rise of Knives’ chest against your back. His arm tightens around you. His fingers dig divots into the flesh of your hip. 

His voice—full of the forest, of the hunt, of fur and fang and blood—rumbles through you.

“Not this one, little brother.”

The berry bush that had just burst into life withers, its verdant leaves curling up into brittle skeletons. You draw in a sharp, ragged breath. Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, bone deep. You shift and those fingers flex, sinking even deeper into the curve of your hip.

You go still. There’s little point in struggling; this close, you can feel the divinity radiating off of him, a falling star, cold and bright. It’s overwhelming, burning through your very bones. It devours you. His arm tightens around you as your knees start to give, your chest heaving. Your vision spots, going black at the edges, and you feel more than hear him speak. It cracks like thunder and your body gives up. 

The last thing you see before the world fades is a flash of blue hair.

[noobiestnoober]

Cooking Disaster at the Boarding House (Reader, Stefan, Damon, and Enzo)

Stefan insists on making a "proper homemade dinner" for once, and you, Damon, and Enzo get roped into helping. The problem? You and Damon can’t cook, Enzo keeps taste-testing things before they’re done, and Stefan is two seconds away from throwing you all out of his kitchen.

Stefan wanted a “calm night in.”

That was his first mistake.

He’d appeared in the doorway of the Salvatore kitchen just after noon, wearing a crisp apron and an expression that screamed he was trying to manifest patience through sheer willpower. His arms were crossed. His brows were raised. His tone was calm—too calm.

“I’m making dinner,” he announced.

Damon, lounging shirtless on the living room couch with a glass of bourbon in hand, didn't even look up. “Congratulations. There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge. Knock yourself out.”

Stefan’s jaw tensed slightly. “No, I mean real dinner. Homemade. Like normal people.”

Enzo, who had just entered through the back door with a bag of marshmallows and zero context, perked up. “Did someone say dinner? Are we roasting someone?”

“Cooking, Enzo,” Stefan corrected. “Not torching villagers. Though I’m beginning to reconsider.”

And then, for reasons known only to whatever masochistic force guides your group, you were dragged into it. You had only come over to return Bonnie’s grimoire and maybe steal some of Damon’s bourbon. Within ten minutes, you were holding a mixing spoon and blinking in the fluorescent horror of Stefan’s idea of domestic bliss.

“I just want one night,” Stefan said, now stirring sauce in a stainless-steel pot like he was summoning peace, “where we act like normal people. No blood. No compulsion. No explosions.”

“You should’ve said that before inviting Enzo,” Damon muttered, pouring himself a drink and immediately being told to wash his hands before touching anything else.

Enzo, already chewing on a raw mushroom he’d fished out of a bowl, raised a brow. “You’re going to judge me on table manners, mate? Wasn’t it you who tried to flambé a squirrel last week?”

“That squirrel had it coming,” Damon said defensively.

You sighed and leaned against the counter. “So, what’s the plan here? What are we even making?”

“Lasagna,” Stefan said without missing a beat. “Garlic bread. And a salad. Simple. Manageable.”

There was a silence. You blinked at him.

“Lasagna,” Damon repeated. “With garlic?”

Stefan raised a brow. “You’re not going to burst into flames. Stop being dramatic.”

“You wound me,” Damon said, placing a hand over his heart. “You’d poison your own brother over carbs.”

Enzo picked up a tomato. “Should I chop this or eat it like an apple?”

Stefan physically snatched it from his hand.

It didn’t take long for everything to unravel.

Damon was somehow in charge of chopping onions. Except instead of chopping, he kept slicing them into elaborate spirals and arranging them into smiley faces on the cutting board.

“I’m adding artistry,” he said, unrepentant, when Stefan asked why the salad looked like it belonged in a haunted kindergarten.

You had been assigned to garlic bread—which sounded easy enough—until Damon distracted you with an impromptu vampire speed race to the liquor cabinet, and you forgot the bread was in the oven. Smoke began to rise. Stefan screamed.

You opened the oven door, coughing, waving away the smoke. “Crispy is trendy, right?”

Enzo was now licking sauce from the lasagna pan.

“It’s not even cooked yet!” Stefan shouted, yanking the pan out of Enzo’s reach. “Do you just wander through life taste-testing anything that looks vaguely edible?”

Enzo shrugged. “I’m just saying, it’s got potential.”

Damon leaned in. “It tastes like pain and disappointment. Much like your cooking career.”

Stefan turned slowly, murder in his eyes. “Get out of my kitchen.”

Damon held up his hands. “Okay, Gordon Ramsay, chill. You act like we burned the house down.”

“The night’s not over yet,” you offered cheerfully, scraping the charred garlic bread into the trash.

Stefan’s jaw was clenched. “Can any of you follow a recipe without turning it into a reenactment of ‘Hell’s Kitchen: Vampire Edition’?”

“No,” all three of you answered in unison.

Somehow, after much arguing, sabotage, and suspicious licking of utensils, the lasagna made it into the oven. Damon was banned from touching anything sharp. Enzo was banned from touching anything at all. You were put on salad duty—a task that Stefan described as “idiot-proof,” which, frankly, was just offensive enough to make you start spelling things in the lettuce.

When the kitchen finally quieted, Stefan stood in front of the oven like a man protecting the Holy Grail. The room smelled vaguely of smoke, wine, and passive-aggressive tension. Then the power flickered. All eyes turned to Damon, who was leaning against the fridge with his usual smug expression.

“I might have messed with the wiring last week to install a hidden bourbon shelf,” he said. “No promises.”

Stefan looked like he aged three centuries on the spot.

Dinner—if it could be called that—was served two hours late. The lasagna was slightly undercooked. The garlic bread was replaced with emergency toast. The salad was mostly arugula and spite. Everyone sat around the table in silence for a few bites, until Damon raised his glass with a lazy grin.

“To chaos,” he said, “and the culinary crimes we commit along the way.”

You clinked your glass against his. “To Stefan, who tried to bring order to a group of feral vampires and suffered deeply for it.”

Enzo raised his fork. “And to the tomato I never got to eat.”

Stefan just groaned.

🥖 The Salvatore kitchen has been declared a disaster zone. Cooking privileges are hereby revoked.

[leiawritesstories]

The Princess & The Warrior

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 15: What if? and Day 30: Alternate Canon @rowaelinscourt

Ending Rowaelin Month with a little bit of a bang 🤭 What if...Rowan and Aelin's powers were swapped, giving Aelin ice and Rowan fire? And the alternate canon is that Rowan comes to Terrasen to train Aelin teehee

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: some swearing, sparring/fighting, big surprises ehehe

enjoy!!!!!

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

Dressed in her usual training uniform of fitted pants, loose belted tunic, and flexible-soled boots, Aelin tossed her braid over her shoulder and raised her arms above her head, loosening the muscles in her shoulders. She paced back and forth across the packed dirt ground of the training courtyard, trying her best not to spiral into self-doubt at the thought of this new phase of her training. 

A few weeks ago, her parents had informed her that they were in the process of bringing over a Fae tutor for her from Doranelle, where most of the immortal Fae lived. Queen Sellene Whitethorn, a longtime ally of Terrasen, was known for her dedication to training magic-wielders, and when Rhoe and Evalin had discovered that their daughter’s powers were far more vast than anticipated, their first thought had been to reach out to Doranelle. Aelin’s tutors from Rifthold, as educated as they were, only had experience training people with ordinary levels of magic. 

Not since Brannon Galathynius had there been a wielder of her caliber. 

And it terrified the shit out of her. 

Almost unconsciously, Aelin formed a razor-sharp blade of ice in her left hand, the exact same size and weight as the sword in her right hand but made of magic rather than steel. She went through the familiar motions of her warm-up movements, focusing on her breathing to feel the way that her body shifted and moved over the dirt. With the fluid swoops of her blades, she trailed a pattern of glittering snowflakes through the humid summer air. 

“Good form.” A male voice, calmly measured in a way that could only come from centuries of life experience, sounded from the far side of the courtyard. 

She turned around, dropping both swords to hang loosely at her sides, and waited as a Fae male a good seven inches taller than her with corded muscles lining the breadth of his shoulders tucked back his hood and strode—no, prowled—across the courtyard towards her. “You must be the new tutor.” 

His nostrils flared briefly, and his lips tightened into a flat line. “You can call me Rowan.” 

Her eyes widened slightly as she put together the details—the name, the green eyes and silver hair, the tattoos scrolling down half his face and the length of his arm, the handles of the hatchets strapped to his belt. “Prince Rowan Whitethorn, hmm? I wouldn’t have expected Queen Sellene to send one of her relatives all the way to Terrasen.” 

Rowan snorted softly. “Apparently, there’s a princess in Terrasen who can’t control the depth of her magic.” He ran a critical gaze up and down Aelin’s form. “That would be you, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.” 

“Just Aelin is fine.” 

“Whatever you say, princess.” Without further warning, Rowan launched a blade of blue flame at Aelin’s face. 

She whipped her ice sword out, just barely managing to deflect it. “What in the hells?!” 

Fire ignited around his left fist, a short dagger appearing in his right. “Welcome to training, princess. I thought you already had some.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. 

“Maybe I’m deliberately keeping my guard down.” She flicked her fingers, propelling a burst of tiny, sharp-edged ice crystals towards his smug face with a winter breeze. 

Bored, he cast a shield of orange flame, easily fending off her attack. “Maybe those idiot tutors of yours couldn’t teach you anything but crude basics.” 

“Hmm, I suppose modern training does seem crude to you in your old age.” Smirking, she coiled a wind around his left leg and tugged hard, throwing him off balance. 

Faster than she thought possible, faster than he had any right to be, he punched her. 

She’d barely even seen him move. 

“Asshole,” she snarled. She shook the blurriness from her eyes and hurled a fist at his thigh, engaging him in hand-to-hand combat. Rapidly melting her ice sword into a solid glove around her left hand, she kicked a knife out of her boot and swiped at Rowan, who batted off her attacks as if she were nothing more than an untrained recruit. His technique was precise and vicious and brutal, honed by centuries of training with the Fae legions of Doranelle, and Aelin felt her strength rapidly flagging as she strained to block his relentless jabs and punches and bursting bites of flame. 

“Shift, princess,” he ordered. “You have more strength and stamina as a Fae.” 

“If you’d give me a godsdamn minute, I could,” she panted. 

He shook his head and kicked the back of her knee. “In battle, you won’t have a godsdamn minute. You think an enemy is going to stop so you can fucking shift?” 

She swore angrily at him and whipped her knee up, hitting him squarely in the groin. He wheezed and doubled over, and she had just enough time to gather her depleted strength and shift into her Fae form. With her enhanced senses, she saw his knife slipping towards her, and she managed to deflect it just before the blade could nip at her skin. 

“Better,” he murmured, and he unleashed a furious barrage of punches that had her head spinning as she fought off the strikes that came from every angle. A coil of fire snaked up her leg, and she snuffed it with a breath of icy wind, only to find Rowan’s leg hooked behind her stabilizing leg, jerking in a twisting motion that sent her tumbling to the packed dirt. 

“That’s cheating,” she gasped, flinging a handful of dirt into his face. 

He hissed, and faster than she could see, he held the edge of his knife to her throat. “Yield.” 

As covertly as she could, she gathered a handful of snow above his head, and she grunted, straining to break free of his hold, as she dumped that snow down his back. 

He jerked at the shock of the cold, and the edge of the blade grazed her skin. Tiny pricks of blood welled up on the knife’s edge. “First blood is mine.” He withdrew the knife and stood up, holding out his tattooed hand to help her to her feet. She stood up reluctantly, brushing the dirt off of her clothes, and he went to wipe his knife on his tunic when he scented the blood on the blade. 

And he froze dead in his tracks. 

“No,” he whispered, shock bared on his face. “It can’t be.” 

Aelin seized the chance to slice the tip of her dagger across his fingertip, as his free hand was hanging loose, and the scent of his blood on her knife crashed into her with the force of a blizzard. 

Mate. 

This ancient, rude, insufferable male…was her mate. 

“Impossible,” she breathed, echoing his stunned silence. She was only twenty-four, and although she knew from her family’s Fae heritage that she would eventually Settle, she’d never given any thought to the idea that she might have a mate. Royalty married for prestige, not for any other reason. 

His face shuttered. “This changes nothing.” 

“Wrong.” She folded her arms across her chest, defiance blazing in her eyes. “This changes everything. I don’t care how terrified either of us are, you don’t get to use this as an excuse to leave.” 

“I wasn’t…” Rowan bit back his words. “It might not be the best idea for me to train you.” 

“Bullshit,” Aelin scoffed. “Queen Sellene clearly chose you for a reason. Certainly you can manage to teach me the control you think I lack without letting any of your damn territorial Fae instincts get in the way.” 

To her utter shock, his lips twitched upwards into something resembling a smirk. “What the hell would you know about ‘territorial Fae instincts,’ princess?” 

“I’m Fae too, you know.” Bitterness clogged her throat, the anguished screams of the one she couldn’t save echoing through her mind. “I can be incredibly protective.” 

He must have read the hollowness in her eyes. “All right. I’ll stay.” 

“Good, then you’re not a coward.” 

“One condition, though.” 

She raised a brow. “Oh?” 

He sighed, mumbling something indecipherable under his breath. “We cannot tell anyone.” 

“Why in the hells would I want to?” She tucked her knife back down the side of her boot. “You have been here for all of a day, and the last time I let someone into my heart, he died.” She whirled on her heel and left, her footfalls like thunderclaps in the suddenly silent courtyard. 

And Rowan could only stare, shell-shocked, an unidentified emotion beginning to stir in his heart.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@renxzs

@anarchiii

@fauna-flora11

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

@mysterylilycheeta

[everlastingdreams]

The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Chapter 25

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Chapter Title: All We Were, All We Could Be.

Notes: Man, that chapter is getting awfully close. 😰

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forced Marriage. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn. Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapter:  25/47

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

You felt your blood’s pressure drop like a stone to ground, then rise like a flame to air. Charles expression changed immediately from irritation to genuine fear. This could not be happening… you could barely hold back the anger boiling up inside.

“Is that true?” Charles asked you, clearly feeling misled.

“I-” What could you even say? How could you even start to explain the real situation of this ‘arrangement’ that Father Carden had made?

When Lancelot looked at you, awaiting the answer, you glared up at him. Charles got up from the chair, apologized to Lancelot and walked away to clear his mind and avoid a possible confrontation.

You rose to your feet and got into Lancelot’s face. “Outside. Now!”

As you walked out the door, you didn’t even look if he was following, you were too concentrated on controlling your anger before it could risk waking up the entire inn if it bursted loose. When you were a little away from the inn’s entrance Lancelot stepped outside as well.

He could feel the storm in the air, it announced itself in the look you gave him now. It had not been his proudest moment, but after hearing what that man proposed he could not stop himself.

“How dare you?” You shook your head. “Does it make you feel good to humiliate me like that? To tell people what I was forced to be?!”

He pushed his feet to approach. “It was never my intention to humiliate you.”

“Then why did you just do that?!” you shouted it at him.

He tried to sound calm while he clearly wasn’t, “He was acting too familiar towards you.”

Your tone grew demanding as he stopped right in front of you. “Yes. And?”

A frown settled on his forehead. “It is not appropriate.”

“Why? Because we are wed in the Church’s eyes?” You confronted him. “I told you before, I never gave you my vows! You don’t get to act like a jilted lover!”

It silenced him, he looked off to the side, jaw tense. He let the storm come over his head.

“You do not get to control who I spend my time with!” you told him off. “I never took the vow you took. I’ve never let religion tell me that I can’t follow my desires.”

He looked your way again, trying to decipher where you were going with this.

“I am not a maiden anymore.” you informed him of the personal truth. “Maybe you thought I was. But I am not pure as you believed, or wanted, me to be. I’m not some innocent girl who needs someone to protect her virtue. And I most certainly do not need a husband, that I was forced to have, to lay claim on me!”

Lancelot was quite rattled, still his stubborn demeanor did not let it show well. He was quiet as your fury rained down on him, and you wished you knew why he didn’t say anything or even argued back.

You stepped away from him to walk back to the inn. “This union between us is based on a lie. Do not ever throw this arrangement in my face like that again! You may be my husband, but my heart is not yours to have. "

He did not move a muscle when you walked past and away from him. His eyes were unreadable and they never lifted from the grass.

        It took him a while to return to the inn as well, you were already back in the room and making a comfortable place for you and Percival to sleep with some linen that Amelia had kindly offered. The silence between you when he stepped into the room was heavy. You were upset, and he… well you didn’t know how to place his reaction. He was just as quiet as you were towards him now. Percival must have felt the tension, he took it upon himself to chat away the silence until it was time to sleep. Fortunately for the boy, he fell asleep easily. For you it was difficult, the sour encounter between you and Lancelot kept you awake. And even with your back facing the bed, you did not feel comfortable enough to sleep. Having to share a room with someone you had a falling out with was anything but pleasant. Perhaps it was wise to set a boundary after this, to create the distance that had not been there ever since Cassian had handed you over to him. The silent tension was just too heavy to bear, and when they had fallen asleep you wrote down a note for them to find on one of the pieces of parchment you had found in the drawers of the cabinet, grabbed your satchel and went out of the room.

Amelia proved to be a night owl, she was still awake and eating some of the stew from that evening. “Up so late?”

You put down a few coins in front of her on the bar. “I want to rent a second room for myself for the night.”

She looked down and hesitated to take the payment. “I saw you leave the inn earlier with the Weeping Monk. So he is not your lover. He’s just your husband.”

Your mouth fell open. “I-”

She smiled cheekily. “I knew it. The way he looks at you says it all.”

You ignored her imagination. “It was arranged for us. We didn’t choose to wed.”

She let it slip, “I bet he doesn’t mind one bit.”

She must have seen you enter just as upset as you were when you exited. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight. I just want to get some sleep.”

“Alright.” Amelia knew when her patrons needed to be left alone, she reached over to take the coins but her hand halted midway.

When she looked past your shoulder in the direction of the stairs, you knew who would be there if you turned around. You pressed your eyes shut, trying to calm yourself before you’d begin to cuss him out. He was standing right behind you, you could just feel it.

“I wish to speak with you.” Lancelot’s voice sounded. The caution in his tone was audible. He had been in a rush to find you, he was not wearing his jerkin and had put on the cloak haphazardly.

You turned to face him, crossing your arms over your chest to shield yourself because he was in close proximity. “Can it wait until morning?”

“No.” He would not let this simmer on. “Another room will not be necessary. If we cannot talk this through tonight, then I will sleep outside. You will not have to flee the room, that you paid for, for me.”

“I am not fleeing.” It came out defensive.

He arched a brow but did not challenge the statement. “Good. Then we can sit at that table and talk.”

You held up a hand to stop him when he tried to take you by the arm. “What if I don’t want to?”

For a moment he was trying to read your eyes, the strength in his voice had weakened when he spoke again. “I will not force you.”

After giving it some thought, you pointed at a table. “Over there?”

Relief washed over him. “Yes.”

You moved past him and took seat at the table that was at a convenient distance from the bar and the stairs. “What is it that you wish to speak to me about?”

He moved the other chair to sit a little more at your side instead of opposite of you. “There is a thorn between us, I know you are not telling me everything you have wished to say ever since I arrived here. I had hoped that you would speak to me about how you truly feel about me being here after what has happened between us. Holding back grievances is what lets hatred grow, I prefer you voice them.”

He let a silence fall, hoping it would encourage you to fill it. But you were quite for a little while, contemplating what or what not to say. He was after the truth, to hear what you had held back so long.

You started. “Tonight I felt like you believe that you own me.”

“That was never my intention.” he said, quite shocked.

That reaction told you that he was sincere about it. “It is how it felt.”

He folded his hands together on the table, and after a few seconds he spoke. “I offer my apologies for what I did earlier. You were right to confront me.”

You said not a word, just looked at the way his fingers were nervously moving over his thumb in a soothing manner. He was feeling vulnerable, that much was clear, it oddly helped you to stay calm and listen.

His gaze did not lift up from the table. “I confess that I was concerned when I heard the man proposition you. I thought you were uncomfortable.”

“You thought I needed help?” It had been a little uncomfortable to hear the proposition, but not so much that help was needed.

He gave a shallow nod. “Sometimes I forget how well you can handle yourself in difficult circumstances.”

You kept looking at how withdrawn he was, as if he feared you’d lash out at him all of a sudden. “You were just trying to protect me…?”

Finally his eyes locked on yours, their intensity burned right into you. “I meant what I said about protecting you. It may have started at the Hidden’s request, but I decided to continue with it.”

Now it was you who kept your eyes on the table. “I accept your apology.”

He gave the incentive to let your thoughts out about it all. “This was not all I had hoped that would be discussed.”

You knew what he wanted to hear about, the truth about the ice that was not yet broken between you after the friendship was frozen into it. “I can’t hide that I’m hurt and confused by what has happened between us.”

“Confused?” He found himself saying it out loud.

“I loved your company.” You bit your lip to keep your emotions down and locked away. “And when I heard what Father Carden discussed with you about gaining my trust, about forging weapons with my magic… it broke me.” A silent pause fell, recalling the feeling made it come back and hurt again. You couldn’t look at him. “I finally had someone that didn’t hurt me, that was kind to me, and then that hope was stolen away. I hated you, and missed you just as much, you rotten bastard.”

You only saw his shadow move a little, but your eyes never lifted from the table, if they did then your courage to speak of it would falter. “I wish it wasn’t like this. That I could just trust you without feeling like a fool for taking the risk again.”

He reached for your hand with so much caution that you believed he would give up half-way.

Still it came and his fingertips rested on top of your hand. “I cannot undo the harm I have done to you, I know this now. I owe you the life you deserved instead of the one you were forced to live, by me, by Father, by your family…” His hand curled around yours gently. “I should have told you of Father’s order. I should have told you everything. It was selfish to keep it from you out of fear that you would turn away from me, a desperate act to try and hold on to what was between us. Because our friendship brought me a comfort I had never found before.”

A silence fell, heavy as his words sank into you.

He quietly spoke, “You were right. I wanted it all. To see Father proud. To have you near…” There was a short pause. “You did well to fight me off and flee, you took control over your future. And in the forest I was still too blind to see how bringing you back to Father would have led to the destruction of your soul. I was too blind… I am sorry.”

You had heard his voice break and he was trying not to let it show. “When we were locked in that room to face the storm, you promised me that I would have my freedom back. Was that a lie?”

He shook his head. “I wanted you to have your freedom.”

“But only after Carden got what he wanted from me. Because you couldn’t stand disappointing him.” you confronted him.

A silence fell over him, you could tell that he was thinking about what you had just told him.

Your voice was wavering when asking for a truth you feared to learn of, “Would you truly have been able to stand aside and watch as he made me into a weapon and forced me to use my magic against the Fey. To see him destroy me?”

He took a few seconds before he answered.

“Lancelot?”

His eyes fell shut. His answer was heavy. “No.”

He had imagined the situation for a moment. How you would have been forced to endure Father’s treatment, how your conscience would so quickly have destroyed your soul and the ruins it would leave. Even seeing you broken in his imagination was unbearable. He would not have been able to bear witness of it in reality either, his response to it would have led to his execution.

Your instinct believed him to be truthful, you could sense the remorse in him. Regret was all over his expressions. “Even if our friendship is real, I wish it was not born from Father Carden’s plan to manipulate me.”

He opened his eyes and leaned a little forward. “Then let us start anew. From where we are here and now. I will earn your trust and be worthy of it, I swear it.”

“We can try.” Even if it was to see if that spark of hope was right or wrong. “But how do we go from here?”

He asked for clarification, “What troubles you?”

“There is the fact that we are wed.” you pointed out the most obvious obstacle.

His hand released yours as he leaned back against his chair. “I know you do not consider this marriage to be true. But to me it holds value, I was taught such a union is sacred.”

This truly was a matter that needed to be discussed clearly it seemed. “You cannot ask of me to be a true wife. I never made any vows. This was decided by Father Carden, not me. I decide who I spend my time with.”

“I will ask nothing of the sorts of you.” He ticked his finger against the edge of the table to release some of the tension he must have felt. “What I mean to say is that I will keep to the promise of this union. I cannot decide for you to do the same, and I will not.”

What it meant was not clear. “Keep to the promise?”

He cleared his throat, still his voice wavered just slightly. “To be faithful.”

That was not an answer you expected to hear, it stunned you even. “I do not ask that of you. You are free to do as you please.”

His reply came quick, “It would please me to respect this union.”

This was an argument you would not win, that much was clear. “So, if you meet someone and fall in love with them, then what? You’ll tell them you will stay with a wife you do not even love, because of an arrangement that was forced on us?”

He went quiet and rubbed his knee a few times slowly.

You got the feeling that it had upset him somehow. Maybe you were being too harsh. “Do not let the Church have that power over you, Lancelot. Let yourself experience what it is like to not have to abide by rules of the scriptures.”

There was a hint of caution in his voice. “Would it be possible to discuss this if such matters arise in the future?”

An open discussion felt far more comfortable to deal with it. “That is alright.”

A breath of relief passed his lips. “I do confess I prefer us speaking like this. Calm, and open to hear what the other wishes to say.”

“I agree.” You hummed.

The jest came unexpected. “Without one of use setting our surroundings on fire.”

“Did you have to bring that up?”

“Is this not a matter we should discuss?”

“No.”

His curiosity won. “Were you aware that you could conjure up Fey Fire without the presence of normal fire?”

You saw the hint of genuine interest in his eyes. “I would have told you if I had known, considering I trusted you before all that. But I don’t feel like discussing this tonight, another time?”

He gave a nod. “What that man suggested tonight…” he could barely voice it, “Would you have done so had I not interrupted?”

That was a very personal thing to ask. “Spend the night with him?”

His eyes flickered away and focused on the wall beside him. He hummed.

You shook your head. “No. I barely know him. And I am not in the mood to crawl into bed with someone. I just want some peace and quiet.”

He moved his chair to stand. “Then we should head back to our room.”

“‘Our’?” you raised a brow.

Almost did he think you took offense, then he smiled when realizing it had been a jest. “Do not fear, I am not asking what the baker asked for.”

You scoffed but couldn’t hold in a soft laugh. “Good. Because I do not intend to ever consummate this marriage.”

His wit was sharp, “I thought I was the one who took the vow of celibacy.”

You got up from your chair too when he stood, too tempted not to get him a little flustered now that he opened that conversation. “I wonder if you have ever considered breaking that vow.”

It distracted him, he accidentally knocked his leg against the corner of the table and buckled over a little from the sharp pain that shot through his leg for a few seconds. Ouch.

You took hold of his elbow to support him. “That’s going to bruise.”

He nodded in agreement.

“Sorry. Did I distract you with my sinful question?” You bit back a grin.

“Yes.” he blurted out the truth.

It was to distract him from the pain. “Can I still expect an answer?”

He sounded mildly amused, “Why do you and Percival have so many questions for me?”

Was that not obvious? “Because when does a Fey ever get to stick their nose in a monk’s private matters?”

The pain lessened and he was able to start walking towards the stairs. It caught Amelia’s attention right away.

“Are you sure you do not need another room?” she called out after you.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” You politely declined. “We’ll share the room we have.”

She hummed, a grin on her face, her offer came out so casual, “I can rent you another room for an hour or so, if you need a moment away from that young one.”

Your friendly smile turned into a look of embarrassment at what she had meant. It took Lancelot a few seconds longer, and seeing your reaction, to realize the true meaning behind Amelia’s offer.

You fired back. “Like I said earlier, you can write books with that much imagination.”

Her thoughts were on her tongue. “I barely need to use my imagination. Look at how close you’re standing.”

Right away you and Lancelot looked to the gap there was barely present between you, he was the one who took a step to the side. Her boldness outmatched yours this time.

“Goodnight, Amelia.”

“Goodnight.” She waved a little, an arrogant gesture that suited her quite well.

When Lancelot did not move yet, you grabbed him by the arm and yanked at it until he followed. As you walked up the stairs and towards the room he questioned you on Amelia’s reaction.

“Do you speak of me to her?” he wondered out loud.

“Sometimes.” you admitted.

A corner of his mouth curved up. “What do you tell her?”

You hoped your honesty would scare away further questions he might have. “I have been trying to convince her that I am not bedding you.”

He let out something that sounded in between a scoff and a chuckle. “I suppose it is odd to see us here together. A monk sharing a room with a woman in an inn is prone to raise questions. And there is a child with us, there is enough seed for rumors to sprout.”

Your voice lowered the closer you got to the room. “Still, I hope she believes it. I don’t like it when people stare at me and I can just tell that they are forming opinions about me.”

He hoped to sooth that fear. “People will always form opinions, it is not our fault if they form the wrong ones. We should only concern ourselves over our own path and try to do the best that we can.”

Lancelot opened the door to the room quietly, Percival was snoring the night away as you stepped into the room with him. Wordlessly you exchanged looks with the Ash Man, he was trying not to laugh at how to boy laid sprawled out onto the bed of linen you had made for him. You returned to the heap of linen that you had made your own bed from on the ground. Speaking openly about your feelings had brought a great sense of relief, a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. It was worth it to try and see if this friendship could be saved, you certainly wanted to try.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  Being up so late last night gave you it’s punishment for it the next morning, you were not aware that the sun had been up for quite some time already. Lancelot gently nudging you was what finally woke you up.

He smiled down at you. “I was starting to wonder when you would ever wake again.”

You grumbled something incoherent in your drowsy state, it only made him nudge you more. Even half-awake, you still registered just how unafraid he was to touch you. A squeeze to your shoulder, a few brushes of his hand over your arm and a risque pat to your hip.

He didn’t stop bothering you, knowing you’d fall asleep right away again. “You will have trouble sleeping tonight if you sleep longer. Come, up.”

It didn’t help when you tried to swat his hand away. He was persistent. “Ugh, gods! FINE!”

He chuckled and rose to stand. “I went and got us breakfast. Bread and a mixture of baked vegetables.”

The scent of the food in the room made you get up faster, you stumbled to the table to sit and eat. It was Percival who shoved your plate under your nose.

“Can I ask you something?” The boy eyed you curiously.

“Of course.” You took a bite of the bread.

Percival took a sip of water from one of the tankards on the table to flush down his breakfast. “Have you always known that you were a bit Fey?”

A bit Fey? It was endearing to hear how he worded that. That was quite a question to start your day. “I didn’t know for a while. I was five years of age when I first learned that I did inherit my mother’s Feyblood. I fell in the forest, a leaf of an ash tree touched my skin and I saw the marks appear under my eyes in a puddle of rain.”

Lancelot stood against the wall, drinking from a tankard of water whilst listening. This had been something you had not shared with either of them before.

“I hid it from everyone, you see… my family was not so good to me, I didn’t want them to know.” You tried your best to leave out the fact that you risked being sold at that age, or beaten to death. “When my half-brother, Cassian, found out I was part Fey, he traded me to Father Carden in exchange for his own life.”

“But that’s awful!” Percival uttered his dismay. “Your brother gave you to the paladins?”

You saw Lancelot grow a bit uncomfortable, but the boy had a right to know more about you. “Yes. And Father Carden ordered Lancelot to watch over me. We spend a lot of time together. Father Carden feared others would learn that Lancelot was Fey if they ever saw my markings appear, to prevent that from happening, he made us share a tent. And when my markings appeared no one else but Lancelot saw.”

Percival turned his head to look at the Ash Man. “They didn’t know you are Fey?”

“No. Only Father knew.” he admitted.

You continued explaining it. “The paladins thought I was Sky Folk. Father Carden lied to everyone to hide that Lancelot was Fey, because he knew the Church would see it as betrayal.”

Percival understood why and spoke to Lancelot. “He was using you to find our people… that is why he didn’t want anyone to know.”

Lancelot gave a nod, silently impressed with the boy’s ability to understand the situation so quick and well. “She kept my secret.” He took in a deep breath. “The day I decided to help you, something happened between her and I.”

Your eyes widened at him, and Percival looked at him with great suspicion.

It did not make him take it back. “I had upset her, and she lost her trust in me. Last night we discussed the matter and I hope to rebuild the trust between us. You have a right to know this, Percival. So you may understand that if at times she does not feel like speaking to me, she is not at fault. By allowing me to be here, and having helped me, she has shown a great amount of grace. For which I am very grateful.”

“What did you do?” Percival demanded to know.

You hadn’t expected the boy to react so fierce on your behalf and reached over to touch his hand to calm him. It did not help.

The boy was staring him down. “Well?”

Lancelot swallowed hard. “I was given the order to manipulate her into trusting me. Because she possesses the ability to create Fey Fire…. And I lied to her when I told her why Father Carden was interested in Fey Fire.”

“You what?!” Percival was dismayed and disappointed at the revelation, blinked and then looked at you. “Wait… what?!”

You send Lancelot a scolding look for being a little too honest towards the boy. The discussion that followed took a long time. Percival’s questions darted between you and the Ash Man. You got the Fey Fire questions and the ones about the Hidden, Lancelot received a scolding from the boy and tried to explain the situation as he had done to you. It was a heavy conversation, especially because both you and Lancelot tried to maneuver around certain parts that Percival might have been too young for to hear.

“Your father send sellswords after you?” Percival asked, elbows on the table and head resting in his hands.

“Paying them for it is perhaps the most coin he has ever spend on me.” you said bitterly. Even as you tried to make light of it, it still hurt, and Percival must have read it right from your face that it did.

The boy got up from his chair and wrapped his arms around you, it was what let your tears break free from the chains you had put on them. It felt freeing to let go of them, to acknowledge the pain they had held on to for so many years.

“My papa didn’t like me either.” Percival muttered against your shoulder. “He always wanted me to be stronger.”

You embraced the boy tightly, feeling Lancelot’s eyes on you from across the room. “We have each other now.”

Percival squeezed you a litter tighter, then let go. “So I can stay with you?”

Your eyes widened, as did Lancelot’s. “Wha-… of course. Were you worried about that?”

Percival gave a small nod. Lancelot looked troubled by it, he hadn’t been aware that the boy feared to be abandoned or send away by him.

“Percival.” He approached the boy. “I owe my life to your bravery, you do not have to be concerned that either of us will send you away.”

“He’s right. You’re stuck with us I’m afraid.” You grinned at Percival.

A careful smile formed on the boy’s face, he was not one to easily show his emotions to others. He took the moment to ask Lancelot, “If we stay together, will you show me how to fight like you did against the masked paladins?”

He immediately looked at you for permission, he was raised to fight but was this good for the boy to be taught too? With a nod you gave your opinion on the matter.

“I suppose I can demonstrate a few matters.” he carefully told the boy.

Percival was up on his feet not a second later. “Now?”

The amount of self-consciousness he suddenly felt was ridiculous. He was used to keeping in the shadows and was now asked to show what he could do.

You got up from the chair. “I’d love to stay and watch, but I need to go and fetch those herbs. Do try not to get wounded while I’m gone, I’ll still have to make that ointment.” As you passed Lancelot, you curled a hand around his arm. “Hey, when you feel strong enough and up for it, Amelia could use some help with the firewood outside the inn. She has asked if you could bring some of it inside the inn, but only if you feel well enough for it. Otherwise I’ll do it. Just let me know?”

He leaned into the touch. “I will do it.”

“Only when you feel well.” You were firm on that. “Don’t tear your stitches.”

His voice reached a warmth that not even he knew it could reach. “I am in good hands if they do tear.”

You let go of his arm, trying to understand the reaction in you at his words. Was it your imagination or had that truly bordered on being flirtatious? Surely it was just him teasing about it. “You won’t like my hands when I have to do all that work again.”

A dashing smirk curved his lips at the threat, he let you walk past him and to the door, ignoring how Percival was eyeing him with great suspicion. Then you were out of the room before one of them could offer to come along, and by the time you reached the stairs you could hear the sound of steel being drawn. With hope that Lancelot was careful enough not to accidentally harm the boy, you left the inn to search the woods for the herbs.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  You had walked the distance to the woods, being on horseback would have been easier for paladins to spot you. Searching for the herbs was a good form of practise to train your nose to pick up vague scents. Not all herbs however had vague scents, some of them smelled strong enough that you barely had to bother using your sense of smell. After stashing your satchel full of them, you started to head back to the village. After only a few steps, you heard the warning whispers of the Hidden in your ear, a chill ran down your spine. With caution you kept walking, pretending that you were not alarmed by the feeling of being followed. You moved your hand to wrap it around the pommel of your sword. With each step, you tried to recall all you had learned from Lancelot to defend yourself. Leaves ruffled behind you and you started to run without looking back. The Hidden spoke the same thing over and over again.

    ~“Run. Run. Run…”~

    And you knew better than to question ancient deities when they were trying to warn you. Branches smacked into your arms and chest, bushes with thorns threatened to slow your legs down. But it was the sudden hit to your stomach with a thick branch, just as you ran past a tree, that made it all come to a halt. You stumbled and fell, grasping your abdomen as a dull pain seared through it. Nausea hit almost instantly, but there was no time to pay it any mind. The man attacking you was already trying to grab you. You kicked at his groin, missing it just barely, it was still enough to send him back a little. Up of the ground, you drew your sword just in time to defend yourself against his own.

“Your father is expecting you, Lady of Ravenwick.” he spoke in a threatening way and tried to disarm you.

For you it was the incentive to punch him in the face. The only thing he would be taking back to your father was your rotting corpse because he wasn’t going to take you back alive. Being struck made him ruthless, you struggled to keep your footing, then his sword cut through your sleeve and a sharp burning pain began on your arm. There was no time to inspect the damage, you were fighting for your life. He grabbed you by your other sleeve, again trying to steal your sword. A plan formed fast in your mind and you pretended to struggle and fail to keep hold of your sword. He grabbed your sword, believing he had won and you were defenseless. His victorious smile was wiped away when you sank your dagger into his neck. Blood poured out onto your hands and it came out even quicker when you pulled the dagger out again. Stumbling back from him, you watched him fall to the grass and choke on his own blood. A minute had passed before you realized you had not moved at all anymore. When you began to move again and picked up your sword, a heavy tiredness came over your body. Right away you knew it wasn’t good, there must have been something on the sellsword’s sword. Poison? The feeling increased with each step, your heart was hammering in your chest. It was as if you were in a strange dream, nothing felt real anymore. All you could do was go ahead on the familiar path and hope the feeling would pass soon.

Once you finally stumbled up the stairs in the inn, you realized you could not recall the walk to the inn nor arriving there. How much time had passed? It was a frightening feeling to experience. Your hand dragged along the wall for support whilst walking to the room. Fear had you in it’s hold. You opened the door, praying that it was the right one, and found Percival and Lancelot sitting at the table having a normal conversation. All you could hear were your own heavy deep breaths through your nose, still not enough air seemed to get into your lungs. Percival looked up at you shocked.

Lancelot whipped his head around to look at you, he was on his feet and getting closer not a second later. Distress filled his voice. “What happened?!”

Your tongue felt too heavy, your head too light. It wasn’t until he moved your cloak aside and touched your arm that you realized that blood had completely soaked the sleeve and it was dripping unto the floor. Everything felt so slow and so fast all at once. He was asking questions. Percival was asking questions. Somehow you were sitting on the bed all of a sudden, your sleeve was being cut off by Lancelot while Percival was hurrying around to get what Lancelot was asking him to fetch. Needle, thread, water… your mind failed to connect the items to their functions. You had started to lean forward a little too much, why else did the Ash Man move an arm around you to stop you from getting closer to the floor. You registered hooking your arm around his for support, holding on to it as if it was the only thing to hang onto in a rowdy sea. Your eyes closed for just a moment to avoid seeing the room sway. And it was the poison that decided not to let them open again.

Taglist:

@ourlazydetectivekitten ​​  @the-great-adventures-of-me   @linkpk88   @fxrchxldws @elenaoftheturks ​​  @slytherlight   @beananacake ​​     @crystallizedtime ​​ @moonlightaura03 @angrygardendeer @have-aheart   @5am-cigarette   @arcanenature @thewinterskywalker @notyourwildestdream   @coloursforyourportrait   @koressecretidentity   @nike90   @n1ghtlux ​​  @rachlovesactors ​​  @luckyzipperscissorsbat   @morena-doing-stuff   @the-fangirl-diaries ​​  @gipsydanger17   @heavenly1927 ​​ @phantasmalbeiing @labyrinthonmymind @asarcastic-thiamstan @rainyv-skies     @stclairesplace   @​​katjusja @isla-bell-blog   @beebeerockknot   @sahvlren @lancedoncrimsonwings @weird123abc @elizabeth-holland24 @kissingandromeda

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story. Using this old list from the previous fic.

[plothole-in-one]

Dancing with Deceit || Bill Cipher || Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I took three full steps back.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“What?! You don’t like presents? They’re organic! Very locally sourced!”

“I’m gonna be sick.”

He pouted. Pouted. “Fine, no appreciation for craftsmanship around here...” He snapped his fingers, and the teeth were gone. immediately popped, confetti bursting out with a wet, meaty splat.

“WHAT was that made of?!”

“You don’t want to know!” he sing-songed.

Right. Okay. So that’s where we were at. Teeth jokes and confetti made of god-knows-what. This was my life now. Cool. Okay.

I pressed my hands over my face and groaned. “Okay. Okay. I let you out. Yay for me. Can I go now?”

“You could..” Bill said, spinning lazily in the air. “But that’d be boring.”

“I like boring. Boring is nice. Boring doesn’t come with extradimensional horror.”

“Too late, kiddo! You shook my hand, remember? That’s a contract.”

“...What?”

He grinned wider. “A binding agreement! You invited me in! You initiated contact! You said, and I quote, ‘sup, shake on it?’”

“That wasn’t legally binding! All I did was shake your hand!!”

“Oh, ho ho!” He laughed, a little too loud. “You’re thinking human law, my dear walking meat popsicle!! I’m talking cosmic law. And guess what? In the Eyes That Watch Beyond Time, that counts as a signature!!!~”

I blinked. “...So what, you’re stuck with me now?”

Bill shook his head around and and his pupils rotated looking like a magic eight ball getting stuck on a bad answer. “Hmm... unclear. Let’s find out together! Adventure! Betrayal! Maybe a little screaming! C'mon kid!!!”

Before I could ask what that meant, the trees around us shuddered. I mean—actually moved. again. Like someone had pressed fast forward on the forest, and it was trying to un-grow itself.

I whipped around. “What the hell is—?!”

“Ohhh,” Bill said with glee, “yeah, that’s a side effect. You break a time-lock and it does weird stuff to the local geometry. Might be a bit... bendy for a while. Or forever!”

“Are we safe?!”

“Well I am.”

Of course. Of course he was.

"Kid, you really shouldn't hang out here too long!! seriously!! This place could start colliding. in on itself!!"

I grabbed my flashlight and stuffed it in my bag. “Okay. Okay. Nope. I’m going home.”

“Great! Road trip!” Bill said, zipping around me in a spiral of light. "I am coming with!! Hashtag BESTIESS!!!!"

“...I live in a trailer outside of town.”

“Oh, wow. Retro.” He snapped his fingers.“Very aesthetic. Very creepypasta-core.”

I groaned again. “Bill. That makes NO sense.. You’re not coming with me.”

“I am bound to you. Cosmic law. Plus, it’s not safe to wander the timeline alone anymore. You broke the lock. You’re on the radar now.”

“Radar?! What radar?!”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Memory leeches. Reverse-doppelgangers. The guy who sells faces in the alleyway”

“...You’re making that up.”

Bill zipped up to me again. “Aren’t you a paranormal researcher? This is the jackpot! Think of all the things you could study!”

I gave him a long, hard look. “I think you just want a place to crash.”

“I’ve been stone for decades! Let a space and time chaos demon have a break!”

I pointed at him. “No reality-breaking. No messing with my brain. No spontaneous eldritch puppets.”

“ fine. I’ll be good. Scout’s honor!” He sprouted a finger-crossing gestures with his hands.

I stared. “Whatever. fine.”

I sighed. “If you melt my microwave, I’m calling an exorcist.”

“They cant stop me!! I’ll eat them.”

“Of course you will.”

And with that, I trudged out of the clearing. Every few steps, I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting him to vanish or burst into flames or something. But nope. Still there. Still smug.

Still my problem.

NEXT CHAPTER>>

[hummingbird24220]

Chapter Sixteen: The Festival of the Sacred Fluff (You)

The next island was... festive.

Colorful lanterns bobbed in the trees. Music filled the air. Every street smelled like fried sweets, spices, and something vaguely burnt (probably part of the charm). Stalls lined the roads, villagers danced in painted masks, and there were streamers literally everywhere.

Luffy was already halfway into a cotton candy booth before the ship had even docked.

“We’re stopping here,” he declared, mouth full. “Forever, maybe.”

Nami sighed. “We’ll restock and leave. No chaos.”

Robin smiled politely behind her fan. “I don’t think that’s a choice anymore.”

Because standing at the end of the dock were six robed villagers, all wide-eyed and murmuring excitedly to each other.

One pointed directly at you.

“It’s her.”

“The Sacred One.”

“The Chosen Fluff.”

You blinked.

“…Come again?”

Before you could flee, they bowed.

As in: fully dropped to their knees with arms outstretched.

The leader, a round man with a truly majestic mustache, stood and said reverently, “You have returned to us, O Blessed Furred Flame.”

“I am so uncomfortable,” you whispered.

Zoro raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“I DID NOTHING,” you hissed.

“Then why do they have a tapestry with your face on it?” Robin asked, calmly pointing to a giant cloth hanging over the main festival archway.

Sure enough—there you were.

Or rather, a very dramatic depiction of you standing atop a mountain, arms spread, tail glowing, surrounded by floating treasure, with lightning and a suspiciously seductive expression.

“Okay, that’s... kind of flattering,” you muttered.

Luffy gasped. “YOU’RE A GOD?!”

“No, I’m just—!”

You were immediately hoisted onto a wooden platform and paraded through the streets to the cheers of the villagers.

“THE FLUFF HAS RETURNED!”

“I HAVEN’T BEEN HERE—” you tried, but it was no use.

By midday, you were wearing a ceremonial cape, seated on a throne made of decorative barrels, and being force-fed sticky rice balls while musicians played around you.

Nami paced nearby, rubbing her temples.

“We need to clear this up before you get declared emperor or something.”

Robin examined a scroll. “According to their records, a ‘mischievous divine creature with dagger-like claws and a love of shiny things’ once saved their town from a tax collector. Then vanished.”

Everyone slowly looked at you.

You blinked. “…Okay, I might have been here once.”

Usopp: “WHEN?!”

“Long time ago. I might’ve stolen a guy’s boots and accidentally started a rebellion.”

Zoro leaned against your throne. “Legend.”

Sanji handed you a drink. “I hate that this tracks.”

Luffy plopped down beside your feet. “Can I be sacred too?”

“No. This is my cult.”

That night, as fireworks burst over the village and the “Sacred Fluff Parade” marched past, you reclined in your throne, eating your tenth free dessert and watching the stars.

“This is fine,” you said smugly. “This is how it should be.”

A kid ran up and handed you a handmade plush of yourself.

You blinked. “…Okay, that’s adorable.”

Nami muttered from behind you, “If they start building shrines, we’re leaving.”

You grinned.

And stole another rice ball.

--

You woke up in a bed made of flower petals.

There were people chanting outside your window.

There was a breakfast tray of exotic fruit, an offering bowl of coins, and—most disturbingly—a life-size golden statue of you standing in the corner, mid-pounce, tongue out, with actual embedded rubies for eyes.

You stared at it.

It stared back.

“I have got to leave,” you muttered.

You tried to sneak out through the back courtyard in a borrowed robe and sunglasses.

Didn’t work.

A robed elder spotted you, shrieked “THE SACRED ONE WANDERS!” and suddenly a parade formed around you again, complete with horns and a goat.

You were presented with a ceremonial dagger. You stole the goat.

The goat bit you.

You gave it back.

The situation was clearly spiraling.

Back on the Sunny, the crew had mixed reactions to your extended godhood.

“She’s never coming back,” Zoro said. “She’s gone full cult leader.”

“I give it one more day,” Sanji muttered. “She’s gonna snap.”

“She already snapped,” Nami snapped. “She’s just doing it in style.”

Chopper sighed. “Should we help her?”

Robin calmly sipped tea. “Let’s give her one more afternoon.”

You made your escape at sunset.

You waited until the Sacred Fluff Fire Dance began—complete with thirty villagers in cat ears circling a bonfire—and booked it out the back of the temple, tail flying, cloak flapping like a dramatic villain.

Under one arm?

The solid gold statue of yourself.

“Too good to leave behind,” you wheezed, sprinting through alleyways. “They’ll understand. Probably.”

Guards spotted you immediately.

“THE DIVINE ONE IS LEAVING—WITH HERSELF!”

You tripped over someone’s rice cart. You bit a guy who tried to stop you. You kicked a ceremonial drum and shouted, “THANK YOU FOR THE HONOR!” as you vaulted a gate with the statue still in hand.

By the time you reached the Sunny, the crew was already prepped for a getaway.

Luffy stood at the rail, yelling, “DID YOU BRING THE STATUE?!”

“I NEVER LEAVE VALUABLES BEHIND!” you screamed, flinging yourself over the side with a clatter of gold.

Zoro grabbed you by the collar to keep you from tumbling straight off the other side.

Sanji caught the statue.

“…It’s heavier than she is.”

The villagers made it to the dock just as the Sunny pulled away, you waving dramatically with a rice cracker in one hand and your own gold face staring over your shoulder.

“I blessed you all,” you called. “You’re welcome.”

Someone threw a sandal at you. You caught it.

“Mine now.”

Nami sighed and dragged you inside by the tail.

“You’re banned from religious festivals forever.”

“Worth it.”

Zoro snorted and patted your head. “You’re an idiot.”

You beamed, hugging your statue.

“Yeah. But I’m a sacred idiot.”

[whump-in-the-closet]

First off, I absolutely love your writing! It truly is incredible. If you like the idea, would you be willing to write about a hero who is deathly terrified of fire and extreme heat? They have kept it a secret all their life, but the villain just found out about it and uses it against them. And the villain taunts them throughout the extreme mental and physical torture? Thanks!

more than willing! hope you like it and thanks so much!

cw: sadistic whumper, hero whumpee, burning, exploiting a phobia (maybe, idk?)

Click. A spurt of yellow flame shot up against the shadows as Villain lit their cigarette. They watched intently as Hero flinched back as far as they could in their restraints.

Villain exhaled a puff of smoke, leaning forward to breath it in Hero’s face.

And there it was again. The veiled panic, flashing across Hero’s eyes. As bright as any flame.

Villain toyed with the lighter. Clicking it on and off. On and off. They circled Hero, watching the city’s savior tense.

They stood behind Hero, still messing with the lighter. Leaning close, they held the lighter in Hero’s face.

Hero inhaled sharply, jerking back. Something like a curse, more of a strangled cry, forced it’s way out of his mouth.

“Hero, you aren’t scared of a tiny lighter now are you?”

“—No,” The lie was spat out too quickly to be believed. “No, no— God—”

Villain had shoved the lighter closer. “Methinks you doth protest too much.” They grabbed a handful of Hero’s hair, forcing Hero to look up.

Dilated eyes locked on the tiny flame.

Sharp, painful breathing.

Villain smiled. “To think the city’s mighty hero is scared of a wee bit of fire.” They held the flame dangerously close to Hero’s hair. A little closer.

“I’m not—”

“Oh, you’re terrified. Don’t deny it.”

Closer still. Dark hair burst alight, burning faster than straw.

Hero yanked against Villain’s hand— that was singed hair he could smell— burning, burning, burning red and gold.

Villain put the flames out by slapping Hero’s head.

Hero collapsed against the wooden table, pressing his face to the cool surface like it was his own personal coffin. Vaguely, he was aware of Villain running their hand through the singed patch of hair. “Don’t cry, my friend. You and I are you going to have loads of fun with this.”

***

Hero could handle anything. Had handled everything. Could take the punches, the pliers, the water boarding.

He could handle it all.

Except fire.

Never that. Never the curling scarlet that set alight every nerve in his body with throbbing red.

***

Open flame spiraled into the low ceiling of the cell.

Vivid blue and brighter red. The colors sank into the walls, the floor. They bled out into the ceiling. Heart-pulsing, throbbing red.

Bruising blue, the color left behind by a fist.

Hero stumbled, knees giving out on him. The world spun and fractured and burst into flame.

Villain hauled him to his feet. “You are so beyond pathetic. It’s just fire.”

Just fire.

“And sure you’re going to stick your arm in it, but, hey maybe after we can make s’mores.”

Hero’s stomach dropped. The words had been like a white-hot knife. “What?”

“Did you say you were left handed or right handed?”

Hero held both arms to his chest. “Please, please, please—”

“Begging? Huh that’s a new low.” Villain’s voice twisted into one of Control. Their abilities far outstripped Hero’s now, after weeks of captivity. “Put your right arm in the fire.”

Crimson-bleeding pain. Hero sobbed even as his arm was dragged forward.

—twisting, murderous pain started at his fingers and crawled upwards— a tattoo of never ending pain—

And Villain? Villain laughed.

Hero’s sobs turned to screams.

“Hey, Hero, Hero,” Villain snapped their fingers to get Hero’s attention. “Smile for the camera.” Click. “I think I’m gonna caption this as ‘Too Hot for You’.”

Again, that laugh.

[blumebluehte]

When I was in junior high school, an old lady took my hand and read the lines. She said I’d be too busy with life, chasing career, losing myself, passing by love just like that.

As time passed by, I met different kinds of love. Toxic, hurting, crazy, senseless, I could write a book about it. But one thing for sure, I was tiptoeing. Careful might be the word, I was always trying to please. I was afraid of losing, still am. Give up wasn’t in my dictionary as I was often set like that. Run run run until you get it. Maybe it drove me to be a hopeless romantic. I long for the love that is understanding and comforting naturally.

Then I met you, a calm demeanor that just sparks warmth and comfort. The love was flaming when we first touched, but your words easily calmed down the bubbling fireworks. In a sense, it’s really comforting. I didn’t know loving and being loved was, still is, this easy. Loving you has become something natural. Your being makes my love just pouring naturally without a doubt.

Sometimes, when my ego won over my head and heart, I did go mad at the complicated feelings and blamed you. I’m really sorry for that. But my heart always tingles at your name and I just knew, how many times the ego took over, it would spiral back to its place and nothing’s left than a love for you.

I often think that this is the love. I want forever to be the only option for us.

Remember when you said you’d still choose me no matter which gender? That was extraordinary. Something in me just bursted, so so happily. I feel so so loved and appreciated and I badly want to hug you and kiss you with all the love I have for you.

The thought of losing you was just.. unimaginable. Some what ifs crossed my mind, but it scared me. It scares me a lot. I feel like I lost my soul already. I only want to keep you close in my embrace and pouring you with thousand more loves.

Sincerely, I’m forever grateful for all the love you’ve given to me. I’m gravely sad and disappointed at myself for hurting you. I don’t know which one I want to wish more… to turn back time and not hurting you or wish the world is kinder to us so forever could be ours?

My heart is stuck with you. I don’t know what I’d do without you..

- S.

[quietwhispersofaffection]

Written by: Whispers of Affection

Edited by: Whispers of Affection

Date: 2/2/23

Word Count: 550

Status: YELLOW (?)

Warnings: …not sure. ends sweet(?)

Synopsis

I was feeling a little bit angsty but you guys should know how I hate sad endings so everything turns out okay(?). Enjoy this short one with our dumbest Todoroki, lovelies!

Accidents

Todoroki Shoto

He felt his whole world crumbling before his eyes. He hadn’t meant to do it. He didn’t even know how it had happened. One minute they were both fighting, not able to recall what the real reason for the fight was anymore, and the next, his whole left arm burst into flames. She had a look of terror written all over her face as she watched, unable to move. She almost looked like she was in shock, and he fumbled to extinguish the flames crawling up his arm and shirt, feeling sick to his stomach.

The moment he glanced up to try to explain to her it wasn’t what it looked like, that he would never threaten her with his quirk, she was gone. He felt white hot fear like no other course through his veins as he ran to their shared bedroom, only to fumble with the locked door. Hot, salty tears streamed down his face, falling to his knees, hearing her sobs from deep inside the room.

“Love, baby I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh god, please forgive me. It was an accident. I don't know what happened! Please baby let me in,” he called desperately, self-hate in his eyes. Was this his life’s legacy, to end up just like his bastard father, hurting everyone he loves? He felt bile rise up his throat and he rushed to grip it, pushing it down. If he didn’t open this door he thought he might scream. “Honey please!”

It felt like he had broken his own heart in the span of a few short seconds and he had taken her’s with him. His voice cracked and strained and his pleads turned into muffled sobs, slumping against the door in unannounced defeat. He heard her cries of anguish and weaved his fingers through his hair, pulling slighting as if to punish himself for ever putting a ghost of fear into her mind. This was never supposed to happen, no one was ever supposed to hurt their lover in any way, but here he was, crying because he knew he had hurt her.

“Honey,” he choked out, trying to talk between his whimpering. The usually calm and stoic Shouto finally spiraled into something dark and deep. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry. What should I do? Please tell me what I can do better! I’ll leave, I’ll leave. I never wanted to hurt you. Fuck, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to.”

He never noticed that her crying had ceased, reduced to sniffles, and neglected to see the door open from his hunched position. His hands were still woven into his hair, pulling harshly, and his forehead resting against the floor mats. He didn’t feel her presence until warm arms wrapped around him, holding him as close as possible. He cried out, moving to sit up and wrap his arms tightly around her, sobbing into the crook of her neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he kept whispering, voice breaking and slowly dying in his throat as he rocked her back and forth, tears still in her eyes. She had never seen him so...broken.

“It's okay, Shouto,” she whispered, voice dying in her throat as she gently stroked his knotted hair. “It's okay.”

--------------------------

© Whispers of Affection

I do not own any of the characters created by the mangaka of My Hero Academia but I do not condone rewrites or copies of my work. Reblogs are fine as long as I receive credit.