#not all of these things are set in stone. i am still working on her!

[rabbithaver]

"Pythia the mink was a scientist in Silver's future who was fascinated by the various powerful gems that exist on their world. She was studying the Time Stones specifically, running experiments on them and the like. When one of the experiments exploded, the explosion left her clinically dead -- just briefly. She was brought back by medical professionals, but she didn't come back the same person. The explosion infused her with the Time Stones' power, separating her from the timeline in the same way Silver is. People forget her as soon as she's out of their sight. She does not handle this well. "There's something else, too. The Time Stones cursed her with the ability to see into other timelines, dooming her to relive countless apocalypse scenarios every time the future is changed by Silver's actions in the past. Driven mad by all of this, she goes off the grid entirely. She develops a seething hatred for technology, as she believes that technological advancements are part of what led her to this fate. Instead, she turns to much more ancient, natural sources of power. She starts hunting down the Chaos Emeralds, desperate for a way to undo what happened to her. Finding them bestows upon her powers similar to psychokinesis (flying, moving things with her mind, the works.) She drops her old name and chooses instead to become 'the Oracle.' "Every time Silver goes back and alters the timeline, she gets worse. The universe is constantly shifting around her. Nothing feels real or permanent anymore, and she can't bear these visions any longer. She has no idea who he is or what he's capable of -- all she knows is that he has to die. It does kind of surprise her to find out that the one who's causing her so much grief is an unvaccinated 14 year old boy with asthma, though."

YIPPEE the OC i posted about a few days ago now has a backstory and name! and i've also assigned her a song!

i have a couple other things figured out as well. she has weapons -- basically hundreds of tiny obsidian blades that she can throw with her mind once she gets the Chaos Emeralds. aesthetically, she leans kinda hard into the "ancient witchcraft" vibe. her color scheme will include a lot of dark blues and purples, to contrast the gold elements in Silver's design. she's definitely gonna have a cloak and hood of some kind. i also picture her with long, curly/wavy black hair but i've been having trouble drawing that so we'll see lmao

Silver can travel through time, but he can't see the future. Oracle can see the future, but she can't time travel. at least, not intentionally... at one point she does end up in the past, but it's entirely because she pushes Silver through one of the portals that the universe gives him.

i want Oracle to be a parallel to Silver in terms of like... his situation is actually rather tragic. what if someone else endured that, but wasn't as strong as he was? what if it broke them? i want him to see her and have a realization that she's a broken mirror.

part of why i decided Pythia changes her name to Oracle is because Silver functions as a bad omen. every time his friends see him, it's because something bad is coming. they only see him when the world could end. i don't know if he realizes that, but it's true. is their joy at seeing their best friend again tempered with the knowledge that seeing him means they could all die?

Oracle can see every timeline where things go badly. she's experienced every world where he doesn't win, and it breaks her. so eventually she decides, why not make sure he can't win? why not be the dark force that heralds the apocalypse? if the world must end a thousand times for her, then maybe it should end for everyone else, too.

Silver is a bad omen being hunted for sport by someone who can see the future. there's a certain poetry in that, i think.

[beloveds-embrace]

Can we please get that Duke König with the neglected Reader please Noona I am begging

The sun was beginning to set, painting the garden in hues of gold and pink. You sat alone on the stone bench you’d started occupying often, the cloak König had draped over your shoulders still providing its comforting weight. He had been here again today, as he often was now, seeking reasons to remain in the duchy far longer than any diplomatic duty you knew required.

He never came empty-handed, of course: a carefully chosen book, a delicately wrapped sweet, or today, a small bundle of lavender tied with a ribbon. Simple, yet thought out gifts. Gifts with you in mind.

König’s approach was always quiet, unobtrusive. He never demanded, never insisted, always leaving space for you to breathe, to speak if you wished- or to remain silent if you didn’t. His presence was unlike the others you were familiar with: gentle, steady, unhurried. You felt at peace around him, pressure not pressing down on your shoulders.

Today, he had sat beside you, his massive frame hunched to match your height, the soft timbre of his voice like a balm. “The Lavendel,” he’d started. “is for peace of mind. It helped my mother when her days felt too heavy. She would place it under her pillow.”

You hadn’t spoken much, but the corner of your lips had twitched upward, just slightly. That alone seemed to light his face with a kind of hope you hadn’t seen in years.

Inside the manor, the atmosphere was tense. John stood at the window, watching the garden from a distance. Kyle leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Johnny sat stiffly on the armrest of Simon’s chair, and the latter simoly stared at the crackling fire.

“She smiled at him today,” Kyle muttered, his voice heavy with bitterness and sorrow. “… Haven’t seen her smile like that in months.”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair, his throat working as he swallowed. “An’ he’s the one who gets it. Him.”

“He’s a better man than we’ve been,” Simon said bluntly, tone cutting and sharp, but not wrong. “And she deserves better.”

John turned from the window, ashen. “It doesn’t matter what we think. What matters is what she chooses.”

“And what if she chooses him?” Kyle asked, his voice sharp, though the anger wasn’t directed at John alone. “What then?” The rumors would be dangerous…

None of them had an answer.

Days slowly turned into weeks, and König’s presence became as steady as the rising sun even as you began recovering more. He never pushed, but he was always there- when you wandered the garden paths, when you sat by the fire in the library, even once when you’d stood on the balcony, staring out at the horizon as though searching for something you couldn’t name.

It wasn’t grand gestures that softened you, truthfully, but his quiet consistency. The way he listened, the way he treated you as though you were more than a shadow. The way he looked at you, not with pity, but with reverence. You were not an afterthought to him; you… existed. Really, trully, existed within his eyes and he treated you as such.

And slowly, against all odds, you began to bloom again. A soft laugh here, a tentative question there. König never rushed you, only offered his steady patience and a safe space for you and only you.

They could only watch from the distant edges, the weight of their regrets pressing down on them like suffocating fog.

They tried to tell themselves it wasn’t too late, that they could still fix this. But every time they saw you smile at König, every time you turned to him instead of them, the truth became harder to ignore. They had chances once- countless chances- to reach out to you. To make things right. And they had squandered every single one and now there was just… nothing left.

And König? He was just waiting to finish this deplomatic meetings so he could take you with him to his nation. The divorce process should be easy to deal with, and he’d finally free you from this miserable life.

You would want for nothing with him, and he will ensure not a single rumor of your unhappiness will ever spread again.

[new-fandom-scene]

Speechless

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Tim's lights are on, but nobody seems to be home.

Word Count: 1,572

By the time Tim and Angela made it out and into the bar, the usual nine to five crowd was already deep in "weekend mode". Groups of girlfriends were giggling while taking shots of cheap tequila. Packs of guys were working their way through pitcher after pitcher of beer. Weaving through the loud and lively crowd, Wesley already had their usuals sitting at their table for them. Lopez hums in content as she greets Wesley with a kiss and a grateful smile. "This is how it should be at the end of every week", Lopez declares before raising her bottle and clinking hers against Wesley and Tim's glasses.

"So now you're expecting me to be sitting pretty nursing the first round, just waiting for you guys to get here every Friday?" Wesley looks to his wife incredulously and rolls his eyes. "I think I'll pass". Angela shrugs dismissively, taking a sip.

"Obviously not every week, Babe. You and Tim's next lady can alternate every other week". Now it's Tim's turn to roll his eyes.

"Right, because a beer wench is all I'm looking for in a partner. No offense, Wes". Wesley shrugs.

"Since I have no choice but to accept this fate, maybe I can help find my new coworker? There's gotta be a single girl somewhere in my department. I can ask around on Monday". Angela takes her turn to roll her eyes.

"I so need my husband to ask around about the single women at his office", sarcasm dripping with every word. Lopez tips her bottle all the way up, getting the last drop, before setting it back down on the table. "Timothy will get a pretty lady soon enough. But right now, he's gotta get the next round."

Stiffly, Tim stretches his arms out wide and lets out a sigh before pushing himself up from the table. "Next round comin' up". Turning swiftly, Tim makes his way to the center of the bar, but not before bumping right into someone walking the opposite direction and back towards their table. Instinctively, Tim catches the victim of his unwareness by the waist, steadying her before fumbling any further.

"I am so sorry!" You say, rubbing your hands together anxiously. "I definitely thought I was paying attention, but there are so many people, I- I'm so sorry!" You try to search for any signs of anger or frustration on Tim's face, but you don't find any. In fact, you don't even think there's anyone home upstairs, from the looks of it.

Tim's mouth hangs open slightly as he stares at the woman in front of him. A million thoughts running through his head as none of those thoughts are actually making it to his mouth as tangible words. He doesn't think he's ever seen anyone as breathtaking as you, or stunning, as he is literally stunned in front of you. "Ar-are you okay?" You ask again, bringing him a little back to reality. Tim nods, still frozen in place from the shoulders down. "Umm, okay then. Since we don't need to exchange insurances or anything, I should be heading back". The last thing Tim wants is for you to leave his space, but those words are still taking their sweet time getting to his mouth. "Sorry again, have a good night!" You say as you awkwardly shuffle around him and head back to your table of friends. Tim still stands there, analyzing everything, until Angela begins to laugh and Tim's defense mode starts to kick in.

"Someone better be home up there before the squatters try to break in!" Angela jabs while Tim slowly brings himself down to sit at the table.

"Was it- was it that bad?" Tim looks to Wesley, who grimaces. Tim clenches his jaw.

"She might as well have been Medusa with how stonely you stood, man" Wesley shakes his head. "But you know, there's always room for bouncing back". Angela throws her head back with laughter.

"Next round says you can't come back from that", she challenges. Tim swallows hard. It couldn't have been bad beyond recovery, right? He shakes himself out of it and the adrenaline starts to course through his body. Looking out beyond their booth, Tim spots your head bobbing as you weave your way back to the bar. Time to man up, Bradford, he thinks to himself.

"Get your card ready, Lopez", Tim smirks as he pushes himself back up and towards the bar. Angela smiles to herself.

"It'd be Wesley's card anyways!" She calls back, but her voice gets lost amongst the sea of people Tim wades through to get to where you're standing and waiting to be served. You can do this, Bradford. You're a very handsome boy." Shaking any anxieties out of his body, he taps you on your shoulder. You turn around to investigate, blushing nervously with a shy smile. Tim can feel himself begin to seize in front you, and, for not knowing him pretty much at all, you're starting to feel that he is too.

"Let me guess, you have an injury and we actually do need to exchange insurances?" You chuckle. Tim opens his mouth to speak, but is met with, yet again, an empty house. You're usually never this forward, but you've got a couple of drinks under your belt. Guess you gotta taken the reins on this one, you think to yourself. "You know, what? I've actually got the shittiest insurance, maybe we should just exchange numbers instead so I can make it up to you? Think grabbing dinner could compensate for the value of your injuries?" You suggest, rocking back and forth on your heels. "I-I'm (y/n) by the way", you add and stick your hand out for him to shake. "Guess I should have said that earlier". You pray that your hand isn't sweaty as you hold it out for him, simultaneously searching his face for any signs of life.

Her hand! Shake her damn hand! Tim yells at himself internally and pushes himself to stick his hand out to meet yours. Tim notices how perfectly your hand fits with his, memorizing the softness of your skin. "T-Tim", he says to you, which comes out more as cough or gasp for air. Your shoulders visibly lower in relief that you hadn't stuck yourself out there for nothing.

"Nice to meet you, Tim", you smile and continue to shake his hand. Tim can't keep his eyes off you, taking in every sparkle in your eyes and how your smile could honestly fix any hard day's work that he's ever had. He notices how there seems to be one piece of your hair that's about to fall in front of your gorgeous face and he resists the urge to reach out and stop it from happening. What else can I say? Think, handsome boy, think. Shit, we're still shaking her hand! He drops your hand more abruptly than he liked to, a rigid smile and nervous chuckle following.

"I like burgers!" Tim says loudly, also more abruptly than he liked to. Your smile widens as you let a hearty laugh escape.

"I like burgers too!" You say with just as much energy. Now it's your turn to make him chuckle. You watch as his body relaxes into a more comfortable stance. "Easing up a little bit, I see?" You tease, stepping slightly closer to him. Tim shakes his head and smiles, his gaze returning to yours with an amazed smile on his face.

"I don't believe I've ever met anyone that has actually left me speechless", he admits to you. "I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable in any way". You smile and swat your hand playfully dismissive.

"Don't worry about it," you smile. "I just hope burgers are enough to compensate for taking away your personal space and your breath away". Tim rolls his eyes playfully.

"Hey, I was still breathing" he lazily defends. "But a burger and some more of your time would certainly be a good start towards my compensation". You nod, impressed, and motion with your hand for Tim's phone. He opens it and places it into your hands for you to enter your phone number.

"How about your people talk to my people, and we can discuss proper reimbursement?" You hand the phone back to him with a smile. Tim reaches out and gets a hold of the phone, his fingers lingering over yours for just a moment before putting it back in his pocket.

"Sounds like a good start to me," Tim agrees, reluctant to leave your area of space. "I'll call you, (y/n). And I'll actually have more words this time", he promises and watches your smile get brighter and cheeks get rosier. He swears he'll do whatever he can to always make you look at him like that.

"I can't wait to hear them," you say. "It was nice to meet you, Tim". He smiles and nods before waving a small goodbye and heading back to an expectant Angela and Wesley.

"Where's my drink at?" Angela asks. Tim shakes his head slowly while pulling out his phone to show them your number. The husband and wife clap slowly, very impressed and surprised by the turnaround.

"So, where's my drink at, Lopez?" Tim shoots back, teasing. Angela looks to Wesley, eyebrows raised. Wesley sighs before pushing himself up from the table.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it".

[honeyhoshi]

scarlet, starlet pt. 1

summary: mingyu intends to make his girlfriend's wishes come true — all of them.

this a part of the man of the match universe

genre: professional football (soccer) mingyu, idol oc, porn with a little plot

wordcount: 3,251

pairing: mingyu x afab!reader

warnings: DDlg kink, d/s themes, both parties are safe, sane, and consenting adults, afab reader, lots of mentions of female anatomy, reader is implied to be significantly smaller than mingyu, making out, dry humping, finger sucking, fingering, squirting, huge mingyu, big dick gyu (canon), slight cum play, cum eating, exhibitionism, unprotected sex (pls dont do it, its not worth it), spit kink (bec i wrote it), creampie (also bec i wrote it), size kink go bbrrrr, bulge kink, dirty talk

author's notes: yet another work written for my lovely @madeforgyu! this is just part 1 of her birthday gift and is a part of the universe we have lovingly poured soooo much time and effort in. wuv u and all of that!

The excitement that comes with a new album and a comeback sometimes gets lost in just how complicated AM♡RE’s schedule has become. In between having to do pre-recording as a whole team, music shows would request certain members to be part of other variety segments which allowed other members to rest or even take on other schedules.

This led to fussy 4AM pre-recording sessions then running back to the company office to film overseas interviews and just napping during the car rides to and from one venue or another.  By the time the whole team made it back to the KBS building for the live broadcast, the only thing fueling you was adrenaline and obligation. It’s a so-so way of celebrating your twenty-fourth birthday.

You try to shake it out of your system when you think of the cute pink drink truck that was parked by the entrance to the studio that your fans were enjoying. You think it could be a lot worse because you did catch a glimpse of the many birthday ads all over Seoul as you moved from one location to another.

But still, it could be better too.

With all the last minute activities and schedules being fit into every free moment you had in the past few weeks, it had been difficult to really set any celebration plans into stone with your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend.

A pout makes itself present on your face the second you start thinking of him. Having Mingyu around would make everything that wasn’t ideal about your birthday just simply melt away.

At this point, a message from him would suffice. You’re no stranger to receiving and sending messages at odd times but after Mingyu’s good morning message, all your other texts had gone unread.

You’re wracking your head if he had mentioned anything scheduled today but you come up with nothing because you can clearly remember that he said he was taking the entire day off to celebrate with you.

The thought sticks even as you’re being ushered on stage and you only really snap out of it as you find yourself in front of the crowd, the rest of your members bowing and waving before you have to take your starting positions.

You shake it off, thinking instead of how you’re sure a message from Mingyu will greet you the moment you step off stage.

You’re greeted by something far better than a text message when the music cuts and you’re trying to catch your breath.

A large smile is still plastered on your face as the thrill and joy of performing courses through you. The cheers fill you with warmth and satisfaction, hoping that you had given a good performance for the live show’s crowd, but a voice cuts through the usual noise of fans.

There’s a booming voice coming from the side stage and a “That’s my girl!” that sets every nerve on your body aflame in embarrassment and pride in equal measures.

It’s your boyfriend.

It’s Mingyu.

A bright smile splits your face and you can’t help the flush that paints your face pink as the rest of your members turn to see the afternoon’s special guest. With everyone on stage giggling and whispering amongst themselves with their lapels turned away from their mouths, even the crowd was starting to realize that something out of the norm was going on.

You make your goodbyes quick, giving deep bows of appreciation, but the excitement coursing through your body can’t be contained.

Once your leader has deemed you polite enough, offering you a sympathetic smile and nodding towards the general direction of the backstage area, you can’t move fast enough.

You briskly walk towards Mingyu who, despite his effort at dressing to be discreet, is still the most eye-catching person in the room. Standing tall and proud in the hustle and bustle of the music show staff is the top scorer of the Cheongdam Diamonds, offering you the most wicked grin.

There are so many eyes around you. Looks of jealousy, resentment, and also awe are no longer strange when either you or Mingyu are in the room. Having both of you present just meant all of the above, but a hundredfold. None of that matters to you at all when you let out a squeal and jump into his arms.

You don’t care. You’ve stopped caring. Let them see.

You can no longer count how many bad ideas have become good ones when Mingyu whispers them into your ear. You can’t even remember a time you’ve said no to him and his clever ideas. Not that you ever would really, especially when Mingyu always makes it worth your time.

 It starts innocently enough, as it always does with you and Mingyu.

The second you managed to drag him into your dressing room, locking the door behind him, you had peppered his face and mouth with as many kisses as you could as he giggled and whispered birthday greetings every time your lips parted.

In no time, Mingyu had managed to wrap your legs around his waist and was guiding you as you slowly rocked your hips down onto his. The friction was so delicious even through all the layers of your stage costume but you knew that this would hardly suffice for either of you.

“I fucking hate these shorts,” Mingyu says with a grimace as his hands find their way to your ass, upset to find the layer of your safety shorts standing in his way.

Mingyu has always hated it when he would reach down and find your smooth skin covered with a seemingly offensive piece of clothing. On most days you barely wore any underwear around the house, just the way he likes it.

You love the little look of annoyance in his face and trace the lines of his eyebrows as you sit pretty on his lap, “They’re there to protect me.”

Mingyu can only snort at that.

You roll your eyes playfully, “Imagine if we stopped wearing these, then everyone would see what’s yours, Daddy.”

You feel his frown relax underneath your finger, “We can’t have that now, can we?”

“Nuh-uh,” You answer, allowing Mingyu to guide your hips. Even through the stupid safety shorts you could feel how his cock was pressing against the zipper of his jeans and Mingyu always knew how to find the cleft of your center to ensure that you were grinding your clit onto him.

“Why’s that?” He whispers against your lips, tongue flicking out to lick at your upper lip for just a split second.

You bite your tongue at the pleasure slowly building up between your legs and how he’s teasing you with his tongue, “Because this is yours.”

He makes a face of faux confusion before asking, “What exactly is mine?”

“This pussy.”

“Good girl.”

In no time, Mingyu has you strip for him and you stand before him, completely devoid of your costume. In the back of your head you can already imagine the frustration of the staff member assigned to assist you with getting fully dressed again, but the look Mingyu gives you has you pushing the thought away.

He’s sprawled on the couch as if he owned it and you’re dying to fall to your knees between his spread legs, but the second you move to do so, Mingyu grabs your wrist to stop you.

“It’s my sweet girl’s birthday today, so we’ll do all the stuff you like,” He says, standing up and crowding you against the counters littered with different makeup brushes and pots of eyeshadow and powder puffs.

“But I want to suck your cock,” You state as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Mingyu chuckles and you meet his eyes. You’re entranced.

“I know you do, love. But I don’t want you to bruise your knees when I’m dressing you back in that little skirt.”

He has a point and you frown, “How about tonight?”

He smiles as he brings three fingers up to your mouth, “Okay, I’ll even let you choke on it. Now suck on Dad’s fingers, get them nice and messy.”

You immediately let your mouth fall open and start to lap at the three fingers Mingyu offers you, savoring the salt of his skin and the rough pads of his fingers. If you tried hard enough you could pretend they were his cock, hard and smooth and so so delicious. Your little daydream has you salivating in no time, coating Mingyu’s fingers and lubricating them enough for what he’s no doubt about to do to you.

“Look at that little mouth go,” He marvels, “So small, three fingers can barely fit. Are you sure you can suck my cock?”

You’re shaken from your thoughts and immediately a look of distress spreads on your face, “Yes, it can fit! I can make it fit. You’ll make it fit, won’t you?”

Mingyu’s fingers are barely out of your mouth as you try to convince him. The look on your face makes Mingyu smile. It’s horrible and mean and you love it so much.

“Yeah, I’ll make it fit. I’ll make sure my baby will take it.”

You preen at the promise and wait in anticipation as he pulls his hands away from your lips and pressing his mouth against yours.

This kiss was not exactly a typical one. Instead of pressing your lips together, Mingyu licks into your mouth, his tongue bullying its way inside and pushing your own tongue out of the way. He runs this tongue against the roof of your mouth and against your teeth until you slowly start to press your tongue against his.

You groan in relief as he finally eases up to kiss you properly but tense up when you feel one of his hands grab at your left thigh to lift it up and prop it up on the counter. This position has you spread wide open for him. He loves it when he can see all of you.

The slick that’s been gathering between your folds is surely visible in this position and it makes you clench around nothing as Mingyu pulls away to survey you in this position.

“So so pretty,” He whispers underneath his breath, not even to you, just to himself, “Going to destroy this tiny pussy.”

That’s as much warning as you get before he presses two fingers into you at once.

Mingyu is bigger than most men in all aspects. He’s tall and broad, having put in so much time to get his physique to where it is now. His sheer size followed everywhere else. His fingers were long and thick and the press of two into your core has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Whether it was his cock or his fingers, you knew to always expect a stretch. And you loved it.

“Sooo good, Daddy,” is all you can muster as Mingyu sets a punishing pace that has you trembling in his arms in no time.

Each curl of his fingers sent a jolt down your spine that had you inching closer to the edge despite how Mingyu had just started.

“My pussy is taking two fingers so well,” He says, “I think three would be even better.”

You hate that he pulls his fingers out but you’re immediately placated when he brings the two fingers to his mouth to suck your slick off of them.

He makes a noise of delight before removing his fingers and leaning down. For a second you think he’s going to eat you out but instead Mingyu spits out the saliva and slick he’s collected in his mouth and lets it drip down from your clit. 

He moves back to take in the absolutely debauched state of your pussy, smiling to himself, pleased at how messy he’s gotten you, before spreading the wetness with his soiled fingers.

“Are you ready for three, little girl?” He asks, almost mocking. You preen at the nickname and at the promise of the stretch of three fingers inside of you.

Even with the preparation he had given you, he punches a deep exhale from you and he pushes three fingers. The fit is so tight that you can feel how the rough pads of his fingers are. He always did refuse to wear gloves when he lifted weights. Now you want to thank him for it, because the friction inside you makes you want to scream.

It doesn’t help how slowly he’s going either. He’s relishing in how your walls wrap around his fingers, how you tighten up when he slips in a little further. And when he crooks his fingers just right, he can feel how you’re getting just a little bit wetter, slicker.

“You take me so good,” He whispers against your lips, so close it's almost a kiss.

You’re breathless though, mouth slightly ajar, waiting for his tongue to slither between your lips. He doesn’t make a move though aside from a cocky smirk and an arched brow.

Mingyu lets his fingers continue on with their noble job of getting you closer and closer to the edge. Each push and pull of his digits inside you set your nerves alight, but the delicate movement of his right hands make you want to die.

Even as he’s coaxing and orgasm with three fingers on his left hand, the fingers on his right are tracing delicate swirls and unrecognizable patterns along your inner thigh. Every now and then they’d go higher, just by the lips of your pussy.

The pace is much too slow for your liking and you’re worried that your absence would start to seem suspicious. You weren’t at Mingyu’s training center where everything is kept under lock and key with a very well written NDA. You were at Music Bank where staff members were nosy and there was surely another girl group member roaming the halls, praying for your downfall.

“Daddy, faster,” Is all you can manage in between kisses on Mingyu’s jawline, licking a stripe to taste the salt of his sweat and that underlying tinge of just him.

You don’t expect his free hand to come and grip the underside of your jaw, his fingers long enough to reach both sides of your cheeks. He applies just the right pressure to squeeze your cheeks and force your lips into a pucker.

It would be cute if not for the look on Mingyu’s face.

“This is a birthday gift, angel. Be good while I give it to you, hmm?” He says as he begins to pick up the pace.

In no time the pace is punishing, the only thing slowing Mingyu down is how each push of his fingers back inside of you required a stretch and each time your walls made space for him inside you, you let out a little whimper.

When Mingyu presses his thumb against your clit, adding to the already intense pleasure, you can barely keep it together. In no time you feel the telltale signs of an inevitable orgasm.

No matter the method, every single orgasm Mingyu has ever given you was mind blowing, and this would be no exception. You feel the wetness dripping down your ass before you’re comprehending what exactly has happened, having difficulty in processing the immense pleasure coursing through you, your eyes slipping shut at the feeling of cumming all over Mingyu’s fingers.

Your walls tighten around him, even as you spill into his open palm and he continues to push in and out, droplets falling to the floor beneath you and between his feet.

Mingyu’s eyes are fixed on your entrance as he keeps you filled, pleased with how stretched out you are, ready for him to just slip in.

He pulls his fingers out only to move them to cover your clit, gently rubbing, keeping you on the precipice of pleasure, not allowing you a moment to come back to Earth. You’re in that heady space only he take you.

“Eyes open, baby. Watch daddy fuck his cock into you,” Mingyu says with a light slap to your face.

He moves and lifts your other leg up, maneuvering your hands that are wrapped around him to hold yourself open, keeping you fully spread open and seated on the dressing room counter.

Mingyu grasps his cock and gives himself one, two, three pumps to ease the initial need for friction, before he taps the now leaking tip against your clit. A pearlescent drop of precum falls on the hood of your clit and you watch, helpless as he harshly swipes at it with his thumb.

You hiss at rough handling but are immediately silenced when he brings the thumb up and shoves it into your mouth. He presses down on your tongue as if to wipe the cum off his finger. 

He grabs a fistful of the hair at the nape of your neck and smashes your mouths together. You love the way even his mouth seems to hold dominance over your own. The movements, no matter how unruly, are still just the right thing to get you going once more.

“We taste so good together, huh?” He whispers after fucking your mouth with his tongue. He pulls away slightly and lolls out his tongue to let a thick wad of spit fall from his lips down to your center.

The impact of the warm liquid has your gaping hole clenching around nothing.

It pleases Mingyu so much that he forgoes all the other teasing he initially had in mind and just guides the head of his cock to sop up the spit on your pussy before pushing in to the hilt in one thrust.

The blissed out sigh that you let out set him on fire.

Gone is the idea of long, languid strokes to stoke the fire in your belly. Instead he goes with a punishing pace that has high pitched cries slipping from your mouth.

His hands find the thickness of your ass to keep you in place, his hips doing all the work of rearranging your guts. In this angle and position, he can see how the head of his cock bulges in your abdomen slightly. It if was possible, he would have gotten harder.

Having already been so sensitive from hardly being able to come down from your first orgasm, Mingyu’s actions had you reeling into your second one in no time.

“My princess deserves to come already,” Mingyu says, slightly breathless, leaning his forehead on yours “Dad wants this pussy to never let him go.”

You nod in agreement, “It's yours forever. I love you.”

It almost seems pathetic for him to cum at those words, but it's a spectacular orgasm as he pulls out until only the head of his cock is inside you before he slams his hips flush to yours and letting himself flood your pussy with his cum.

You’re delirious as he keeps you steady,  pulling out so slowly to make sure you keep every single drop of him inside of you.

“Keep it in until you get home,” He says, “I want to slip right in the second you get through the door and still feel me inside you.”

You press your lips to his once, twice, and a third one for good measure before nodding excitedly.

“It’s your gift to me. I won’t let a single drop go to waste.”

remy @ahreumtouch • may 8 GUYS I JUST READ THE CUTEST FAN ACCT FROM TODAY'S MUBANK WTFFFF

remy @ahreumtouch • may 8 There's a special guest at today's live performance!! After the Midas Touch recording there was a really loud and DEEP cheeer coming from backstage. The members were all looking to see who it was ijbol!!

remy @ahreumtouch • may 8 Ahreum was so happy when she figured out who it was that after bowing and greeting fans she left the stage but her mic was still on!!

huhu our baby was probably so happy and giggly as she always is! the op of the fan acct thinks its Mingyu!!

thank you Mingyu for loving and taking care of our precious Ahreum! 🥹🫧🩷

remy @ahreumtouch • may 8 CONFIRMED WTFFFFF 😭😭😭 Mingyu was seen leaving Music Bank today!!

SIR U R A FOOTBALLER U HAVE NO REASON TO BE AT MUSIC BANK IF NOT FOR UR IDOL GF!!

[rivalsispunk]

Driving Miss Crazy (Chapter 3 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Series summary: Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), mention of male appendages (IYKYK), mentions of male orgasm, pussy pronouns, Tony being a grot, more warnings added per chapter.

Word count: 5.5k !!!

Chapter summary: Working alongside you proves far more difficult for Declan than he anticipated and you're noticing that your handsome, moustached boss is getting a bit antsy.

A/N: This is a chonky chapter!! But hopefully it is well worth the wait. I am livingggggg for tortured Declan and him not being able to keep himself together. As usual, proofread but can't promise clean edits. Enjoy!

© rivalsispunk please do not steal, copy, or translate any of my work onto other platforms!

Chapter Three: Driving Miss Crazy

Your Vauxhall Cavalier’s steering wheel is slick with sweat. It’ll be a miracle if you don’t end up with blisters on your palms from how tight you’re gripping the leather as you make the short drive from your flat to Corinium for your first day as Declan’s assistant. You hadn’t laid eyes on him since you fled the hot tub several days ago, save for watching his show on Thursday evening, brittle embarrassment nestled in your bones after your late-night encounter. Though Taggie’s snoring subsided when you both returned to bed, you were kept awake for hours at the thought of another O’Hara. The finger of whiskey you’d downed buzzed through your veins. Still, Declan’s bourbon-brown eyes boring into yours over the glass seemed to have intoxicated you further to the point where you were unable to close your eyes without seeing his moustache quivering over a miniscule smile. 

Though you were up before the birds the following morning, Declan had already made for Corinium, his Mini Clubman Estate already gone from the drive. It was purposeful, his early leave. After you’d escaped back upstairs with his daughter the night before, he’d made his way to his office, polished off his bottle of whiskey and shamelessly fucked his hand to the image of your lithe legs stretched over the hot tub, and the echo of you promising him you could handle it. The moment he spilled himself over his fist was the moment the mortification consumed him. Mortified at himself for disrespecting his albeit fragmented marriage like that. For disrespecting you like that, and he couldn’t bear to run into you in The Priory’s kitchen the next day and pretend like he hadn’t done so. Luckily for him, you didn’t cross paths all weekend either, thanks to being off shopping for workwear with Taggie, just as he’d requested. Being privy to your usual everyday attire and how uncomfortable you seemed in Maud’s clothing was the only thing keeping Declan from pulling the plug on your hiring. He knew you’d opt for something no-fuss. Conservative, even. Something that would keep his regretful, wandering eye at bay. He just didn’t expect you to make conservative look so fucking sexy.

“Knock, knock,” you greet him, materialising in his office’s doorway. You’re dressed head-to-toe in black: black wide-leg trousers, matching blazer and black Rolling Stones concert T-shirt stamped with the band’s trademark logo. Your hair falls in loose waves, and you’ve accessorised with black pumps, and a megawatt smile lined with crimson red lipstick.

Declan’s breathing hitches. He never stood a bloody chance.

Despite the awkward note you ended your last encounter on, you bury the uneasy feeling as you step into your new boss’ quarters. “Is that mine?” You gesture to where Declan had Seb set up a desk for you in the far corner. He naively thought it would be more efficient to have you work from his office than out on the floor with the rest of the staff, but his cock throbbing against the inside of his zipper now said otherwise.

“Er, no,” Declan says, scrubbing at his freshly shaven jaw. “That’s just—it’s not… I was just trying something out. Redecorating, or something.”

He keeps bumbling excuses while he ushers you out the door. He doesn’t stop until he reaches a desk that clearly belongs to someone else, littered with spreadsheet papers stained with coffee cup rings.

“You can set up here. I’ll have a couple tasks for you soon. I just need to take care of a few things first,” Declan snipes, stalking back to his office before you can get a word in. You tail him, his pert arse in his slacks barely a blip on your radar.

“Are you alright?” you question, your mind straying to the hot tub.

“Yeah, fine. Just grand,” Declan feigns, refusing to meet your eye while he pretends to busy himself with tidying his desk.

“Can I get you anything?” 

A new assistant. “Just a coffee. Black, one sugar. Thanks.”

You can hear Tony Baddingham’s scaly laugh all the way down the hall as you return to Declan’s office. The Corinium director is sprawled out in his chair while his star talent leans against the window frame, cigarette hanging idly from his lips.

“Ah, hello again,” Tony croons your name and you recoil at the sound of it on his tongue. You can feel his eyes trained on your body as you cross the room and place Declan’s coffee beside him on the window sill. He doesn’t thank you, just grunts around his durry. It pisses you off. If he’s uncomfortable around you after what happened at The Priory, so be it. But you’re being professional. Would it kill him to do the same?

You turn your attention back to Tony. “Lord Baddingham. How are you?”

“Better now,” he confesses, rising from Declan’s seat. His stature is imposing as he moves around the desk towards you until you have to tip your head back to look up at him. “It’s good to see Declan made the right decision with his assistant. Though I have to admit, I was hoping you’d wear something a little more like what you had on the last time we met.” He edges closer to Declan, jabbing him in the ribs with his elbow like they’re sharing an inside joke. “A little less Boy George, if you know what I’m saying?” Tony chuckles like he’s just cracked the world’s most hilarious one liner. Your tongue burns to scold him. If it were a grimy git at the local pub who had tried that, you wouldn’t hesitate to tell him where to shove it. While Tony Baddingham was a grimy git and then some, he was also the one to sign off on your future paychecks. So, an obligatory smile will have to do.

Declan isn’t as forgiving. “It’s not a fucking fashion show, Tony,” he snaps.  “She’s here to do research, not walk a bloody runway.” 

“And I don’t disagree with you, Declan, but this is my station, she’s my staff and I’m telling her to wear something more appealing. Just like what you wore to your interview. Now, that,” he leers down at you, and you wonder if he can see the fury buzzing through you. “That was something.” 

“Alright, Tony, that’s enough.” Declan flicks his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk and steps between you and Baddingham. He keeps his eyes on you over Declan’s shoulder, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

Declan squares his shoulders, jutting his head toward the door — a silent instruction to his superior. “I’ll see to her, okay?”

As Tony moves out of your immediate vicinity, his gaze rolls down your entire frame before huffing a one syllable laugh. “I’m sure you will,” he tells Declan, then: “My office. Five minutes. Cameron has some evil genius plan for ratings.”

You spend the better part of the morning waiting, making yourself a coffee, then waiting again for Declan to reappear from Tony’s office. He’s yet to return by half-eleven, at which point you stalk back into his office to make yourself at least somewhat busy. You begin emptying his ashtray and clearing his desk of empty coffee cups (and the occasional whiskey glass) before making a start on organising the tree of papers scattered across the rich timber. Half word-processed, the majority strewn with Declan’s skittish handwriting. At the bottom of the mess is some semblance of a to-do list with bullet points in no rational order.

Research agriculture.

Follow up Rupert Campbell-Black wife.

Lunch. Sinister.

Details. Westland. Michael Heseltine.

You doubt Declan has time to even touch any of those tasks with him being MIA all morning, so you park yourself in his desk chair and get to work.

“If I didn’t love this bloody job so much, I’d have half the mind to quit.” The string of Irish twang startles you from your notepad, and Declan appears equally as surprised to see you perched in his place. With a furrow in his brow, he scans the room. “You cleaned up?” He can’t recall a time his office had been as tidy.

“Thought I’d better make myself busy,” you tell him, popping up from the leather seat with your notes. “I hope you don’t mind, but I made a few calls based on your to-do list. No answer from the former Mrs Campbell-Black but I might’ve got somewhere with the Westland research.” You tilt the yellow paper pad in Declan’s direction, thrusting it into his hands despite the scepticism that paints his face. You chew the inside of your cheek while he reviews your notes, only stopping when he looks at you blankly. You can’t tell whether he’s going to thank you for your patience or fire you for sifting through his things.

“You did this? Today?”

You nod.

“Christ almighty. What on earth have I done without you all this time?” 

You grin, warmth flooding through you with the inadvertent praise. “Suffered?” you jest.

“I’m afraid suffering is part and parcel of the job,” Declan counters, not mentioning how much suffering is ahead for him with you now a part of his team. “You should head home. It’s getting late.” He looks at the window, where the late winter sun has set.

“I was always told to never leave before your boss.” “Darlin’, if that was the case, you’d be here ‘til morning. So, go on,” he swats at your arm with the notepad. “Get home.”

Without another word, you gather up your things — not much, a water bottle and small assortment of pens scattered across Declan’s desk — and throw a small bye in your boss’ direction.

“Don’t worry about Tony,” Declan calls after you. “He was bang out of order.”

You swivel, lean up against the doorframe.“And if he barges in again demanding I wear something more likely to land me on the cover of Playboy?”

A glimmer of you in black garters and barely there lingerie snaps through Declan’s brain. “That’s not what he meant.”

“Isn’t it?” Your arms fold across you. You had a point, and Declan knew it. Tony would have every woman in this office under the age of forty strutting around in nothing but heels and a thong if he could. 

“I’ll deal with him,” the Irishman settles on. He’s rather you covered up for him than dressed down for someone else. “You have my word.”

You bid Declan goodnight with one final, tight-lipped smile, offering the same to Deirdre and Daisy on your way to the elevator.

Outside, the sky is littered with stars, though their brightness is dulled by the stadium-worthy fluorescent lights beaming down on the carpark. There are far fewer cars left in the lot than there were this morning, so you make a beeline across the concrete to where your plum-coloured Vauxhall is sat on the outskirts. You savour the tiny bit of warmth the cab has preserved over the day as you shove the key into the ignition and—

Nothing.

You turn the key over again and get nothing but a singular clank from somewhere under the hood in return.

You try three more times only to get the same result.

Shit. 

You scan the carpark for someone who might be able to help but at this time of night, the chances are slim. Sliding out from your seat, you round the front of your car and unclip the hood, though you have zero clue what exactly it is you’re looking at. You didn’t grow up with a father who’d taught you how to refill your oil or check for leaks. You don’t think you ever saw him with a tool in his hand once. Your parents always sent away for things to get fixed and now, you were cursing them for not imparting an integral practical life skill on you.

“I thought I told you to go home.”

“Jesus Christ!” Your hand flies to your heart as Declan falls into position next to you. “You really need to stop doing that.”

A chuckle wracks through him, his shoulder jostling up against yours. “Car troubles?”

“I think it’s carked it. The ignition won’t turn over.”

“Shove over.” He motions for you to step aside, handing you his briefcase as you comply. A few minutes pass as Declan jostles metal pipes and knocks his knuckles against others, black grease working its way onto his skin. Eventually he steps back and pushes the hood closed with a clatter.

“Yeah, she’s knackered,” he declares, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Grab your things. I’ll drive you home tonight.”

“I can’t believe I’m asking favours on my first day,” you mutter, thanking Declan for what feels like the tenth time in the few minutes you’ve been sitting in his Clubman.

“You’re not askin’. I’m offerin’,” he tells you without taking his eyes off the road. You study him as he drives, all stoic and permanently etched with determination. His knuckles are white as large hands grip the steering wheel, silver wedding band glinting under the streetlights. In the small confines of the car, Declan’s overwhelmed by the soft jasmine scent of your perfume. It reminds him of a breeze through a sunlit garden in summer — fresh, but warm. Inviting, even, making him want to pull over and nuzzle into the crook of your neck so he drowns in it. He clears his throat as the need sets in, filing through his thoughts for something to distract him.

“Your family visit you much?” is what he decides on when he realises he knows little to nothing about you.

“Not at all,” you tell him, a sad laugh tumbling out after your admission. “My father’s a lawyer and my mother’s a psychologist, so they don’t really get much time away. When they do, they’d rather jet off to Spain or Greece or somewhere equally as picturesque.”

“You’re joking.” Declan’s disbelief tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You, coming from the likes of Baddingham and Co?” He had a hard time placing you within the wealth of the city. You were just so humble. So grounded.

“Is it that hard to believe?”

“Yeah, kind of.” “Don’t hold it against me.”

Hold your parents against you? No. Though there were other things that could tempt Declan if he just let himself go.

“But you’re so…” He steals a peek at you, then back to the road, considering his words.

“Go on, I can take it,” you say, anticipating a verbal blow.

I bet you can, he shamelessly admits to himself. Then, out loud: “You’re just not an arsehole, that’s all. Rich folk are usually right pricks.”

You can attest to that. Your parents easily fall into that category. “That might just be the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“And you don’t have a boyfriend? No uppity intellectual waiting for ya back in the city?” Declan doesn’t know why he asks. You’ve not sent away for anybody, not that he would’ve noticed, but he was sure he’d have heard about a boyfriend in all the hours you spent at The Priory.

“Not anymore.” You say quietly, trilling over the dry skin peeling away at your thumb. Not anymore. Your admission shouldn’t send Declan’s pulse galloping like a racehorse. 

You continue to divulge about Samuel, who you’d met in your second year media law lecture at university.. “His ego didn’t allow for two smart people in the relationship. You know, he told me that my intelligence is what drew him to me in the first place, but turns out he couldn’t handle it in the long run. Everything became a competition and it rotted our relationship from the inside out.”

“Hope you sent him packing.”

You shake your head. “He cut me loose, can you believe it? Got the shits when I got the internship at The Times over him.” As you roll over the hill leading to the village, the Clubman splutters when Declan changes gear, masking the fucking idiot that falls from his lips. How could any man not want you? The notion was beyond him.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Boys never know what they want,” Declan imparts.

A scoff scratches your throat. “What, and men do?”

You have Declan on that one. He glances at you in the passenger seat, then thinks of the years’ old snapshot of Maud that lives in his wallet.

No, no they don’t.

“I’m just up here on the left.” You gesture to the strip of shops on the left a few moments later. Declan pulls the Clubman to the curb and flicks the engine off. He arches over the steering wheel to get a look at your building through the windscreen, scepticism colouring his features. 

“You live in the butcher’s?”

“I live above the butcher’s.”

“Must smell like a slaughterhouse in there.” 

“Sometimes. It’s not all bad. The man who runs it, Mr Green, gives me a discount on meat. Chucks in a few extra sausages free of charge.”

“Free sausages, eh? Living the life.”

“Well, they’re Lincolnshire, so I’ll say.” That earns a chuckle from your boss, followed by a too right in agreement. You click off your seatbelt and gather your bag in your lap. “Well, thanks again. I appreciate it, Declan.”

“No bother. I’ll swing past in the morning and pick you up.”

You rear back at his offer. “You don’t have to do that. I can get a taxi. Catch the bus.”

“The buses around here are as late as a pregnant woman’s period. Taxi will cost you a small fortune. I’ll pick you up.” There’s no room for discussion or pushback as the Clubman roars back to life. “Seven forty-five, alright?”

Declan wasn’t expecting to have a heart attack before eight AM the following morning, nor was he expecting you to heed Tony’s suggestion, when you step out from your flat in a skirt that cuts mid-thigh, sheer tights and a skin-tight red turtleneck sweater, paired with knee-high black boots. You won’t lie: complying with Tony’s request made your skin itch, but you had a job to do, and you couldn’t do it with Tony constantly breathing down your neck. Declan’s eyes trail over the sheen of your thighs when you slide into the Mini, mouth going dry at the view. He’s about to chide you, make a comment about you already bowing down to the big boss. Then you bring up Michael Heseltine and the Westland notes again, offering your thoughts, and he’s taken again by how fucking clever you are. He can practically hear the cogs in your brain working as he drives you both to Corinium. You sing along to Paul Simon and Heart between ideas, your manicured nails thrumming on your knee in time to the music. 

Declan tells you he’s organised for your car to be towed and fixed up by a local mechanic — a friend who owes me a favour, he says when you protest — and that the work will take a couple of weeks. And so, Tuesday marks the first time in a long time that Declan consistently leaves the office at a reasonable hour, and driving you quickly becomes his favourite part of his days. The pair of you chat about everything under the sun, from your upbringings — you in upper class London and he in backwoods Ireland — to your favourite musicians — George Michael for you, Nat King Cole for him. You don’t ask about Maud and Declan makes no mention of her either, diverting the conversation when anything rears too close to their relationship. He’d much rather talk about his kids; complimenting Taggie’s cooking and homeliness, repeating some crazy story he’d heard from Caitlin when she’d called from boarding school, or bragging about Patrick’s accolades at university. While he was certainly stubborn and sometimes cold, Declan’s love for his children pared all of that back, revealing a proud and honest father. It was one of, if not, your favourite thing about him.

The two weeks your car was in the shop went by too fast for either of your liking, the drives to and from Corinium just not quite feeling right without the other. Your perfume lingers in the Mini, the result of your constant presence, every bit of you woven into the fabric of the seats. If Declan just closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, it’s like you’re still right there next to him, humming along to the radio or trying to pitch him wild guests for his show. You miss his dorky dad jokes, and Declan misses you giggling at them, your laugh a melody that warmed him from the inside out. You were still at The Priory often enough, helping Taggie prepare catering or the two of you lounging about watching Four Men Went To Mow, but it wasn’t the same for Declan. He much preferred having you to himself. 

While you became more comfortable with each other outside of hours, you and Declan also settled into a rhythm in the office. You fed off one another’s creativity, bolstering ideas and show notes until they were airtight. It only took a week for Declan to relent and set you up at the spare desk. It was easier having you nearby rather than constantly moving between his office whenever you had something to add to your findings. You’d also kept up your more put-together wardrobe; tight skirts, and blouses, and high heels. Not that Declan was complaining, but it made his life just that little bit harder, made him more than a little hot under the collar, whenever you bent over to retrieve a box of files or leaned over his desk to show him some of your findings.

There was a lot you loved about your job — the ability to ogle Declan across his office being up there — but you lived for Thursday nights when Declan’s show aired. Watching it from home on your TV set was one thing, but seeing it unfold live in the studio was beyond your imagination. It was incredible seeing your work behind the scenes put into action, and it was made all the better by Declan; always charismatic, stern and unwavering when the time called for it. He was magic, and no matter how hard you tried, you never could seem to wipe the grin off your face while you stood watching on the sidelines, and Declan loved to see it whenever he glanced in your direction. 

It was rare, unheard of, even, for someone to receive praise from Declan, the journalist’s standards so high that he rarely found anyone who could meet them. But somehow, you did. Your research was thorough, always annotated with further notes and references. You weren’t afraid to get on the phones and track down sources. His show, already a success, was made infinitely better by your addition. Not to mention, your coffee was fantastic. Not even in twenty years of marriage had Maud managed to perfect his preference. Still, he rarely raised his satisfaction with you, a simple good or thanks sufficing. No, he saved his satisfaction for moments he was alone. He’d officially given up willing his throbbing cock to flaccidity when thoughts of you creeped in during the quiet hours, allowing himself the quick gratification before the shame set in.

About a month into your tenure at Corinium, Declan was in a foul pit of a mood. He’d barged into his office already on the warpath. He barked orders at you and spent the better part of the morning criticising an upcoming guest, when he’d spent the previous day praising him. He even had you remake his coffee four times after complaints that it was too sweet or too cold or some other ridiculous excuse, despite making it the same way you did everyday. By the time four PM rolled around, you could count on one hand the times Declan had actually looked at you, each time egged on by a scowl. In your short time at the company, and with Taggie’s advice, you’d learned to let your boss be when the stress of the job got to him. Even if you’d built enough rapport to tell him to pull his head in.

It wasn’t until you were leaving for the day that Declan spoke to you without a growl in his voice. “You did grand today,” he says, the comment shocking you as you stood up from your seat. “I know I’ve been an arse all day. I’m sorry. You did a fantastic job, really.” His dark features were soft as he peered up at you from his desk.

“Mr O’Hara, are you paying me a compliment?” You feign shock, hand flush against your chest as you pretend to be scandalised.

“Don’t get used to it,” he tells you, a smile ghosting over his lips. He turns back to his notes,  but unbeknownst to you, he’s unable to read the muddled words on the page, his brain fixated on the way you cooed Mr O’Hara. All breathy and innocent and unintentionally sultry. You made his name yours.

He hates how much he loves it.

When Declan pulls up to The Priory that night, your Vauxhall is in the drive, and his one thought is that he can’t do this tonight. Can’t do you tonight. It’s late, already half-ten by the time he’s slugging through the door, temples throbbing with a Baddingham-induced headache only made worse by the Duran Duran blasting through the house. 

“Taggie!” he booms, dumping his briefcase and corduroy jacket on a chair by the staircase. All he wants is a shower and a whiskey, maybe a cigar, in bed, and he’ll be damned if he does it with the walls of his home rattling to the soundtrack of his daughter’s mixtape. Declan trudges upstairs, lethargy weighing his legs down as he stalks down the hall towards Taggie’s bedroom. Light pours out of the half-open door, followed by your laughter. “Taggie, Jesus fucking Christ, can you turn that bloody racket—”

The rest of the sentence dies on his tongue when you step into view, your back to the door. The black dress you’d worn to the office is discarded on the floor, the full expanse of your body of full display, safe for a plain black bra and matching high-waisted underwear.

“I don’t know, Tag,” Declan hears you say over the music. “Red or black?” You stretch your arm out of sight to retrieve two short dresses that you then hold up against your body. Freddie Jones had invited all of the neighbouring families and friends to Bar Sinister on Friday night for drinks and karaoke, and you were struggling to decide what to wear. Your usual jeans and tee getups were too casual, and your work attire was too, well, work. The stereo clicks, swapping out Rio for Bon Jovi’s You Give Love a Bad Name, pulling a squeal from the back of your throat. 

“I love this song!” you announce, pipping up and down to the beat. Your back arches slightly with each little leap, the ripple of your muscles accentuated every time you hit the creaking floorboards. He feels like a creep, lurking in the shadows, continuing to watch you through the ajar door as you dance around the room in nothing but your underwear, but he can’t tear his eyes from you. Declan worries his bottom lip between his teeth at the sight of your legs, looking impossibly longer now without clothing, and where they stretch into the sweep of your arse. He wants to take you into his mouth, bite down on your supple flesh, hard, before soothing the inevitable red mark with a sloppy kiss. His cock rouses at the temptation, the feeling of his pulsating tip pushing against his trousers making it difficult for him not to march straight into Taggie’s room and swoop you away to his own so he can show you what he thinks about all day while you’re across his office. 

Reality wracks the back of Declan’s mind. What the fuck is he doing? He if had a pound for every time he caught himself leering at you, feeling that heat coil in him until there was nothing left to do but steal himself away to privacy and relieve himself like a sex-obsessed teenager, he’d have enough to pay of his family’s London leaving debt and then some.

Sometime later, once Declan had gathered enough sense, enough strength, to tear himself away from his post outside Taggie’s door, the music in her room recedes low enough that you and your friend can hear each other without yelling.

“I’m going to head home,” you tell Taggie, sluffing out of the robe she let you borrow and back into the ribbed black dress you’d picked out that morning. “Early morning tomorrow and I do not want to catch your dad in another one of his moods again.”

“Fair enough,” your friend relents, passing you the outfits you’d narrowed your options down to. You shove them into your bag, which is already busy with notepads and teabags you bring from home, and tug Taggie into a hug, whispering a farewell into her mess of tawny hair. You slip into the hall and pull her door shut, the walkway enveloped in darkness aside from the small flood of yellow light beaming around the corner. As you head towards the stairs, you notice the light is coming from Declan’s bedroom, where he was probably reading one of those many memoirs or pouring over notes for his show tomorrow night, during which he’d interview the Bishop of London, Right Reverend Graham Leonard. He definitely had a whiskey in hand or by his bedside, and you’re put in mind again of that night the pair of you were in the yard. The memory elicits goosebumps as you pass through the sliver of light and by Declan’s quarters. It’s not until you’re nearing the top of the staircase that you hear a grunt that halts.

What was that?

The noise rouses again, though this time it’s more like a groan, echoing from the room you just passed. You backtrack a few steps — you know you should just be on your way, but you can’t help yourself — and peer into Declan’s room through the slight crack in the door. He’s turned away from you, bracing himself against the dresser by the window. He’s shirtless, and far more tanned than you’d expect for somebody living in England, his back all corded muscle and shoulder blades that pinch together with rigorous movement. His trousers hang low on his hips, low enough that the top of his arse is visible over the waistband, a sparse trail of coarse black hair blooming on his lower back. Under the light, sweat prickles on the back of his neck, and another moan slips from him as he pumps his right arm up and down. It’s only then that you realise what you’ve stumbled upon.

Declan’s none the wiser that you’re watching him the same way he’d done to you not much earlier. His eyes are clamped shut, shielding you from the anguish and pure filth they’re laden with while he lets desire run its course. His breathing is turning almost whimper-like with his frantic movements, while yours shakes deep in your stomach. Saliva pools around your dumb tongue, mouth lax as you observe Declan fist himself with so much savagery his whole body is shaking. It’s like a trainwreck you can’t look away from. A delicious, sordid trainwreck hurtling towards an explosive end.

Then you hear it. Only just. Your name slips from his lips so quietly you wonder if you made it up. 

It’s not the first time Declan has allowed you ownership over him as he tugs himself raw. He’d tried to deny it, tried to morph your image in his mind into Maud’s but it was no use. He was stupid for you. If it’s just him, his hand and his mind, who is it hurting? Nobody has to know. 

But now you do. You know what Declan looks like coming undone, and it’s abundantly clear that it’s you spurring on his animalistic display. An odd sort of pride shoots through you, heat blooming at your core, pussy clenching around nothing as Declan seethes oh, fuck, your name flying out his mouth amid a string of obscenities as he comes. Hot, white ropes spurt over his fist and down his aching length, and his heart bucks against his ribcage as his climax rolls through him, vision flanked white from the intensity of his orgasm. It takes Declan a few moments to gather himself, to come down from his high. He has to squint once he opens his eyes, the well-lit room a stark contrast to the dark corners of his mind. His back burns, as if someone’s stare is boring into him, and his attention snaps to where he foolishly left his door ajar. But the hallway is empty, and he hears your car chug to life in the driveway, followed by the unmistakable crunch of gravel under its tyres.

Eeeeeeeeek, now we're getting somewhere! Thank you for reading! Don't forget to like, comment, reblog if you loved this chapter as much as I did writing it hehe

Previous chapters: Chapter 1: The Interview, Chapter 2: Beneath The Surface

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ok I just saw your Vamp!Rhys brain rot headcanons post and I'm letting you know right now if you do not develop them into full blown chapters for Vamp!Rhys I'll literally sue for emotional damages ok thank you <3

lol I suppose I can make that happen ;)

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Ancient Recipes

The bed is, surprisingly, empty when you awaken, the last rays of evening light filtering in through a crack in the curtains. Your hands brush absently through the cold sheets as if they could tell you where he’d disappeared off to. He’s not usually up this early.

With a yawn, you slide out of bed and yank on one of his discarded shirts, leaving the silky button down open down the middle in a half-hearted attempt at decency before padding off in search of him. 

The library and game room is empty, the curtains pulled tight, the air a little stuffy. You can hear Cassian snoring from behind his closed door and a tendril of shadow still guard’s Azriel’s door handle, telling you that he’s not off with either of them this early.

Eventually, you find yourself wandering down into the kitchen, expecting it to be empty too, but figuring it’s worth a shot. You’re surprised to find Rhys bent over the stove, shirtless, sleep pants slung low over his hips as he carefully chops a mix of vegetables. His ears twitch as you walk towards him, a sure sign that he hears your approach. 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he says without turning. You can hear the pout in his voice without seeing the purse of those full lips you love so much.

“Missed you,” you say as you slide your arms around his waist and bury your head between his shoulder blades.

He sets the knife down long enough to run a hand over where yours hold his waist. “I was coming right back.”

You place a kiss against his spine before leaning around him to get a better view of what he’s doing. “I didn’t know you could cook?”

“I am a thousand years old, Darling,” he purrs. “That’s a long time to not learn how to prepare a meal.”

There’s an old, hand written book propped up against the stone wall, the swirling script fading under the cruel hands of time in a language long forgotten. The pages are brittle and yellow now, the date written in the corner nearly illegible. 

“What are you making?”

Skilled hands throw in diced vegetables and dried herbs into a pot simmering with some sort of red sauce. “Something my mother used to make me,” he says softly. “These are her recipes.”

Your chest tightens. He’d told you about the hunters that had killed his mother and sister not long after that night when those hunters had come for you. He’d, understandably, been on edge since, the encounter bringing up a lot of old memories he hadn’t touched. It’s little surprise that he would try and find some solace here.

“Smells good,” you say. 

He twists and pulls you in front of him, so you can watch as he works. “Can’t find all the right ingredients,” he frowns. “Some of these spices have been lost to time. I think these will work instead. Hopefully.”

Rhys dips a wooden spoon into the bubbling liquid and brings it to your lips, “Try this for me?”

You give it a second to cool before taking a taste, the mixture both earthy and spicy, but deliciously warm. “It’s good!”

“Yes, but is it right?” He insists.

You tilt your head up to look at him, brows raised, “How would I know, Rhysand? By the sound of it, most of the things you’re missing were lost to the world before my parents were even born.”

You think if he was capable of it he might have blushed against the mistake. Instead, he kisses the top of your head. “I suppose I could ask Az.” He licks a bit of the mixture, frowning as he goes, before putting the spoon directly back into the pot. Apparently a key ingredient in ancient recipes is a little bit of saliva. 

A moment later, the shadowy vampire emerges, summoned for this oh so important errand. Azriel’s dark hair is sleep tousled, shadows swirling lazily around his bare shoulders. Any other morning with the two males looking like this you would have climbed them like a tree, but this morning is apparently for other things, as Rhys nearly flings the spoon in Azriel’s direction. 

“What am I missing?” He demands.

Az takes a taste and spits it into the sink. “What did you do?!” He all but shoves the two of you out of the way to reach for the spice rack in the cupboards above your head. “Your mother would have beat you with that spoon.”

“I know!” Rhys huffs. “What did I forget?”

Azriel starts opening old jars of dried herbs and adding them into the pot. “Egg and thyme for one thing, dumbass.”

Rhys grabs the book off the counter and looks more closely at the recipe, keeping one arm around your shoulders to have you close even so. “Oh, yeah I did forget the egg.”

Azriel cracks four of them into the mixture, before throwing in more herbs. “You’re cooking it too high too.”

Rhys brushes his lips over your hair. “Wanted to bring it to you in bed before you woke up.”

You twist and lean up on your toes to give him a proper good morning kiss. “I would have loved it anyway.”

“Human taste buds are disgusting,” Azriel huffs.

You hear Cassian’s footsteps before you see the half-awake vampire stumble into the kitchen. “Are we cooking what I think we are?”

“Not if Rhys has anything to do with it,” Azriel huffs.

“It was for Y/N!” Rhys returns. “I didn’t make enough for everyone.”

“But she’s so good at sharing,” Cassian says with a wink, his sleep thick voice enough to make heat pool between your legs. 

Rhys lifts you up and places you on the counter, beside where Azriel still chops more ingredients, so he can kiss you deeper this time. “Mine.” 

“Not with your cooking she’s not,” Azriel quips. 

Cassian tuts as he comes over to Azriel’s other side and dips a finger into the now simmering pot. Azriel smacks his hand with the back of the wooden spoon and Rhys hisses, fangs glinting in the candlelight.

“How are you supposed to take care of the little human if you can’t even cook her a decent meal?” He brings his fingers to his mouth for a taste, then frowns. “Do neither of you own any peppers at all? What is this, baby food?”

“I added the aleppo, just as the recipe said!” Rhys retorts. 

“You definitely didn’t! Your mother never made anything this bland!” Cassian insists.

“I’m following the recipe!”

Azriel snatches the book, scarred hands thumbing quickly through the pages. “I remember it being spicier.”

Rhys frowns. “Maybe we’re thinking of that other recipe she used to make?”

“No that one was for dinner,” Cassian returns. “I definitely remember a spicy breakfast dish. Especially on cold winter mornings.”

“He’s right,” Azriel chimes in, eyes still glued to the pages. 

“I mean, our tastes did change when we turned, maybe we’re the problem?” Cassian asks, running a hand over his face in thought. 

“Your tastes change when you turn?” You ask.

“A little,” Rhys says with a frown, violet eyes on the dish. “Maybe you’re right, Cass. Did you think it was spicy, Darling?” 

“A little,” you reply. “It could use more, I think, but again, I’ve never tried it before so I’m not exactly an expert.”

Cass peers into the pot. “It looks right.”

Azriel sets the book back on the counter with nothing short of reverence. “Guess it is us.”

Rhys’s face falls, it’s like watching him lose a piece of the past. You take his face in your hands and kiss the tip of his nose. “I think any mother would be proud to know that you loved something so much that you put all this effort into sharing it, whether is tastes the same or not.”

His grin is soft, like the kiss he plants on your lips, taking his time to pull out of it.

“Thank you for sharing a piece of you with me,” you say.

Azriel scoops it up into four small portions, the wooden dishes old and reminiscent of a time long passed. Not the formal dining ware they bring out at parties, but a little piece of home that managed to survive the passage of time. 

It’s delicious, Az had been right about needing the egg and thyme, it brings a more rounded flavor to the dish. But it would have been equally fine if Rhys had brought the first attempt to you in bed, simply because he loved you enough to try and make something for you even when he could not fully enjoy it himself. It tastes all the better because it’s something the four of you can share, can make new memories out of. You certainly will not forget it, not even in the coming change of your mortality. 

“Well now you’ve got me curious for what other ancient recipes you’ve been hiding,” you say as the meal comes to a close. 

“You make us sound like we’re old as dirt,” Cassian huffs. 

You wink up at Rhys as he kisses your temple. “A thousand years is a long time. What else can you make for me?”

[teawithhazel]

How a Birdbath Changed my Witchcraft

This is a personal story that I wanted to share in hopes that it could help other new witches. It's a long one, so buckle up.

One of my goals this year was to forge a deeper connection to the land spirits around my home. I am still very new to the craft and this seemed like a nice way to dip my toes into spirit work while also creating an outdoor sacred space. Little did I know the impact it would have.

I did some research on offerings to land spirits and took into mind that critters may try to eat said offerings, and settled on just leaving water or inedible things. I also had to consider my less than open minded neighbors, they are decent people but I don't feel comfortable with them knowing I'm a witch.

A birdbath seemed like the perfect way to leave offerings as well as disguise the altar from my neighbors.

I set it up in early spring, after the frost was done. It was just a simple ceramic one with blue glaze (I wanted green, but they were sold out), I filled it with water and a small stone so insects could crawl out if they fell in, said a few words of thanks and did that everyday.

At first, it seemed like just a mundane task. I wasn't really feeling much from what I was doing until spring rolled into summer. I got the feeling like I had to keep that bird bath filled. I felt a pull in my gut that I still can't explain.

Then I figured out why.

Drought.

The worst my area has had in years with unbearable heat and humidity. We didn't get rain for months and when we did it was a tiny drizzle that barely dampened the ground. Most of the plants in my area dried up and went dormant.

My little birdbath was an oasis and was getting more than birds as visitors. Deer, squirrels, raccoon, skunk and opossum were using it to find vital water. I ended up getting a 5 gallon bucket to fill as well because the birdbath would get drained so quickly.

The deer got use to me and would wait at the edge of the woods for me to bring water in the mornings.

I could feel the gratitude every time an animal came for a drink. They had nothing but dry grass for miles and in their own ways they showed how thankful they were.

Yup, one of the deer stashed her kid right in my garden for a week. I usually don't read too much into animals as 'signs' from the spirits, but that is a little hard to ignore.

That was over 4 months ago. My garden thrived despite the drought. I had an abundance of cucumber, tomato, herbs, carrots, onions, and sweet potatoes this year.

Was my success because of my offerings to the land spirits? Some would say yes, some would say no. All I know is that I had the best producing garden in the neighborhood this year and a much deeper understanding of the importance of water.

[bonefall]

if you're stretching for shadowclan cats to use:

antpelt is mistakenly listed as from shadowclan in battles of the clans, and the wiki had him as a different character for a while. he also has an unnamed apprentice

shredtail is also mistakenly listed in shadowclan during bramblestar's storm

I am absolutely at the point where I'm willing to make absolutely ABSURD stretches. I'm affectionately calling all the extra cats I'm scrounging up from writer mistakes and background scenes "ShadowClan's Glitch Warriors." Thank you so much for pointing these three out, they're going in the list.

Suddenly, I was struck with an absolutely hilarious idea. Partner wanted something fun to draw but still has read absolutely nothing about Warriors, so I pitched;

"I will tell you nothing about these characters or who they are except their names. Draw a Shredtail, an Antpelt, and Antpelt's apprentice. TOTAL freedom over the designs here."

First they drew this lmao,

"This is a joke," they clarified

"NO I LOVE IT," I said, "KEEP GOING"

So we got Dollar Tree Shredtail, Great Value Antpelt, and the best thing I've ever seen in my life. Once they put these designs down, we talked personality and differentiators from the canon counterparts while they colored and refined them;

I loved the bushy gaster tail so much that I swore on the spot I was going to work it upwards into a whole bloodline, including the very obscure background warrior in AVOS, Wasptail. So even though they're mentor and apprentice in BOTC, I've decided these two will also be related. Probably siblings, or auncle/nespring.

The little black one is based off an Admiral Butterfly (it was my idea to make the little spots on their chest look like medals), so the name seems clear to me. Admiralpaw. Xey'll be meewa unless another gender works better; and I'm planning for xem to go out during a bloody battle against The Kin in true admiral style.

(funfact; admiral butterflies are extremely territorial. Males fight each other for control of a plant to attract females to.)

Warrior name is still undecided, though. Open to suggestions, leaning towards Admiralflight or Admiralflower.

Not-Antpelt I'm having name troubles with. I REALLY wanted to name them Majorheart, after a major ant, to keep the "military ranking + bug" pun that Addy's got... but it seems that none of the ants in this area would have a major caste. B'awww.

In the meanwhile, Antspot works fine. Alatefang or Dronepelt could work, too. Feel free to shout out suggestions, this guy's name and gender aren't set in stone.

Lastly, here's Diet Shreddy. Girl now <3

She is 100% going to be killed during The Battle of the True Eclipse, keeping consistent with the mistake in Bramblestar's Storm where Blackstar mournfully calls out the name of a Dark Forest warrior. I'm also undecided on if the actual Shredtail himself dies during that battle in BB, it might just be her.

In any case, she's probably going to be a TPB girl. If she's born during Brokenstar's time, she's one of the younger ShadowClan cats to take part in the WindClan Massacre. Might even be an early apprentice at the time, in a similar situation to Badgerfang (though in BB this was a one-time thing). If not during Brokenstar, then sometime during Nightstar's brief reign.

Right now she has no family, she's in my "reserves" at the side to use as a patch between generations. Her name is probably going to be either Tattertail or Shredclaw, given as an Honor Title after the Battle of BloodClan.

So she had a previous warrior name as well. She seems like the kind of troublemaker who would have the prefix Sike-- a small stream that dries up in summer. Sikestripe, if her name was given by Nightstar, or Sikestrike, if it was given by Tigerstar. Maybe it was one and then the other, in a sign of disrespect to his predecessor's lie.

[saveyourblood]

Pretty Boy - Ch 1 (Evan Buckley x Reader) (Eventual Evan Buckley x Eddie Diaz x Reader)

Summary: You can feel Buck staring. When your eyes meet his, you realize he’s staring at your hand, which is still on Eddie’s knee. You slowly retreat, which makes Buck turn his attention to your face. You smile softly. He just looks out the window. The one where you're an advanced paramedic, Buck and Eddie are firefighters, and you think you might be in love with both of them. Originally posted to AO3

Chapter Summary: Your new(ish) co-worker has a special talent: getting on your nerves.

A/N: This is such a niche story and I am desperate for validation, please tell me if you enjoyed reading! Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: Swearing (if that even counts).

You’re ending the first half of your 24-hour shift the same way you always do—dinner with the team. Well, at least that’s how you try to end the first half of your shift. Of course, that’s also assuming that both the fire and medical teams are actually at the station and not on a call.

All things considered, this probably only happens once a week, if that.

When it works out, though, it’s a good time. You already spend a lot of time in the rig with Hen and Chim, being an advanced paramedic and all. When it comes to the firefighters, though, you aren’t as well-versed, so it’s nice to have a weekly ‘getting to know you’ session. It seems like these days, it’s a 50/50 shot if they’ll make it to next week's dinner.

The firefighting crew at the 118 is a revolving door of macho men. When you first started, it was Chim, Tommy, and Sal. Chim became a paramedic, so he didn’t exactly ‘leave.’ Sal got relieved of duty, so he didn’t really have a choice. Tommy left, but for something better. Maybe it isn’t so much the job that makes people leave; maybe being a firefighter at the 118 is a stepping stone for bigger and better things.

There is one firefighter that, if he left, you wouldn’t be heartbroken. In fact, it would probably make your shifts a whole lot better.

Evan Buckley, aka ‘Buck.’ God, even thinking his name makes you want to gag a little.

He’s a decent kid, but he’s just that: a kid. He’s a Probie; he’s only been on the job for about 4 months, and no one would assume otherwise. His heart is in the right place, but his brain hasn’t caught up yet. You’re starting to fear it never will.

“I know exactly what that polite, distant smile means: she’s bored,” Chim says as he leans over the counter, pulling you right out of your thoughts and back into reality. “This woman is so far out of my league, but she’s once-in-a-lifetime… I can’t let her go.”

“Lots of fish in the sea,” Bobby, your captain, chimes in. He leans over to pull something out of the oven.

“Not with the bait he’s using,” Hen remarks as she walks by. Her arms are full of dishes to set the table with.

“Amen, sister,” you agree, hot on her heels. She gives you a small smile and hands you the plates, which you accept with a smile of your own.

“Cruel, but true,” Chim sighs. “I met her on this new dating site, just for cops and firefighters, RomancingTheUniform.com. She’s an adrenaline junkie, so foreplay is me telling her stories about running into burning buildings and jumping into icy lakes and…”

“I’m sorry, wait,” Hen interrupts, “remind me: when was the last time you ran into or jumped over anything?”

“...I embellish a little.”

“Oh, noted.”

“So is she a cop or a firefighter?” You ask.

Chim gives you a look. “Why would she be?”

“Well, you said the website is for cops and firefighters,” you repeat. “Doesn’t that make her a cop or a firefighter?”

“Okay, it’s not just cops and firefighters,” Chim cedes, “it’s also for people that want to date cops and firefighters.”

“Ohhh,” you smile, “so cops, firefighters, and badge bunnies. What could possibly go wrong?”

“I’m telling you, the uniform is a major aphrodisiac,” Chim continues as he brings a salad to the table.

“Yeah, hence the term ‘badge bunny,’” you remark.

The conversation is interrupted by one of the engines backing into the station. You probably should have noticed it was gone, but frankly, as long as your rig is in the bay safe and sound, you don’t care what the meatheads are up to.

Speaking of meatheads…

“Oh good, PB is back,” you remark sarcastically.

‘PB’, aka ‘pretty boy,’ aka Buck. You started calling him Pretty Boy his first day, and over the months, you shortened it. He jogs his way up the stairs and dips a finger in the communal spaghetti bowl. You roll your eyes and take a sip of your coffee.

“Wash your hands!” Hen scolds as she pulls the bowl out of his reach.

“What if there’d been a call?” Bobby asks as he brings the last dishes to the table.

“I was in the neighborhood!” Buck defends himself. He takes one of the plates from Bobby’s grasp, but instead of passing it around like a normal person, he starts eating the food off the plate with his dirty hands. Sometimes, you wondered if he was raised by a pack of stray dogs.

Bobby starts lecturing Buck, and you smirk with a little satisfaction. Bobby’s going to write him up, and truthfully? It’s a long time coming.

“First infraction, two more, and you’re out,” Bobby says as he steals back the plate. “Wash your hands.”

“You know, you're not helping him by going easy on him,” Chim says once Buck is out of earshot.

“He just needs a little direction,” Bobby replies.

“I’ll remind you of that when he gets us killed,” you mumble.

The alarm bells start to sound through the station. Everyone groans, including yourself. So much for dinner.

Chim decided to catch a ride with the boys in the truck, so that leaves you and Hen in the rig.

“I’m sorry, dispatch,” you say into the radio, “118 RA responding: did you say the baby is in the wall?”

“10-4, 118,” the dispatcher responds. “Caller reports hearing a baby crying in his walls.”

“Copy that, 118 RA clear,” you say before hanging the radio back up. “Well, this will be fun.”

“You think you can play nice with Buck?” Hen asks, a smirk on her face.

“Hey, I’m always nice,” you reply.

“Not to him!” She laughs. “Don’t think I didn’t see you roll your eyes the second he got back to the station.”

“I can play nice and still think he’s a raging idiot,” you defend. “Besides, since when are you his biggest fan?”

“Trust me, I’m not,” Hen chuckles. “And I love you, but you don’t know how to play nice.”

“Why be the bigger person when you can be the bigger problem?”

That remark gets a full belly laugh out of Hen. “Yeah, that sounds like you.”

Hen parks the rig behind the engine in front. The boys come pouring out immediately, grabbing various tools and equipment. You make your way to the back of the ambulance, tossing Hen her med bag before picking up your own.

You follow the rest of the crew upstairs, and before you know it, the five of you are standing in some random guy’s apartment, listening for something that probably isn’t real.

“Look, I'm telling you, I heard a baby crying,” the man says. “Someone flushed a baby down the toilet.”

Hen picks up a bong off the counter and gives the man a look.

“I’m not high.”

You both raise your eyebrows.

“Okay, I’m pretty high, but it’s Sativa,” he says. “It makes you happy. It doesn’t make you hallucinate.”

“It could’ve been a rat,” Chim shrugs. “Sometimes rats get stuck in the walls.”

You frown. At the end of his sentence, you swore you heard a cooing sound.

“Shh,” you say to everyone, walking over to the bathroom. “Did you guys hear that?”

They're hot on your heels, watching as you take your stethoscope from around your neck and put it into your ears. You place the bell on the wall and wait. When you hear nothing, you begin rapping your knuckles on the tile until you do. Once again, it’s a faint cooing sound, not unlike a baby.

You then knock your knuckles on the wall until you hear a hollow sound. You take a marker from your pants pocket and mark an ‘x’ over it, knowing the space behind it is hollow. You take the stethoscope out from your ears.

“We need to open up this wall,” you say, pointing to the ‘x.’

“No, we’re being punked,” Chim disagrees. “It’s a tape recorder or something.”

“Maybe not,” Hen says, stepping forward. “Maybe a mother gives birth on the toilet and flushes it.”

“Okay, first of all, that's awful,” Chim says. “Second, do you know how pipes work?”

“If the baby is premature, its bones can bend and compress like sponges,” Bobby mentions. “We need to get in there.”

“Stand back, I got this!” Buck says, swinging his fire axe over his shoulder.

He runs up towards the wall with full intentions of swinging. Hen and Chim move out of the way and shout while Bobby tries to grab him. Ultimately, you’re the one to stop him, and you do it by placing both hands on the axe.

“Hey! Did you even stop to consider that you might hit a baby?!” You shout, adrenaline pumping through your bloodstream.

Buck just stares at you with wide eyes.

“Yeah, didn’t think so,” you spat, pushing the axe out of the way.

“Buck, go get the saw,” Bobby directs.

“Try to find some common sense while you’re down there,” you call after Buck as he walks out.

“Nice catch,” Bobby says, looking at you.

“How nice of me to save the baby from one of the LAFD’s finest first responders,” you reply bitterly.

You can’t help but look at Hen, who quickly looks away. Her avoidance gives you a small sense of victory because this? This shit right here? This is why you can’t play nice with Buck. His head is screwed on backward, and it can get people killed. Playing nice isn’t going to fix that.

Thankfully, Bobby takes the saw from Buck once he brings it up. He makes a few small cuts in the wall before he and the other boys are pulling at the drywall. They quickly expose a massive pipe running behind the toilet.

“That thing is huge,” you remark to Hen.

“It probably connects a bunch of the toilets in the units above this one,” Hen returned.

“So… even with the water turned off…” you start, a sense of dread filling your stomach.

“If someone above us flushes the toilet, it could drown the baby,” Hen finishes. Almost before she finishes the sentence, she’s running into the hall, yelling for people not to flush their toilets. The boys make a few cuts into the pipe, and in no time, they’re taking it to the floor.

“Guys, I can see the head,” you say, joining them on the floor.

They make a few more cuts until the pipe is one straight segment.

“Get the head out,” Chim instructs.

“Yeah, you gotta push from below,” Buck chimes in.

You try that, but the baby isn’t moving. You look to the corner, then at Buck.

“Bring me the defibrillator,” you instruct clearly.

Buck scrambles over, picking up the case.

“Just the lube, Buck,” you rephrase, but he’s already coming back with the whole thing.

“Take it, take it,” Buck says, passing it off to you.

You let out a frustrated sigh before grabbing the lube out and tossing the rest of it to the side. You pour some lube on the baby’s head, then down by its feet.

“Work that in,” you tell Chim.

You move your index finger around the circumference of the pipe, brushing the baby’s legs with lubricant as you do so. Then, you gently apply pressure to its feet, and slowly, you can feel it move forward.

“This is gonna be a scoop and run,” you mumble.

“Hen, get the ambulance ready,” Bobby tells her. You’re not sure when she got back, but when you look up again, she’s gone again.

Slowly, the baby’s head emerges from the pipe, and the rest of her body follows.

“She’s not breathing,” you quickly note, “starting CPR.”

You place your index and middle finger in the center of the baby’s chest and press down fast and hard. “Looks like her airway’s obstructed.”

“Buck, get the bulb syringe,” Chim demands. A few seconds pass. “Buck, come on!”

“I’m coming!” Buck barks back, clearly in a panic.

“Come on, pretty girl,” you say quietly as you continue compressions. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Buck returns with the bulb syringe and uses it, but it doesn’t help.

“Dammit,” you curse. “You’ll have to try a blind finger sweep.”

Buck looks at you, then Chimney, then the baby, then back at you. “Me?”

“You gotta learn somehow,” you remark. “It’s easy: just turn her head to the side, curl your pinkie, and see if you can scoop anything out.”

Buck is hesitant initially, but he eventually does as you tell him. It takes a few seconds, but he manages to clear the obstruction, and the baby begins crying. Everyone laughs with relief.

“Let’s get her wrapped up,” you say, reaching for a towel.

The four of you rush down the hall, you with the baby in your arms. The pit in your stomach returns.

“No one held the elevator?!” you yell.

“Dammit,” Chim curses.

“Give her to me,” Buck says, nodding to the stairs.

You stare at him.

“Come on, I’m twice as fast,” Buck pleads.

“Screw this up, and I’ll kill you,” you threaten before carefully handing her over.

Buck takes off down the stairs, but you follow after. There’s only so much that can happen in a few flights of stairs, but you aren’t willing to risk it.

“I got you,” Buck says to the baby, “you’ll be okay.”

A faint smile crosses your face. Maybe Buck isn’t so terrible after all.

“Come on, move it!” Buck shouts as you both make it out of the lobby and out to the rig.

You climb into the ambulance with him, but before either of you can even sit down, you hear someone yelling to wait. It’s not just anyone: it’s LAPD Sergeant Grant, or as you’ve heard Hen calls her, Athena.

“Wait, is that the mother?” Buck says, looking at the young woman with blood-stained pants in someone’s arms. “Yo, screw her! Look what she did!”

Never mind. Buck is still terrible.

“Sit down and shut up!” You yell at Buck. “This is not your call! She is a child, and she’s bleeding out!”

“Look what she did!” Buck repeated.

“Come on, let’s get her up here,” you say to Athena and the man carrying the young girl, disregarding Buck’s protests.

Bobby and Chim made it down, so they help haul the young girl up into the rig. Chim stays at the head while Bobby sits next to Buck, the spot you were about to sit in mere moments ago.

“If this baby dies, it’s on you,” Buck says, staring at Athena.

“Stop talking, Evan,” you snap as someone closes the ambulance doors.

Using his actual name seems to shut him up.

“What’s your name, honey?” You ask the baby’s mother as you cut away her shirt to place EKG leads.

“Marika,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I know you’re scared, Marika, but you just have to keep breathing for me, okay?” you say. “My friend Howie is going to start an IV so we can give you fluids and medication. You’re bleeding a lot, so I have to do what’s called a fundal exam, okay? I have to press on your stomach to make sure your uterus is contracting back down normally.”

She stares at you, eyes filled with tears, before eventually nodding.

Using one hand to stabilize over the pubis, you begin pressing down the other into Marika’s stomach, a few fingerbreadths below her belly button. She lets out a few whimpers. You don’t feel the fundus, or the top of the uterus, like you should.

“Marika, you’re bleeding a lot because your uterus isn’t contracting. I have to make it contract by doing a fundal massage. It won’t feel that good, but it could save your life.”

Once again, Marika looks at you before nodding. This time, she closes her eyes.

Using firm and consistent pressure, you push one hand down where the fundus should be and make small circles. Marika lets out a few more cries of pain. You notice that, after a few minutes, the bleeding starts to slow, and her uterus firms up beneath your hands.

“Hospital ETA 5 minutes, hang in,” Hen chimes in from the ambulance's cab.

“Something’s wrong,” Buck says, staring at the baby in his arms.

You quickly move over to him. “Put her in your lap so I can see.”

Buck listens, moving away the towel so you can look at the baby. She’s cyanosed around the lips. You flip open a compartment and pull out the neonatal ambu bag. You hand it to Bobby, and you don’t even have to tell him to start bagging.

“I’m so sorry,” Marika says. “Is she gonna be okay?”

Bobby squeezes the bag every other second, delivering a breath to the baby. Her color is starting to look better, but she isn’t very responsive.

“Here, let me try something,” you say.

You gently pick up the baby and set it on Marika’s bare chest. After a few moments, the baby begins to move and cry out.

“Oh my god, why did that work?” Marika asks, wrapping her hands around her baby.

“Skin-to-skin can help babies regulate bodily functions, like temperature and breathing,” you reply as you place a towel over them.

You look over to the men sitting next to you. Bobby gives you a nod, and Buck avoids eye contact, but you can tell that he’s pissed. Fuck him, he doesn’t know his head from his ass anyways.

Once the rig pulls into the ambulance bay, you and Chim help the ER staff get the gurney out of the ambulance. Bobby and Buck follow suit, only Buck tries to follow them into the hospital. Bobby stops him before he does.

Bobby gives Buck some lecture about how we did our jobs, and now it’s their turn; it’s the speech every overly excited first responder gets at least once at the start of their career.

A cop car pulls up, and Athena comes out. She clearly found the person she was looking for, because she starts yelling at Buck.

“You do not get to choose who lives and who dies,” she lectures.

“Really? Because I was under the impression that kind of was my job,” Buck retorts.

You could seriously slap him.

“That mother was no less of a child than her baby,” Athena continues yelling, pointing a finger at the hospital. “You’re gonna get someone killed.”

“Well, maybe, but not today,” Buck says with a cocky head tilt.

You laugh humorlessly. “You know what, Pretty Boy?” you say, turning to Buck.

Fuck it. Bobby won’t put him in his place, and Athena isn’t allowed to, so you take matters into your own hands, literally.

Before you even fully comprehend what you’re doing, you’re wrapping a hand around Buck’s throat and pushing him against the ambulance. You aren’t choking him, but you don’t move your hand because keeping it there is your only leverage.

“I’m getting real tired of this tough guy bullshit,” you growl, your face only an inch from his. He’s quite a bit taller than you, but when you bounced him off the rig, his footing faltered, so he’s crouched at your eye level. “You wanna get real, Evan? You didn’t do a goddamn thing today except get in the way. While we were busy saving lives, you were shitting your pants and dropping the ball, not exactly what a tough guy is supposed to do.”

“Okay, enough,” Bobby says, trying to break it up. You’re far from finished, though.

You move your hand from his neck, but only so you can point it in his face. “You aren’t a god — you don’t decide who lives! You didn’t even save a life today: we did, because you kept fucking up. And if you keep fucking up like you did today, you definitely will kill someone, and your little jokes and midday booty calls and your shitty little grin won’t change that!”

Bobby ends up physically pulling you away while Athena makes some room between the two of you.

“Aren’t you going to arrest her or something?” Buck says, rubbing his neck. “She assaulted me!”

“She didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Athena counters. “I promise you, Buckley, the next time you screw up? It’ll be your last.”

Athena casts Bobby a glance before she walks away.

“You,” Bobby says, looking at Buck, “in the truck. Now.”

You start to walk over to the passenger’s side of the cab when Bobby calls after you.

“I want you in my office the second we get back,” He orders.

You clench your jaw. “Yes Captain.”

Ch 2

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: Having The Same Abilities As Wolverine

Requested: Heyy! Can I request a the boys preference where reader is a supe who pretty much has wolverine's powers? Ty!! - @ghostlyaccurate

Requested: Hii can I request the boys pref x female wolverine? <33 - anon

A/N: Reminder my loves! Everything is written as gender neutral, I don't write specifically freader or mreader. I hope you like it! I am working 100% from Wolverines Wikipedia page lol since I forget most of his powers. Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Butcher finds your abilities both disgusting and impressive. Your super sight, smell, etc. are really helpful in certain situations. He jokingly calls you their own personal Tek Knight, which you shut down immediately. What's disgusting is when your claws come out, breaking through the skin of your knuckles. There's a lot of blood. There's a lot of pain even with your healing. And something about them just freaks him out. You jokingly try to poke him with them, touch him with them, and though he'd never admit it, he absolutely hates the feeling. There's just something wrong about them that he can't pinpoint or describe. They're helpful for sure and watching you use them is always gory, he'd just like for them to go away as quickly as possible.

Hughie finds you fascinating. The healing and the claws are always cool, but it's the fact that you're so much older than all of them, so much more experienced, and yet you age so little. Because you're body heals so well, you age at a slower rate than the rest of the world. While that's not totally new for Supes, he's always interested in hearing about your life. You have so much knowledge, so many more experiences, so many lives lived before this mess took over. You find it the least interesting part of your abilities, but Hughie's always had an appreciation for the underappreciated. He loves to listen to you talk about the past, what the world was like, what Vought and The Seven were like. It wasn't always this fucked, at least that's the conclusion he comes to as you talk. It was fucked, it was a mess, but the introduction of Homelander really set in stone this future.

Annie is your confidant. The healing factor has saved your and others lives countless times, but everyone forgets you can still feel pain. Long after your body has put itself back together, the phantom pain lingers. It's excruciating and, secretly, you live in fear of being torn apart. Days and weeks later, you move as if you're still broken. You'll wake up, confused for a moment, expecting to be torn limb from limb, before you come to your senses. Even your claws leave your hands raw, arthritic. You know Annie thinks about that more than anyone else. You told her one night about the pain and since then she's always been aware, quietly asking you if you're alright. Sometimes the pain goes away in a few hours, other times it takes weeks. It all depends on the severity. You try not to complain, knowing you must sound like a broken record, but she doesn't see it that way.

M.M., kind of like Butcher, is weirded out by your claws. He doesn't mind the healing or the heightened senses. For the most part, those things are hidden. It's the claws he gets the heebie jeebies from. You poke fun at him because of this. Out of all the Supe abilities you could have gotten, claws aren't the oddest thing you could have developed. He is reminded of Webweavers abilities and that puts things into perspective for a little while. He didn't trust you in the beginning. It was hard to show him you weren't just another Supe hopped up on V. You're a lot older than everyone, you've experienced more, you're wiser than he gives you credit for. He learns to trust you because of your level head. In situations where other people would be losing their shit, you're calm, cool, and collected. It isn't your abilities that make him befriend you, it's the person underneath them.

Frenchie both loves and hates your abilities. He finds your claws fascinating. Every time you use them he's left in awe. He loves watching you use them, the way you can hide them and bring them out when they're least expecting it. He doesn't find them weird or odd like his friends. They're amazing. He hates, though, that your heightened senses are basically a lie detector test he fails every time. You know when he's been drinking, smoking, getting high. You try not to make a big deal about it, but you do talk to him about it in private. You know when he's lying, though any non-Supe could figure it out when they learn all his tells. He's not as good as he thinks he is at lying. He's always amazed with your stamina, too. It's something a lot of people tend to overlook about your powers, but he doesn't.

Kimiko and you bond effortlessly. Your abilities are so similar and yet so different. Together you're a fantastic duo, unstoppable. She likes touching your claws, though hates the way they have to come out. She knows what it's like, to have to sacrifice yourself, your body, for the greater good. She knows what it's like to wake up confused and, for a moment, feeling as if you're missing parts of yourself. The two of you work together effortlessly and find a lot of humor in your abilities whereas everyone else sees a severed limb of broken bones, you can see just how silly the body is, how fragile and easily it both breaks and repairs itself. She loves your heightened senses and always tells her what you can find out: M.M. got a new chapstick (strawberry), Butcher ate something with peppers, Annie got Hughie a new cologne, etc.

[readychilledwine]

Small World Pt 2

Summary - After discovering you and Azriel share much more than a mating bond, your relationship grows stronger as tensions between you and your aunt seem to grow higher.

Warnings - implied emotional and mental abuse, second child syndrome in a not good way, we find out Nyx is an asshole, unrequited love, slight smut, use of daddy

A/n - a potentially cliff hanger ending because I haven't decided 100% how this ends

Peep Part 1 Here 💙

Azriel stared at the dress box sitting on Rhysand's desk and nicely folded Illyrian leathers. He couldn't remember the last time he had worn them. The last time he had used a siphon. The leathers were fitted for 7, something Azriel immediately knew would no longer work.

His powers after removing the precious stones had gone wild. His shadows were different now. They were more aware, able to span wider distances, and able to recruit more shadows into his network to join them.

He had spent 5 years alone meditating and learning even more control over them, over what they could do, over how deadly they actually could be.

7 siphons would not be enough.

And he didn't understand how Rhysand did not see that.

He finally spoke, gesturing to the box. "What is this?"

Rhys was settled in his chair, trying to maintain his composure as Cassian stood near the bookshelf to mediate if needed. "We're going to the Court of Nightmares. My daughter's engagement has spread like wildfire, and dear Keir wants to host a party in her honor."

A breathy chuckle left Azriel's lips before he could stop it. "So my fiancée will be dressed like a goddess while I am in leathers at a party to mock us?"

Cassian shifted slightly. "We've always worn leathers to Hewn City, Az. It's to honor our heritage." Rhys just inclined his head to Cassian and nodded. "Y/n wears leathers."

"She has never worn a single set in the 2 years we've been together. There isn't even a set in her closet."

"There's several sets in her closet here," Rhys said quietly. "All set up for pink siphons. 14 of them." Cassian and Azriel couldn't help their chuckles. "Imagine a blonde Illyrian with pink siphons, Azriel, its quite the sight." Rhys smiled fondly, eyes glimmering with pride despite everything. "She's-" he looked up, searching for the perfect word for his daughter. "She's my everything. And I've done a horrible job showing her that."

Azriel sucked in a deep breath. "I won't mediate this, Rhys. This is a you two thing. Not an us three thing."

Azriel knew now why you were estranged from your family. Nyx was their golden child. Constantly praised, admired, in the spotlight. He was, and still is, their reminder of how they had almost died to pass along their love. He could do no wrong, never be wrong, and was treated as such.

You, on the other hand, were the second child. The significantly younger one Nyx learned to plant blame on and watch as you were scolded and seen as "the problem" as you had told him you were now addressed as in Hewn City and Illyria. You had been raised by Ness more than Feyre and Rhys, passed off to them until your powers bloomed at 16, and suddenly your father found you interesting again. With a lack of a spymaster, he exploited you, forcing you to touch people and feel their emotions, when they lied, their stories. Forcing you to live trauma over and over of females clipped in the mountains, of tortured traitors in dungeons, of Nesta's dark phase.

You locked your powers so far away one day, so deep inside you that even you hardly could access them unless you actually wanted to. It had been just before your 18th birthday that happened. And then the fight that sealed the casket happened. Rhys had verbally lashed you. Attacked you for refusing to let him use your "one worth" to keeping his family and court safe.

Your father had said he saw you as useless, and everyone else just stood by watching.

Like they had with Nesta.

Only you were just a child. Not a head strong warrior, a goddess in fae form.

You packed the basics and spent the night on the streets in a dark alley.

Even if you and Rhys magically fixed things, even if you forgave but not forgot, Azriel would never. How you were raised, how you've been treated, it forever will taint his vision of Rhys, Feyre, and Nyx. The abuse they unleashed on you, they'd never make up for.

Rhys nodded, eyes glancing to the doorway as footsteps approached. "I would never ask you to fix my relationship with her when I need to fix my relationship with you as well. I just need you to know I love her. That she will always be my girl."

"You have an odd way of showing her your lo-"

The door opened, and you stepped in, immediately going to Azriel's side and eyeing the box. "Dad. Cassian." You opened the lid and nodded. "Well. At least it's sparkly."

Rhys cocked his head. "You don't like it?"

Azriel watched as you paused. The bond flared with conflicting emotions. Anger, hurt, longing. How long had it been since Rhys held you? Since he told you he loved you without you having to earn it. "No, I like it. I just know what this means. You never give me nice things unless Hewn City is involved." The last sentence trailed off quietly, and pain flooded the bond.

Rhys looked down, nodding as he scratched the stubble growing on his face. "I am sorry. I just-"

"Please don't. You never mean it." You grabbed the box. "I will wear it and find jewelry." You turned to Azriel. "Elain would like to speak with you. She said something about a garden you two planned together and how I'll never understand the love you two share. How it breaks bonds and shakes worlds."

The relationship between you and Azriel had been messy since dinner two weeks ago. You two had your first fight over, of course, Elain and her rekindled love, lust, whichever felt appropriate at the moment for Azriel. He ignored the constant letters, the random headache powders, the message coded flowers.

He had reached out to Lucien, asking the male what had happened. According to the new Lord of Day, Elain and he had tried for 5 years, but the damage had been done. Lucien didn't trust Elain, Elain spent most of their time comparing the two of them, and nothing Lucien gave her was enough. He had been the one to reject the bond, and after 7 years, he had found himself heavily involved in a relationship with a now fully fae Vassa and Jurian.

Rhys and Cassian both gave him gentle looks of concern as he held your hand, preventing you from walking away. He stared Rhys in the eyes, doing something he felt Rhysand had never done to prove a point. "I'd rather go home with you, so if you were planning on winnowing, we might as well go together." He picked you.

They watched as all tension left your body, as security eased into your face. "Then let's go home." Azriel grabbed the leathers, nodding to Rhys and Cassian before following you.

Azriel's elbow locked around your neck, hand squeezing your hip as he pinned you below him and continued taking you from behind. You both had no interest in heading to Hewn City, so you had distracted him, walking into your shared bedroom in just a pretty blue silk night gown offering to give your body to him for what he had done, the message he had sent.

You were supposed to be getting ready, but instead, Azriel was growling above you, pumping into you carelessly. Your toes curled at how deep he was hitting, at how good he felt, how good he felt every time. "So close," you whispered. "So fucking close-" You were moaning his name when the knock on the door came.

A shadow rushed to him, curling his ear as he paused. "It's Elain," he muttered. "She's relentless." You whined below him, hips wiggling to get friction back. "Baby,"

"Please," you begged. "It's been weeks, I've been so good, please, daddy."

Azriel felt his cock twitch at the use of the name. He'd longed for a moment to erase the memory of what happened, and you had just given it to him. He felt you moving your hips, doing the best you could while pinned to the mattress to fuck yourself on his cock.

You were his focus, the rest of the world melting away as he heard your moans turning into screams of his name. You sounded so pretty coming for him, crying for him, begging for more for less for everything as oversensitivity took over. You especially looked pretty dripping his seed when he pulled out of you. Once again, he had chosen you.

You two laid there, holding each other until claws came for both of you. Scratching angerly as your mental shields and causing you to bury your head into Azriel's chest. "We need to get ready unless you want him showing up here next," Azriel played with your hair, scratching your scalp lightly. "Let's see how many siphons I blow through."

After 2 sets of siphons being destroyed, you were currently dragging Azriel down the streets of Velaris and to your brother and father's tailor. You knew she'd be able to fit and dress him in seconds and that he'd look every bit handsome as he deserved. You were pissed when you saw he had been gifted Illyrian leathers and not a suit. Your father was out of touch with Azriel. With you.

"Helena," you smiled at the older female. "We need help."

Azriel felt stiff. Staring at the doors of Heen City as a shocked page boy ran to inform Rhys and Feyre of the late arrival. You two were about to upstage them in their own court. The guests of honor arriving late and being introduced after the Lord and his Lady.

You would have upstaged them by yourself anyway, though. Azriel admired you one more time. Rhys had picked well, though you both would never admit it. The dress had a see-through bodice of black lace and floral applicates with thin straps. It led to a satin skirt that was tight and then flared out to your hips. The left leg had a high slit, showing the toned beautiful skin Azriel was begging to cover in his kisses. You had picked a simple necklace, a single tear drop shaped sapphire with matching earring and a matching bracelet. Your ring sat on manicured nails painted a soft shade of pink to white coffin head tips. Heels graced your feet, the red underside flashing when you walked. "Gods, you are stunning," he finally whispered out in a hoarse voice.

"And all yours," you looked at him, adjusting the lapel of his jacket. "Forever." Your mask slipped on as the doors opened, a collective gasp ringing through the room over who was on your arm followed by whispers.

Azriel knew this song and dance, walking you into one thousand eyes staring and gawking. He hated seeing you like this as you were ushered to the dance floor. The first dance of the night had been delayed, and the fae were restless.

Once you were centered on the floor, you turned facing him, eyes cold and distant as you disassociated from this place. He placed a hand on your hip, leaving his other to his side where both of your sat.

It was unfair of Feyre and Rhysand to expect you to do this traditional waltz, but you followed Azriel's steps as the music began, that first note echoing in your bones and soul. Your parents had claimed your first dance with your mate. The first true dance you two would ever share, and it had to be done in front of hundreds of fae who spat your direction when the Lord and Lady were busy.

Azriel had decided he hated this side of you. He was studying you like a project. You were a different female down here. Cold, uncaring, forced into this role of the High Lord's daughter.

Did these fae know you took far too much creamer in your coffee?

That you were afraid of storms?

That you only ate fruit pastries because you found chocolate too bitter?

You were Rhysand through and through with that mask on. But inside, inside Azriel knew you carried the very light of what your grandfather built. You were a true dreamer, and you could rattle the very stars themselves if your father would just give you the chance.

If Rhysand would just believe in you.

Azriel decided in that moment what the answer to your happiness was. He'd take you tonight and you two would leave.

Fuck expectations.

Fuck the rules.

Fuck your family.

Azriel would pick you for the third time today, and you two would leave.

He just had to get you through this visit at Hewn City first, and as he watched Elain shatter a champagne flute in her hands, he knew that was going to be a mission all on its own.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish

Azriel-

@elle4404

Small World Taglist-

@amara-moonlight @iimichie @acourtofbatboydreams @justasillylittlegoofyguy @janesalvarerelochanarcheron @hungryforbatboys @sidthedollface2 @hunt1bryce

[beloveds-embrace]

I am absolutely Eating your angsty dukedom 141, I'm just scarfing it down ayejjrnf

But! Suggestion for the drabble of reader slowly fading into the bg without König there;

Hereditary illness exacerbated by stress.

It's mostly fallen into the cracks of reader's family history after her ancestor married into nobility- not a lot to be dangerously stressed about when you're waited on hand and foot by servants, after all.

But then once reader stops making any attempt to leave her room, servants have to start bringing her her meals, and they start noticing that she seems to be getting increasingly thinner despite the meals being at least half eaten. She seems more exhausted, her hands shaky and trembling, embroidery or painting projects left tossed in the corner of her bedroom after she couldn't hold onto the needle or brush, let alone do any precision work.

Gossip spreads through the servants of the Duchess being ill (though none seem particularly caring of this fact) until it starts to reach the boys' ears

Thank you!! I hope you enjoy this!!

The first sign that something was wrong- truly wrong- came when one of the younger maids hesitated outside John’s office. Her apron was wrinkled, and she kept wringing the cloth in her hands until the edges frayed. Kyle, always perceptive, was the one to notice her first.

“What is it?” His sharp eyes pinned her in place.

The maid flinched but didn’t run. Instead, she stepped forward, voice trembling. “I-It’s the Duchess, sir.”

That was all it took for the entire room to still.

John had been in the middle of correspondence, quill poised mid-sentence, but he set it down without finishing the word. Simon’s ever-present stoicism cracked, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

“What about her?” John’s voice, though even, had an undercurrent of tension.

The maid looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “She’s… ill, sir. She’s not been leaving her room-”

“We know that.” John interrupted, his voice a low growl.

“No- no, sir, I mean really ill. She’s not eating much anymore, but- she’s thinner, sir. Much thinner than before. And her hands shake something awful when she tries to hold a spoon or cup. I saw it myself when I brought her tea this morning… it’s- it’s been going on for a while now, we’ve all noticed but I just couldn’t- couldn’t stand back anymore, I’m so sorry.”

The words dropped into the room like a stone into a pond. And the silence that followed was thick, pressing, suffocating.

John was the first to move, striding out of the room with the others close behind him. The maid was left in their wake, her words repeating themselves in her head as though she’d spoken some terrible thing into existence.

They found you where you always were now- alone in the dim bedroom, wrapped in blankets but still somehow shivering. The curtains had been drawn tight, the hearth left to burn low, and the air was stale with disuse.

You didn’t even stir when the door opened.

John froze at the sight of you, the sharp tang of guilt clawing up his throat. He could see it immediately- the way your cheeks had hollowed, the slight tremor in your fingers as you clutched the edges of the blanket. The soft silk of your gown hung loose at your shoulders, as though it no longer fit the same way it used to. An old one- one you’d worn at the beginning if your marriage, still hopeful for companionship from a husband who didn’t care for you.

Kyle was the first to break from his stupor, stepping forward and kneeling at your bedside. “… Duchess?” His voice was softer than John had ever heard it, but it still seemed too loud in the suffocating quiet.

You stirred then, eyes fluttering open just enough to see him.

“Kyle?”

The hoarseness in your voice struck something in him- hurt him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“I’m here, darling,” he murmured. He reached out, gently brushing his knuckles against your cheek, and frowned at how warm your skin felt. “What’s happened to you?”

You tried to sit up, but your body betrayed you, trembling with the effort until Kyle and Johnny had to steady you with firm hands.

“I’m fine.” You said. The words were paper-thin, weak and unsteady.

“You’re not fine.” John cut in, his voice harder than he meant it to be. You flinched, and it made his heart squeeze painfully.

Simon said nothing, but he hovered near the foot of the bed, his sharp gaze flicking over you as if committing every detail to memory. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, but what was there to do or say? He felt like he might break you should he even brush his fingers across your skin.

“It’s nothing.” you murmured, turning your head away.

“Nothing?” John repeated, dangerously low. He stepped closer, dropping to his knees at your bedside, one hand finding yours. “You think this is nothing?”

Your fingers twitched in his grasp, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

“I know…” Your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut. “I know you don’t care. Why- why are you here now?”

It felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

“Don’t care?” John echoed, tinged with disbelief.

“None of you came,” you whispered. “Not once. I thought… I thought maybe it was easier for you that way. You- is this not what you wanted?”

Simon made a sound then- low and guttural- and moved to kneel on your other side, opposite Kyle. He reached for your other hand, lifting it carefully to his lips. His breath was warm against your skin, but you didn’t react.

“I’ll get the doctor.” Johnny said abruptly, spinning on his heel and leaving before anyone could stop him.

Kyle stayed close, his hand never leaving your shoulder, while Simon stroked your knuckles in slow, deliberate motions. But it was John who finally spoke.

“We should have come sooner,” he admitted, voice heavy with regret. “I should have come sooner. Duchess- I’m so sorry.”

You blinked, your lashes damp with unshed tears. “Why didn’t you?”

The words cut deeper than any blade.

He looked at you then, taking in every fragile, exhausted detail- the way your breath came too shallowly, the slight tremor in your fingers, the sheen of sweat on your skin despite the chill in the room.

“Because I was a fool,” he said softly. “Because I let myself think you were fine without us.”

You didn’t answer, but the way your fingers curled just slightly around his told him enough.

When Johnny returned with the doctor, the room erupted into motion. You were carefully propped up, fed broth spoonful by spoonful, your pulse checked, and your temperature taken. The doctor’s diagnosis was both alarming and infuriating- stress-induced illness, made worse by malnutrition and exhaustion. It wasn’t until he began asking about your family history that the pieces truly started to click.

“You’ve been predisposed to this,” he explained, while they watched in silent, setting horror. “It’s genetic, though dormant in most cases. But stress- particularly prolonged stress- can trigger it. I’d wager it’s been simmering for weeks, if not months.”

Months.

Kyle and Johnny exchanged glances, and Simon looked like he was ready to tear someone apart. Mabe himself.

John didn’t move from your side.

“What does she need?” he demanded.

“Rest. Food. Care. But most importantly…” The doctor’s gaze swept across all of them. Rumors flew with the wind, and he was still not old enough to lose his hearing. “No more stress.”

John nodded firmly, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll have everything you need.” He promised.

But his words held no particular weight to you.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Harry was never really Dumbledore's man

So, in HBP Harry says himself:

“Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you,” said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren’t you, Potter?” “Yeah, I am,” said Harry.

(HBP, 348)

But, I'm here to argue Harry actually has many many doubts and reservations about Dumbledore throughout all books (even HBP), and I find it interesting how Harry convinced the Wizarding world (and the readers) that he's Dumbledore's man when he isn't. Not really.

(Just makes me all the more annoyed at him calling his son Albus...)

I'm going to go through some examples of Harry showing his doubts about Dumbledore way before book 7. Because Harry is an abused, distrusting boy, and Dumbledore isn't actually an exception to that until very late into the books. And even when Harry chooses to trust Dumbledore's intentions, he never fully trusts his judgment.

“D’you think he meant you to do it?” said Ron. “Sending you your father’s cloak and everything?” “Well, ” Hermione exploded, “if he did — I mean to say that’s terrible — you could have been killed.” “No, it isn’t,” said Harry thoughtfully. “He’s a funny man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give me a chance. I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help. I don’t think it was an accident he let me find out how the mirror worked. It’s almost like he thought I had the right to face Voldemort if I could….”

(PS, 217)

This quote above is from the ending of Philosopher's Stone and the outlook Harry, Ron, and Hermione have on Dumbledore and his behavior is the same as seen in the later books. So I wanted to talk about each of them and how they see Dumbledore because this quote really sets the tone for the rest of the series.

Ron is doubtful and distrustful. The situation is odd, and he's clever, he analyzed the situation and came to a frightening conclusion — the whole ordeal seemed planned by Dumbledore. And Ron isn't scared of voicing this question.

Hermione, while not always a rule-follower, respects Dumbledore and his authority. A lot. So, she doesn't believe Dumbledore could've planned it as it would reflect badly on his character and authority. Hermione is a very loyal person, and once she decides she respects someone she is willfully blind to their flaws (we see it with her later in the series).

Harry, while he's clever enough to notice the same things Ron did and come to the same conclusion — that Dumbledore planned for an 11-year-old to face Voldemort — he attributes good intentions to Dumbledore. Harry sees the situation and draws his conclusions, but chooses to hope/believe Dumbledore's intentions were good ones.

Harry’s brain seemed to have jammed. He stared numbly at Riddle, at the orphaned boy who had grown up to murder Harry’s own parents, and so many others. . . . At last he forced himself to speak. “You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred. “Not what?” snapped Riddle. “Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry, breathing fast. “Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn’t dare try and take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you’re hiding these days —” The smile had gone from Riddle’s face, to be replaced by a very ugly look. “Dumbledore’s been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!” he hissed. “He’s not as gone as you might think!” Harry retorted. He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true —

(CoS, 282)

This is one of the scenes people call to to show how much faith Harry has in Dumbledore (even Dumbledore himself), the thing is, Harry says (in his mind) he's just saying things to try and scare Tom. To try and buy time, or unbalance Tom so he may have a chance at escape.

The important note is that Harry doesn't actually believe what he's saying to Tom. He's just saying what he thinks would bother Tom the most.

Harry had never shared this piece of information with anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as he was concerned its relation to Voldemort’s wand was something it couldn’t help — rather as he couldn’t help being related to Aunt Petunia. However, he really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn’t about to tell the room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with excitement if he did.

(GoF, 310)

This part about telling no one about his wand's connection to Voldemort is true. He never told anyone by that point in GoF. Not Ron, not Hermione, not Dumbledore, not even Sirius.

As I mentioned above, Harry is abused and distrustful. He's not at all Dumbledore's perfect soldier who trusts him with everything. In GoF, Harry decides against telling Dumbledore about his dreams and the pain in his scar:

“Your scar hurt? Harry, that’s really serious. . . . Write to Professor Dumbledore! And I’ll go and check Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. . . . Maybe there’s something in there about curse scars. . . .” Yes, that would be Hermione’s advice: Go straight to the headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime, consult a book. [...] As for informing the headmaster, Harry had no idea where Dumbledore went during the summer holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, fulllength wizard’s robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. Wherever Dumbledore was, though, Harry was sure that Hedwig would be able to find him; Harry’s owl had never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even without an address. But what would he write? Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to bother you, but my scar hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Harry Potter. Even inside his head the words sounded stupid.

(GoF, 21)

Harry doesn't wish to share secrets with Dumbledore, nor does he feel comfortable to go to him with his troubles (his go-to adult while Sirius was around was always Sirius). Again, Hermione is mentioned as the one who trusts Dumbledore's authority, in Harry's head, but he's right, he knows her well.

Harry actually spends a good portion of the series purposefully trying to hide information from Dumbledore. (I'm saying 'trying ' because Dumbledore always found out, but not because Harry told him).

“He seemed to think it was best,” said Hermione rather breathlessly. “Dumbledore, I mean.” “Right,” said Harry. He noticed that her hands too bore the marks of Hedwig’s beak and found that he was not at all sorry. “I think he thought you were safest with the Muggles —” Ron began. “Yeah?” said Harry, raising his eyebrows. “Have either of you been attacked by dementors this summer?” “Well, no — but that’s why he’s had people from the Order of the Phoenix tailing you all the time -” Harry felt a great jolt in his guts as though he had just missed a step going downstairs. So everyone had known he was being followed except him. “Didn’t work that well, though, did it?” said Harry, doing his utmost to keep his voice even. “Had to look after myself after all, didn’t I?” “He was so angry,” said Hermione in an almost awestruck voice. “Dumbledore. We saw him. When he found out Mundungus had left before his shift had ended. He was scary.” “Well, I’m glad he left,” Harry said coldly. “If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have done magic and Dumbledore would probably have left me at Privet Drive all summer.”

(OotP, 63)

Harry is angry here, true, but he doubts Dumbledore's idea of what's "safe" for him. He's actually glad for the dementors because he doubts Dumbledore would've brought him over if it wasn't an emergency.

And Harry is right to be doubtful and suspicious. He's right that he's less safe at the Dursleys than at Grimmauld Place. He's right to feel angry and betrayed at literally everyone knowing he's being followed except for him. He's right Dumbledore probably wouldn't have brought him if it wasn't for the dementor attack. Harry is correct in each and every one of his assessments of Dumbledore's character and decisions here.

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It’s more like . . . his mood, I suppose. I’m just getting flashes of what mood he’s in. . . . Dumbledore said something like this was happening last year. . . . He said that when Voldemort was near me, or when he was feeling hatred, I could tell. Well, now I’m feeling it when he’s pleased too. . . .” There was a pause. The wind and rain lashed at the building. “You’ve got to tell someone,” said Ron. “I told Sirius last time.” “Well, tell him about this time!” “Can’t, can I?” said Harry grimly. “Umbridge is watching the owls and the fires, remember?” “Well then, Dumbledore —” “I’ve just told you, he already knows,” said Harry shortly, getting to his feet, taking his cloak off his peg, and swinging it around himself. “There’s no point telling him again.” Ron did up the fastening of his own cloak, watching Harry thoughtfully. “Dumbledore’d want to know,” he said. Harry shrugged. “C’mon . . . we’ve still got Silencing Charms to practice . . .”

(OotP, 382)

Remember I mentioned Harry hiding things from Dumbledore? This is one of such occasions. There are more in GoF that I didn't copy, but this is an example of Voldemort-related, dangerous information Harry is hiding from Dumbledore because he doesn't trust him and doesn't feel comfortable telling him things.

“It’s lessons with Snape that are making it worse,” said Harry flatly. “I’m getting sick of my scar hurting, and I’m getting bored walking down that corridor every night.” He rubbed his forehead angrily. “I just wish the door would open, I’m sick of standing staring at it —” “That’s not funny,” said Hermione sharply. “Dumbledore doesn’t want you to have dreams about that corridor at all, or he wouldn’t have asked Snape to teach you Occlumency. You’re just going to have to work a bit harder in your lessons.” “I am working!” said Harry, nettled. “You try it sometime, Snape trying to get inside your head, it’s not a bundle of laughs, you know!” “Maybe . . .” said Ron slowly. “Maybe what?” said Hermione rather snappishly. “Maybe it’s not Harry’s fault he can’t close his mind,” said Ron darkly. “What do you mean?” said Hermione. “Well, maybe Snape isn’t really trying to help Harry. . . .” Harry and Hermione stared at him. Ron looked darkly and meaningfully from one to the other. “Maybe,” he said again in a lower voice, “he’s actually trying to open Harry’s mind a bit wider . . . make it easier for You-Know —” “Shut up, Ron,” said Hermione angrily. “How many times have you suspected Snape, and when have you ever been right? Dumbledore trusts him, he works for the Order, that ought to be enough.” “He used to be a Death Eater,” said Ron stubbornly. “And we’ve never seen proof that he really swapped sides. . . .” “Dumbledore trusts him,” Hermione repeated. “And if we can’t trust Dumbledore, we can’t trust anyone.”

(OotP, 554)

Again we see the same exact dynamic from first year. Hermione is loyal to Dumbledore, not even considering he might be wrong about something, or not have their best interests at heart. Ron and Harry on the other hand, are both open to the possibility that things aren't so simple. They don't think Dumbledore is intentionally harming Harry, but they think he's wrong about Snape. Something Hermione, Arthur and Molly would never consider.

(This is actually the most annoying thing in Hermione's character for me, her unshakable faith in Dumbledore, who doesn't deserve her trust)

“. . . so you see what this means?” Harry finished at a gallop. “Dumbledore won’t be here tonight, so Malfoy’s going to have another clear shot at whatever he’s up to. No, listen to me!” he hissed angrily, as both Ron and Hermione showed every sign of interrupting. “I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here —” He shoved the Marauder’s Map into Hermione’s hands. “You’ve got to watch him and you’ve got to watch Snape too. Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the D.A., Hermione, those contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore says he’s put extra protection in the school, but if Snape’s involved, he’ll know what Dumbledore’s protection is, and how to avoid it — but he won’t be expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?” “Harry —” began Hermione, her eyes huge with fear.

(HBP, 552)

Even in book 6, the book Harry grows the most comfortable and trusting towards Dumbledore, even then, he doesn't trust Dumbledore. He thinks (and somewhat rightly so because he doesn't know of Snape and Dumbledore's plan) that Dumbledore is wrong about Snape. that Dumbledore is wrong about Malfoy. Harry doesn't trust that whatever protections Dumbledore would leave would be enough (and they weren't).

Even at the end of HBP, the point in the series where Harry has the most faith in Dumbledore, Harry still doesn't trust Dumbledore's judgment or his ability to protect the school. Even after Dumbledore calls Harry out on it, telling him the safety of the students is important to him, Harry still tells Ron and Hermione to get the DA to protect the school without notifying Dumbledore.

And Dumbledore raised Harry to feel responsible for the school's safety, Harry is doing what he was "bred" to do. But he does it behind Dumbledore's back, because like every adult, Harry deep down expects to be let down. After all, he's used to saving the school himself.

So, no, Harry never really trusted Dumbledore fully. At least, not Dumbledore's judgment. Harry does believe Dumbledore's intentions are good for the most part, even if ineffective.

“He never told me his sister was a Squib,” said Harry, without thinking, still cold inside. “And why on earth would he tell you?” screeched Muriel, swaying a little in her seat as she attempted to focus upon Harry [...] Where was saintly Albus while Ariana was locked in the cellar? Off being brilliant at Hogwarts, and never mind what was going on in his own house!” “What d’you mean, locked in the cellar?” asked Harry. “What is this?” Doge looked wretched. Auntie Muriel cackled again and answered Harry. [...] Numbly Harry thought of how the Dursleys had once shut him up, locked him away, kept him out of sight, all for the crime of being a wizard. Had Dumbledore’s sister suffered the same fate in reverse: imprisoned for her lack of magic? Had Dumbledore truly left her to her fate while he went off to Hogwarts to prove himself brilliant and talented?

(DH, 135-137)

And in Deathley Hollows, Harry is very quick to start questioning and doubting Dumbledore. Especially when compared to Hermione:

“Harry—” But he shook his head. Some inner certainty had crashed down inside him; it was exactly as he had felt after Ron left. He had trusted Dumbledore, believed him the embodiment of goodness and wisdom. All was ashes: How much more could he lose? Ron, Dumbledore, the phoenix wand . . . “Harry.” She seemed to have heard his thoughts. “Listen to me. It—it doesn’t make very nice reading—” “Yeah, you could say that—” “—but don’t forget, Harry this is Rita Skeeter writing.” “You did read that letter to Grindelwald, didn’t you?” “Yes, I—I did.” She hesitated, looking upset, cradling her tea in her cold hands.

(DH, 311)

Harry is hurt, he feels betrayed, because while he never 100% trusted Dumbledore's judgment, he trusted his intentions. He trusted Dumbledore was good and cared for him. He feels cold and betrayed, showing trust in his intentions. But his readiness to accept Skeeter's and Muriel's accusations so quickly shows he always had his doubts about Dumbledore and they never really left, even if he wanted to trust him, he never did, not fully.

Hermione, on the other hand, who was always loyal and trusted Dumbledore (both his intentions and judgment) 100%, tries to rationalize Dumbledore's actions and convince herself everyone who says bad things about him is lying.

Harry doesn't. Because out of the Golden Trio, Hermione was always Dumbledore's woman, Ron and Harry... not really. Not as much.

“That old berk,” muttered Aberforth, taking another swig of mead. “Thought the sun shone out of my brother’s every office, he did. Well, so did plenty of people, you three included, by the looks of it.” Harry kept quiet. He did not want to express the doubts and uncertainties about Dumbledore that had riddled him for months now. He had made his choice while he dug Dobby’s grave, he had decided to continue along the winding, dangerous path indicated for him by Albus Dumbledore, to accept that he had not been told everything that he wanted to know, but simply to trust. He had no desire to doubt again; he did not want to hear anything that would deflect him from his purpose. He met Aberforth’s gaze, which was so strikingly like his brothers’: The bright blue eyes gave the same impression that they were X-raying the object of their scrutiny, and Harry thought that Aberforth knew what he was thinking and despised him for it. “Professor Dumbledore cared about Harry, very much,” said Hermione in a low voice. “Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Funny thing how many of the people my brother cared about very much ended up in a worse state than if he’d left ’em well alone.”

(DH, 478)

More of how Harry thinks about Dumbledore, showing, again, how he always had his doubts and reservations but he chooses to trust Dumbledore's intentions because otherwise, he doesn't think he has any hope to defeat Voldemort. He chooses to keep following Dumbledore's path because he has no real choice but to trust what he sees as the only path that'll lead to Voldemort's destruction. But Harry has plenty of doubts about Dumbledore.

Hermione, on the other hand, has little to no doubts. She doesn't allow herself to doubt.

And this pattern, of Harry doubting Dumbledore again and again, never truly trusting him, just trusting his plan will kill Voldemort... like, how does that lead Harry to want to name his kid 'Albus'? I just don't get it...

TL;DR

Harry likes to say he's Dumbledore's man, but he always had his reservations, even when he choose to ignore them since trusting Dumbledore's plan felt like his only chance at survival. Hermione is much more trusting of Dumbledore than Harry is.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Bridges to Belonging

Part One Part Two Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Summary: Penelope texts Y/n, Rossi has a dinner party, Y/n and Spencer meet

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: Fluff

Warnings/Includes: mentions of virginity and sex (16+), playing never have I ever, teasing from friends, consuming alcohol

Word count: 3.7k

a/n: i am cranking this story out it is going to be finished so fast dear goddd ,, hopefully y'all like it!!! probably like 5 ish more parts is my guess

main masterlist

Y/n was settling in for the night after a long shift at the hospital, kicking her feet up on her coffee table with a glass of wine in hand when her usually dead phone vibrated. 

Hey, Y/N! 😊 It's Penelope from the BAU. Hope you don't mind me texting! Just thought I'd check in and see how my favorite child psychologist is doing. 🌟

Hey, Penelope! Of course, I don't mind :) I’m doing well, just busy with work as usual. How about you?

Busy saving the world, one computer at a time! 🖥️💪 So, tell me, are you still too busy to date, or have you finally joined us mere mortals in the quest for love? 💘

Haha I guess we’re getting right into it. I suppose I am feeling ready to dip my toes back into the dating pool. But I’ve been avoiding it for a while 😅 Awkward first dates are terrifying!

Ooh, exciting! 🥳 But I totally get the fear. Blind dates can be the worst. You never know if you're going to meet Prince Charming or... well, not. 😬

Exactly! And I've been so focused on my career that I haven't really thought about dating in a while. Plus, all my undergrad flings made me a bit wary of anything serious.

Understandable. Sometimes you just need to have fun, right? But now that you’re settled, maybe it’s time for a change? 😉

Yeah, maybe you're right. I wouldn't mind meeting someone who shares my interests and gets my sense of humor.

OMG, that sounds like a dream. Let me know when you find them and send me one too. 💖

Ha! If I find one I will let you know. How does one even go about meeting new people nowadays?

Well… You remember Rossi, right? He’s having a pasta and wine night at his mansion this Friday at 8 pm!! 🎉

Pasta and wine?? Sounds perfect. Thanks, Penelope! I’ll be there, I appreciate you thinking of me :)

Anytime, Y/N! Can’t wait for you to meet the rest of the team. I’ve got a good feeling about this! 💖✨ 

—

The rest of the team? Y/n thought to herself. She had assumed she met everyone already when she went for drinks with Aaron and the team. Maybe they added a new member. Regardless, she's excited to do three of her favorite things, eat pasta, drink wine, and let rich people pay for everything. 

—

The evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a soft glow over David Rossi’s expansive estate. Nestled in the Virginia countryside, the elegant home exuded both charm and sophistication, a perfect reflection of its owner. The team arrived one by one, greeted by the welcoming scent of freshly baked bread and simmering marinara sauce that wafted through the air, promising a feast of Italian delights.

As Y/n stepped into the house, they were embraced by the warm ambiance of the living room, where a crackling fire in the stone fireplace added a cozy touch. The room was tastefully decorated with leather-bound books, framed photographs, and art pieces that told stories of Rossi’s travels and experiences. Soft jazz music played in the background, the soothing melodies mingling with the lively chatter of the guests.

The dining room was a vision of elegance, with a long mahogany table set for the evening's festivities. Flickering candlelight danced across the table, casting a gentle glow on the polished silverware and delicate china. Each place setting was thoughtfully arranged, complete with fine crystal wine glasses waiting to be filled with Rossi’s carefully curated selection of wines.

On the far side of the room, a sideboard displayed an array of antipasti: olives, cured meats, marinated vegetables, and various cheeses artfully arranged on rustic wooden boards. A large bouquet of fresh flowers served as the centerpiece, adding a splash of color and vibrancy to the room.

The kitchen bustled with activity as Rossi, ever the gracious host, put the finishing touches on a variety of homemade pasta dishes. Large pots simmered on the stove, the fragrant aroma of garlic and herbs filling the air. A pan of lasagna bubbled in the oven, its cheese topping perfectly golden brown. Fresh basil and parsley were sprinkled generously over platters of spaghetti aglio e olio and creamy fettuccine alfredo, each dish a testament to Rossi’s culinary skills and passion for Italian cuisine.

In the adjoining patio, strings of fairy lights twinkled overhead, providing a magical canopy under which the team could relax and unwind. Comfortable seating areas were arranged to encourage conversation, and a small fire pit offered warmth as the evening grew cooler. The gentle rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets added a serene backdrop to the lively gathering.

The evening at Rossi’s house was in full swing. The room was alive with laughter and conversation, and the clinking of glasses mingled with the soft strains of jazz music. The warm glow from the fireplace and the dim lighting created a cozy, inviting atmosphere that wrapped the team in a sense of comfort and camaraderie.

As the doorbell rang, David straightened his jacket and moved toward the entrance with a welcoming smile. He opened the door to reveal Y/N, who stood on the threshold, looking radiant in her deep green dress that highlighted her curves and complemented her confident demeanor.

“Y/N! Welcome!” Rossi exclaimed, stepping aside to usher her into the house. His voice was warm and genuine, filled with the kind of hospitality that made his guests feel immediately at home. “I’m so glad you could make it. We’ve been looking forward to this evening.”

Y/N’s face brightened with a warm smile as she stepped inside. “Thank you, David. I’m excited to be here. The house looks wonderful.”

Rossi gave a hearty laugh. “It’s all thanks to the amazing team I have. Let me introduce you to everyone.”

With a graceful wave of his hand, Rossi guided Y/N into the living room, where the BAU team had gathered. The room buzzed with the energy of friends reconnecting after a long day. Rossi’s arrival with Y/N caught the attention of the group, and they turned to greet her with friendly smiles and nods.

Spencer, who had been deep in a conversation with Derek about a recent case, felt a shift in the atmosphere. His gaze followed Rossi and Y/N as they entered, his attention abruptly captured.

Spencer’s breath hitched slightly as he took in Y/N’s presence. The warm lighting seemed to highlight her natural beauty, and the graceful way she moved across the room was both captivating and disorienting. The rest of the team offered her friendly waves and greetings, but Spencer was fixated on her, his curiosity piqued.

Hotch, noticing Spencer’s focused attention, decided it was time for introductions. He approached Spencer with a friendly, knowing smile and gestured toward Y/N.

“Spencer,” Hotch began, his tone calm and reassuring, “I’d like you to meet Y/N.”

Spencer turned to face Hotch, his heart racing a bit. Hotch continued, “Y/N, this is Spencer Reid. He’s one of our most brilliant team members here at the BAU.”

Y/N extended her hand with a warm, welcoming smile. “Hi, Spencer. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

God, even her voice is beautiful. 

Spencer, momentarily taken aback, felt a flutter of nerves as he took her hand. “Hi, Y/N. It’s, uh, nice to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot about you as well,” he replied, his voice tinged with both shyness and genuine interest.

Y/N’s gaze was kind and her smile reassuring, making Spencer feel more at ease. “I hope it’s all been good,” she said with a playful glint in her eye.

Spencer managed a small, tight lipped smile, as he tucked his hair behind one ear and his nerves started to settle. “Definitely,” he replied, feeling a warmth that contrasted with his usual social anxiety.

Y/N leaned in slightly, her eyes meeting Spencer’s with a genuine curiosity. “So, Spencer,” she began, her tone light and engaging, “what’s one thing you’re passionate about outside of work?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up as he considered her question. “Well, I’m really into chess,” he admitted. “I’ve been playing since I was a kid. It’s a great way to exercise the mind and challenge myself.”

Y/N’s smile widened. “I didn’t know that. I used to play chess with my grandfather when I was younger. It’s a fascinating game. Do you have a favorite opening strategy?”

Spencer’s face brightened, and he leaned in a bit more, his enthusiasm evident. “Yes! I’m a big fan of the Queen’s Gambit. It’s a classic and very versatile. What about you?”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled as she shared her own chess experiences. The conversation continued, the two finding common ground and enjoying each other’s company.

Hotch observed the interaction with a pleased expression, satisfied with the introduction. He stepped back, allowing Spencer and Y/N to continue their conversation. The team resumed their chatter, though the undercurrent of excitement about the new connection was palpable.

The evening had progressed into a more relaxed phase as the team retreated to Rossi’s lush backyard. The gentle clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversation blended with the soft rustling of leaves in the warm night breeze. The group had moved outside after enjoying a sumptuous Italian feast prepared by Rossi and Penelope, and now they were settling into comfortable chairs and sofas, each with a glass of wine in hand.

Spencer, still a bit on edge but feeling slightly more at ease, had decided to join in on the wine, especially since Y/N had done the same. The rich, full-bodied wine paired perfectly with the after-dinner atmosphere, adding to the relaxed ambiance of the evening.

Derek, always the instigator of fun, leaned back in his chair with a mischievous grin. “Alright, everyone, I think it’s time for a game. How about a round of ‘Never Have I Ever’?” He looked around the circle with a gleam in his eye, clearly excited about the prospect of the game.

Emily raised an eyebrow playfully. “Oh, this should be interesting. Let’s see who’s willing to spill some secrets tonight.”

Y/N looked intrigued but a bit hesitant. “Sounds fun. I’m game.”

The group settled into a comfortable rhythm as Derek began the game. “Okay, I’ll start. Never have I ever... gone skydiving.”

A few people sipped their wine, including Emily and Rossi. “Guilty as charged,” Rossi said with a chuckle. “Skydiving is quite the adrenaline rush.”

Y/N, who had taken a sip, smiled and said, “I’ve always wanted to try it, but never had the chance.”

Spencer, still holding his glass, observed the interactions with a mix of curiosity and caution. He had never played this game before, not having ever been invited to parties in high school or college, and while he was intrigued, he wasn’t sure how much he was ready to reveal about himself.

JJ leaned forward, looking at Y/N with a grin. “Okay, your turn. What’s something we’d never expect from you?”

Y/N thought for a moment, then laughed softly. “Alright, never have I ever... been to a strip club.”

This time, the whole team, including Penelope, sipped their wine. “Oh, I mean we all have been on multiple occasions for a case,” Penelope admitted with a grin. “It’s a rite of passage.”

Spencer watched Y/N closely, noticing how easily she blended with the group, her laughter and easy demeanor making her approachable. He found himself feeling more comfortable, the game serving as a welcome distraction from his usual reservations.

As the game continued, Derek took his turn. “Never have I ever... gone on a blind date.”

Spencer, who had been carefully sipping his wine, hesitated for a moment before taking a sip. He caught Y/N’s eye and saw her smile warmly. “Well, that’s a new one for me,” she said, clearly amused.

Hotch, enjoying the playful banter, decided to chime in. “I think it’s safe to say that a lot of us have had some interesting experiences with blind dates.”

The game continued with a mix of laughter, surprises, and the occasional sip of wine. As it came around to Spencer’s turn, he took a deep breath, deciding to take a small risk. “Never have I ever... read all the books in a series before the final book was released.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise, and she laughed. “Oh, I’m guilty of that too. I get too impatient for the next installment.”

Spencer felt a small spark of connection, his nerves easing as he realized they shared a common interest. “It’s the only way to avoid spoilers,” he said with a smile.

The conversation flowed easily as the game progressed, with everyone sharing stories and bonding over their revelations. Spencer found himself more relaxed, the warmth of the wine and the easygoing nature of the game creating an environment where he could be himself.

The group settled into their seats even more lubricated with wine, ready for the real revelations. Derek went first, his tone playful. “Never have I ever... been to a nightclub and partied until dawn.”

Y/N, Emily, Penelope and Derek took a sip, with Emily laughing. “Oh, I’ve done that more times than I can count. Nothing like a night out on the town to blow off some steam.”

Spencer seemed slightly more at ease with each revelation. “I’ve never been to one of those. It sounds like an experience.”

The game continued with more revealing questions. Emily, with a mischievous glint in her eye, asked, “Never have I ever... had a one-night stand.”

Spencer was visibly surprised when Y/N took a sip. Y/N gave a small, slightly embarrassed smile. “It’s a part of life’s experiences, but I guess I’ve been more focused on my career lately.”

Spencer nodded, a hint of understanding in his eyes. He was keenly aware of the fact that he was still a virgin, and while he wanted to connect with Y/N on a deeper level, he found himself struggling. She had undoubtedly had more romantic and physical experiences than he had. The thought that someone as stunning and sophisticated as Y/N would be interested in a novice like him seemed almost inconceivable. He was trying hard not to let his insecurities cloud his mood. The way she smelled—like a wet dream—was both intoxicating and overwhelming. Her laughter, so genuine and carefree, only accentuated the gulf between them. Spencer tried to shake off the discomfort, reminding himself to stay engaged.

Derek, sensing the shift in the conversation and relishing the opportunity to provoke more personal revelations, threw out another provocative prompt. “Never have I ever... gone on a vacation just for the sake of hooking up with someone.”

Penelope and Emily took a sip, with Penelope letting out a soft laugh. “Sometimes you just need to get away and see where the night takes you,” she said, a playful glint in her eye.

Y/N, now visibly more at ease and enjoying the shared camaraderie, leaned in slightly, her voice carrying a teasing edge. “I’ve always found travel is more about the sights than the romance. But I suppose the adventure can include a little... spontaneous connection,” she said, letting her words linger with a hint of allure. Her gaze flicked towards Spencer briefly, a subtle challenge in her eyes.

Spencer felt a slight flush creeping up his neck as he realized Y/N’s playful comment was not lost on him. The conversation had taken a decidedly more personal turn. “I’ve never really mixed vacation with... personal pursuits,” he admitted, his tone tinged with shyness. The idea of combining travel with romantic endeavors seemed foreign and somewhat intimidating.

As the game continued, the topics grew more intense and revealing. Rossi, with a knowing smile and a glint of mischief, asked, “Never have I ever... been in a relationship where both partners had different kinks.”

Everyone, even Hotch, took a sip, with Rossi adding, “Sometimes those differences can make things... particularly exciting.”

Y/N, engaging more openly with the group, nodded thoughtfully. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. “It’s definitely something that can add a layer of complexity to a relationship,” she said, her voice taking on a more intimate tone. “It’s all about finding that balance and exploring what truly works for both partners.”

Spencer, taking a sip and feeling the warmth of the wine begin to loosen his nerves, found himself caught between curiosity and shyness. “It sounds like navigating those differences can be... challenging,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze remained fixed on Y/N, trying to read the subtle nuances in her expressions. The vulnerability she displayed in her words made her even more intriguing.

Y/N’s smile widened slightly, a mix of empathy and flirtation in her gaze. “It can be, but it’s also part of what makes relationships interesting,” she said, her voice soft but laced with a suggestive undertone. She met Spencer’s eyes with a confident yet gentle look, as if inviting him to share more of his thoughts.

Spencer swallowed hard, feeling a blend of attraction and apprehension. The way Y/N spoke, her casual yet intimate revelations, made him want to know more about her and, perhaps, reveal more about himself. The game had opened a door to a new level of connection, one that both excited and intimidated him.

The night had drifted into a mellow haze as the stars began to twinkle in the sky. The soft hum of conversation and clinking of glasses had subsided into a relaxed murmur as the team lingered in Rossi’s backyard, enjoying the cool night air. The rich aroma of the evening’s wine lingered in the air, adding a heady undertone to the tranquil setting.

Spencer had been engaged in a conversation with Rossi, but his mind kept drifting back to the playful exchanges he’d shared with Y/N. She had been captivating throughout the evening, her laughter and teasing remarks sticking in his mind. He found himself drawn to her energy, even as he struggled with his own insecurities.

As the night wore on, guests began to trickle out, and the ambiance of the backyard shifted to a quieter, more intimate atmosphere. Spencer watched as Y/N, her cheeks flushed with the warmth of the wine, made her way towards him. Her movements were graceful, and there was a certain confident allure in her stride that made Spencer’s heart skip a beat.

Y/N approached Spencer with a mix of determination and vulnerability. She cleared her throat gently, her eyes locking with his in a gaze that was both direct and inviting. The faint glow from the string lights above cast a warm halo around her, highlighting her striking features and the subtle sheen of her skin.

“Hey, Spencer,” she said, her voice soft but laden with an undeniable edge of sincerity. “Can we talk for a minute?”

Spencer, caught off guard, nodded. “Of course, Y/N. What’s up?”

Y/N led him a little away from the remaining guests, her hand brushing lightly against his as she guided him to a more secluded corner of the backyard. Spencer found he didn’t mind the contact too much, he might still wash his hands after. The quiet of the night enveloped them, the sounds of the party fading into the background.

She took a deep breath, her eyes searching his with a mix of hesitation and resolve. “I’ve really enjoyed talking with you tonight,” she began, her voice a touch more vulnerable than usual. “And I have to admit, I’ve been thinking... I’d like to see you again. Maybe for a coffee or dinner sometime? I’d love to get to know you better.”

Spencer’s heart raced as he took in her words. He felt a rush of warmth at the idea of spending more time with her, but the reality of his inexperience and his nerves threatened to overwhelm him. He managed a small, nervous smile, his mind racing through a whirlwind of thoughts.

“I’d like that,” Spencer said, his voice trembling slightly. “I’d really like that. I... I didn’t expect this, but I’m glad you asked.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, and she reached out to touch his arm, her fingers lingering for a moment. “Good,” she said, her tone taking on a more intimate quality. 

Spencer felt a surge of excitement mixed with his usual apprehension. The way Y/N looked at him, with that blend of confidence and genuine interest, made him feel like he was worthy of her attention.

“Absolutely,” he said, feeling more confident. “Let’s definitely make plans. I’d like that very much.”

Y/N’s smile widened, a mix of relief and satisfaction crossing her face. “Great. I’m looking forward to it.”

With that, she gave him a warm, lingering smile and a light touch on his arm before heading back towards the group to say her goodbyes. Spencer watched her go, with a brand new phone number in his pocket, feeling a renewed sense of hope and excitement. The evening had taken an unexpected turn, and he couldn’t wait to see where this new connection with Y/N might lead.

[penvisions]

gone to the dogs {chapter 7}

Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: Tensions run high as you can't seem to recover from your bout of sickness even though Tess is back on her feet and helping the newest member of your pack sort out some things. Neither of you had told Joel yet, bidding your time until some things are taken care of but you have a feeling it's more than just that if Tess's determined silence is anything to go by...

Word Count:

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical gore, outbreak fic, mean joel miller, degrading language, violence, heated interactions, adult language, fighting, references to injuries, blood, sexual content, rough sex, p in v, smut, unprotected p in v (it's the end of the world, y'all), sexual propositions, oral (f receiving), talk of pregnancy, angst, reference to off screen assault, medical jargon, mentions of nausea, mentions of past trauma, mentions of canon death, mentions of past childloss, i think that's it for this one!

Fic notes: we are officially 10 years into the apocalypse! joel is 46 at this point and cane is early 30's, but please imagine her to look anyway you want! these are just rough estimates and descriptions that are not set in stone as per the x reader tradition. simply a way for me to get the story fleshed out a bit c:

A/N: this fic really just got so big and it can't possibly be contained to the original ten chapters when i first started it. these two have really taken the reigns and i am all for letting them develop and flourish as they wish ♡♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

Joel scrubs a hard hand over his face, brushing away as much of the ash and dirt as he can as he lowers the bandana wrapped around his head as a mask. It’s not much, but it eases his mind enough for him to keep using it.

He’s been pulling more shifts, as many as they could give him. You and Tess both being sick was something that worried him, stressed him out. The dangers of the end of the world were rampant, too many to count and keep track of. A weakened immune system brought on by fever and sickness was something from Before that he had completely lost the notion of.

Seeing you beaten up and bruised from fights or shows of power, from hard days working whatever shitty physical labor the zone needed done or from crawling your way through the rubble of the fallen city around them in search of things to trade and sell- it was different. Different than seeing you wrapped up in all the thin blankets in the shared apartment, that he could get his hands on only to still see the shivers that rack your body and chitter your teeth together. It was different than seeing you barely manage to keep water down to take the pills he paid far too much for only for you to gag on the weight of it settling in your empty stomach.

The scraps of chicken and bone he managed to trade for had cost so many ration cards. But the medicine, the stock he was able to pull from the bone- all of it was worth it for you and Tess to start to get better.

Well, Tess was better. You were…you were…are still sick. No longer plagued by fevers, cold spells, and heat flashes. But your stomach was unsettled, and your appetite was borderline gone, the weight you dropped a little concerning and the color drained from your skin.

He’s been playing caretaker to whatever extent you’ll allow him when he’s in the privacy of your shared apartment. Even if it’s as simple as refilling your mug with hot water for a second cup of tea, of collecting the bowl you had used to try and eat something with before he got home. He’s willing to do it, to do more. But you won’t let him. Determined to hold onto your independence in a way that both makes him proud and feel a little useless.

So he works. To provide. To make it easier. To give you space. Doing the long standing trades, showing his face more on that side of things while you’re unable to do so. Tess now, too, is back at it and it seems like you’ve given her clear orders on who to trade with and who not to as the weather grows colder.

But right now all he can focus on is the sprawled out form of you on the bed. Sheets and blankets tossed and kicked to the end of the bed and nearly crumpled on the floor as you pant heavy breaths while trying to find a comfortable position to fall back asleep.

The baser instincts in him rise at the smell of sweat and the sounds your making, the slight groan of the mattress beneath your wiggling form. it’s not that he wants it for himself, well, not just that he wants it for himself. But your body is stressed, it’s fighting, mind and nervous system out of whack. He’s on you the second he steps over the threshold into the room, determined to give you some sort of relief. To give you something else other than seemingly endless days of sickness and being unwilling to leave the building.

“Joel, ‘m still sick.” You mumble halfheartedly, that tug in your navel letting you know that despite everything, your body still sings for him- because of him. And it’s intoxicating, the immediate reaction as you feel plush lips against your skin, feel the weight of his body so close.

“Don’t matter, want you.”

His kisses are like fire, trailing down from your chin where he nips hard to your neck and chest. Tank top pulled up as carefully as he could manage, ridding you of the thin fabric. His lips close around hardened peaks to pull out desperate sounds from you, so sensitive to the soothing swipe of his tongue after biting teeth. His nose skims across your skin, the sharpness of it driving you wild as his hands make quick work of removing the pants you had fallen asleep in.

His teeth nip gently at the swollen lips of your cunt through the fabric of your underwear before he breaths in deep. “Gonna get you outta your head for a bit.”

And like a switch, your mind and body only focus on him.

The drag of his nose over the same place, the tug of his fingers pulling the now damp fabric down. The hot, thick line of his cock against your legs as he pulls them up to bend into your chest. His tongue swipes flat over your folds, delving between them after, shockwaves of pleasure so intense after experiencing nothing but aches and pains for the last couple of weeks. It pulls a moan deep from your chest, the responsive chuckle earning him another as you feel the vibrations of it skitter across your skin.

He's pulling pleasure from you like he was made for it, his knowledge of your body all he committed to memory and you’re crying out within minutes. His fingers grip the backs of your thighs, spreading them to make room for his body to line of with yours and then he’s pushing in slowly. Through a crack of your eyelid, you see his focus on where the two of you connect, brown eyes dark and hair slicked back save for one stray curl folded over his temple. Teeth gritted and breath hissing as he fills you, slowly, taking in the sight for what it is, feeling it for what it is, living up to his promise to get you out of your head as he bottoms out and your mouth goes slack.

“Theeeere we go, huh, darlin’?” One of his hands snake up to grip your chin gently, pulling your thrown back head toward him. Thick fingers caress the too hot skin there and his eyes soften as your own fly open when he leans forward to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, the obscene sound of him pushing in deeper and your walls clenching around him. “Look at those pretty eyes, starin’ up at me with nothing behind them, that’s exactly what we wanted, wasn’t it?”

All you can do it try to nod, his hand so large cradling the side of your face, his lips so tantalizingly close but your body is frozen, the breath caught in your throat as you pulse around him, pleasure rippling through your body as he throbs deep inside you. He must see the way they tremble and he closes his mouth around yours, giving you exactly what you wanted without you needing to ask. When he pulls back, his teeth glint in the faint light seeping in through the window.

“Don’t gotta think about nothin’ else but how full you feel. Deserve to turn your thoughts off and just focus on gettin’ fucked.”

He’s pulling back a bit, his knees caging you in as they squeeze around your hips.

You can barely take a breath before he’s slamming back in and it’s pushed from your lungs.

Over and over again.

The day starts off normally, a plan in motion to tell Joel once he returns from one of his shifts. Tess spends the day helping to move most of Jean’s stuff out of the shitty apartment she had been given alongside two other single girls. Not enough room for her to even have her own space. But Tess was willing to give up her bedroom and move into the living room to provide some semblance of privacy and control for the young girl. You had taken her to the clinic, as well. Dropped her off and were due to pick her up any moment now, but you’re kneeled down in front of the toilet.

Your own sickness seems to linger while Tess is back in good health. Her color coming back while yours remains pallor, hot flashes and cold spells waring underneath your skin and making you nauseous. You were doing your best to hide the worst of the symptoms from Joel, not wanting him to feel like he needed to use the stock of goods and cards for more medicine that only worked at first. You’re just grateful that awful cough that rattled your brain and hurt your throat was gone, the phlegm that seemed to either clog up your sinuses or run far too freely gone as well. It had been a bad chest cold, same as Tess and you didn’t understand why you were better, but you weren’t…better.

You had given blood at the clinic, just to be cautious.

Because you were beginning to get worried. Between the new responsibility of caring for and protecting Jean, the rather startling reach out from Bill concerning new habits from Frankie he’s developed and the increasing scarcity of things to find in the city, you were feeling a slow simmering panic begin to form in the back of your mind and weigh down your mental and physical resolve.

The cold chill settling in the air wasn’t helping, telling you that it was about to get a while lot worse as the temperature dropped and winter weather became a daily struggle on top of it all. Snow and ice in Boston was normal this time of year, to begin falling from the sky and form on the ground.

Picking Jean up from the clinic was supposed to be a simple task. But you honestly don’t remember much of it. The ringing in your ears had started once the doctor had turned to you and read the results of your own testing. Effectively pulling the entire god damn earth’s crust from beneath your feet. You don’t remember the trek back to the apartment, nor the way that Jean was glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. Bottom lip between teeth as she contemplated commenting on same diagnosis that was read to you.

Shock. You were in shock. Mind reeling from the fact that now there wasn’t just one pregnancy to navigate, but two.

All you know is the startling cold of porcelain seeping through the towel you had placed over the top of the lid as you knelt in the bathroom once again. Stomach heaving and throat burning, heart beating far too fast as you struggled to regain your breath. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, a sharp contrast in how hot they were compared to the tile that surrounded you.

Just as you managed to stand up from your rather humbling position in front of the toilet again, you hear it.

The boom of Joel’s voice through the thin walls.

He was home early.

And Tess must’ve just told him what you two have been handling the past few days.

Keeping as silent on your feet as possible, not wanting to sound the creaks of your aged flooring, you inch into the living room and move into the kitchen. His voice is clear as a bell and angry.

“It’s just another fucking human being that’s going to be subjected to a shitty life and even shittier people. How do you think that kid is gonna feel when they learn about how they were conceived? You think she’s gonna be able to sit her kid down and explain to them the shit she had to endure? That she was raped and it was either go through with the birth or risk her life ending the pregnancy? You think that’s any kind of thing to put on child in this god forsaken world?”

“Joel, she’s scared. She said you told her to come to you for help. And Cane and I are an extension of that-“ Tess’s voice is raised, an attempt to wrangle in Joel’s own but its fruitless. You’ve only heard him sound like this when he deals with less than savory trade partners. You’ve only heard him when it was that first year of knowing him. When he didn’t trust you or share your bed. Before the shadow of a life you two slowly and carefully curated together.

“Just cause y’all are women doesn’t mean you know better about this than me. Don’t you try to pull that sexist bullshit with me, Tess. You know just as well as I do that bringing a new life into this world is a mistake. The risks of pregnancy before were deadly, with the help of machines and medicine. But now?”

He scoffs loud enough for you to hear it through the walls. You don’t flinch, though you know you would’ve once upon a time. There’s truth in his words, no matter how he’s weaponizing it to prove his point. To deny getting involved in the situation.

“Now she’s as good as dead if she goes through with it. And what if she does manage to give birth to a healthy baby and she’s the one stuck paying the price? Bleeds out or needs to be cut open, then there’s just another orphan the system is gonna abuse and use for their twisted sense of righteousness.”

“Joel-“

“She’s gonna be stuck with a kid, do you realize how much time and effort and work is gonna go into that and it’s all gonna fall on us. On me. And I am too fucking old for this shit.” You can hear silence that greets his harsh words, the raw and unfiltered emotions he feels on the matter. You knew Tess had a kid before all this and it must be hard for her to grapple with the reality of the situation. Especially as it brings up memories and her own past emotions. “There is no way in hell this is going to work out.”

“She came to us for help, Joel. You instilled in her that you would look after her, no matter what. And guess what? This is something big! She can live here with me, I can…I can help her through the rough patches, I know what it’s like to have a less than smooth time of it.”

“Tess…”

“I’m going to help her, Joel. From one mother to a prospective one. As a parent, I would think you feel at least a little connected to the issue at hand.” That gave you as much pause as it seemed to Joel. The silence that permeated the air was heavy, crackling tension palpable even through the walls.

“This is dangerous, this is stupid and reckless. Children aren’t a blessing, they’re a curse.” His even but thudding steps could be heard as he makes his way to the door. You’re still in shock a few moments later when it doesn’t slam shut, it doesn’t even open. He must’ve turned around and you can almost picture him looking over his shoulder. All broad and brooding, angry. “This is a mistake.”

With no other outlet for what you’re feeling, you shove your hands into the sleeves of your jacket and grab your keys from the nails they hang on beside the door. Glancing on the sleeping form of Jean on the couch, you’re relieved that she’s in a deep enough sleep to not hear the harsh words of the man who she had sought out for help.

You don’t even dare glance at the end of the hallway, not knowing what you would do if you glimpsed Joel at this moment.

And that scared you.

That you didn’t know if you would curl up into his chest, wrap your arms around his neck or waist and burrow your face into him. Inhale his scent and be comforted by the way he holds you back. Or if you would scold him for his choice of words, for the way he’s backtracking suddenly as the situation turns now to something he doesn’t have the patience and energy to deal with.

That you didn’t know if the words would immediately fall from your lips or stay lodged in your throat and suffocate you.

He had given Jean his attention, his protection, his word that he would look out for her. And he’s standing there determining the course of her future that would best benefit him. That would work in his favor, to not have to deal with something so monumentally important. The news isn’t the best, it isn’t born of a decision between two consenting adults who are determined to nurture and love. Hell, you aren’t even sure if Jean had ever admitted to wanting to be a mother beyond not feeling right with doing away with her condition. But it was something, it was someone.

Hope. It was hope you were feeling as you sped down the hallway and away from the harsh words that hang in the air.

Hope for a future that isn’t the same damn thing day in and day out. Fighting and hustling for supplies, for food, for water, for space in a crowded zone. That isn’t protecting your territory and your smuggled items, that isn’t holding fast to your going rates as people challenge them and clamor for them because even if you did want to provide things that were hard to find or considered contraband, you still needed to benefit from the effort and skills that go into supplying them.

The news Jean brought to you, born of devastation and immoral means, could be the universe’s push of urging you toward something else. Your own news born of a moment of passion under the influence with someone who you found rare solace and genuine companionship with. The naïve notion of taking it in stride and shifting everything for the better, for the hope of making something of the situation you’ve landed yourself in is a painful one. Cultivating and nurturing goodness back into the world where you could, back into your life that had become so violent and overwhelming in its eat or be eaten nature.

You’ve been violent for so long, have had to be violent for so long. The world demanding it of you if you wanted to survive, to breath, to live to see another tortured day. And all those days that it seemed like too monumental a task, too hard a thing to commit to once again. A flicker of your old, weaker self rising up and arguing that there was no point, that it was useless to survive a hard day and the only reward was another string of them. But now you know why it was imperative that you stuck with it, defending yourself, protected yourself, used teeth and nails and haunting violence to make sure you saw the sun rise each morning and set each night over a world that was decimated beyond help.

And that reason was a phantom weight low in your belly. The new reason you would fight even harder from this point on until the moment you drew your last breath. Your child would know better than you were thrust into, would know better than this broken world and mockery of what was once city life.

You would bite and claw and fight, shoot or slash anything that threatened the life you were determined to give to your child, to give back to her. That younger version of yourself lost piece by piece as things quickly fell, as people gave into temptation and damnation the second civilization crumbled.

You don’t realize the heavy words in your mind are coming out as snarled sounds every time your boots hit the ground with your fast pace. The man Jean had described was walking home, you on his tail and none the wiser about what fate was about to deliver. What you were about to deliver.

Crazy bitch. Depraved dog. Ruthless.

His insults don’t mean anything, as you stalk him through the streets and down the hallway that leads to his apartment. His pained groans and stuttered breaths mean nothing to you as you land hit after hit, they don’t give insight to anything but satisfaction that curls your lips up at the corners.

His words, Joel’s words, ring in your ears as you feel the impact of your knuckles on the man’s face. Each punch, each hit landing as the echo inside your head gets louder and louder. Those are the only ones that mean anything, the only thing that fuels your violence. The man crumpled beneath your knees deserving of every last bit even more so and you’re convinced he would feel the exact same way. He would see his own actions as righteous, taking what was his, what was deserved- the consequences not on his mind nor something he would feel like needs his attention. An afterthought, the result of an assault he forced on someone.

All of it, everything in the entire world was just- mistake, mistake, mistake. After goddamn mistake.

But this? Delivering retribution on the man who is weaker than you ever were, it feels right. It feels like something you’re meant to do. Despite the depravity and brutality of the sentence you’ve given him, it’s a step in the right direction. It’s a step toward a better future.  

Please. Stop. I’ll do anything you want. Take anything you want. Please- no…no!

And then he’s no longer breathing the air he doesn’t deserve.

With bruised hands, swollen knuckles and aching fingers you gather everything in his apartment into his own duffle bags hidden beneath the bed.

You leave the apartment, ignoring the cracked doorways as people peek through them to see what the scuffle was about, who had been target this time- the only thing left inside besides dirty linens and dishes is his body with a note stabbed into his chest with his pocket knife.

Don’t mess with my people.

Signed off with a stamp of ink in the shape of a paw.

And though it’s far too early to feel the weight in your belly, something settles there and you feel it the entire walk back to the apartment building, even as you stand at the sink and wash the blood from your hands. The stain of it lingers even with the aid of soap and cold water.

His figure used to be refreshing, a comforting thing to see at the end of every tumultuous day. But now, your eyes track him, take him in as if he posed a threat. As if he had done anything other than simply walk into the room, his muscles rippling with the action of removing his jacket. His scruff a dark shadow in the low light that glitters when the gray there catches the light. He’s so broad, the entire doorway filled by the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest. The same body you found comfort in when it curled around you or pressed down upon you. But now, it’s as if a stranger has strutted into your home for all that had happened recently.

Large, calloused hands reach for his belt, remove with a simple pull through the fabric holding it in place and you feel nausea rise at the spike of desire that pools between your legs. Feelings and urges war with each other in your mind and heart, body reacting to his as he approaches. Your head tilting into the cradle of his palm even as your mind screams at you that he doesn’t care. This is the same man who had declared loudly and determinedly that he wanted no part in the situation at hand. The one that involved a child. He hadn’t known his words were not only for another woman but for you too.

“You okay, darlin’? You look a little waxy there. The meds workin’ alright or do I need to go and get some more from the infirmary?”

“Fine, Joel.”

“Hey,” His eyes search yours as he tips your chin up, locking onto them and trying to find out what you’re not voicing. But he can’t seem to, because his brow furrows and the corners of his lips pull down. “You sure?”

“Had to take someone out, is all. Muscles weren’t used to being used like that.” The admittance doesn’t lift any of the weight in your chest, but the words are out. No longer caged between your ribs with the other secrets you now carry.

“Tell me you didn’t.” He takes a step back, and he’s not upset…but he’s- something. How were you supposed to know it was fear, when you swallowed yours down so long ago?

“I’ll tell you I did, because it needed to be done. He didn’t deserve to breath anymore. He forced her, Joel. He manipulated her long before that and then when she was finally free from him, he goes and-“

“You shoulda let me handle it.”

“Why? Because I’m too weak?” The snarl in your words has him removing his hand from you, giving you space. He lets out a heavy breath as he realizes the way you had taken his worry, his fear.

The room is crackling, the energy flowing from you having built up for days, weeks now. It hadn’t bothered you at first, it hadn’t bothered you at all. Until someone had made a comment that you had been made to heel, fucked into your rightful place. Just as you had been leaving the clinic earlier that day. You had been preoccupied, yes that’s true, but that didn’t mean you had taken a step to the side and allowed for authority to shift. You had simply begun to focus more on finding things that would not only benefit the anticipated needs of the zone’s occupants, but of Bill and Frank as well. Then you had gotten sick, all of that paired with the reality you were facing alongside Jean and no one could blame you for the whirlwind that had replaced your heart.

“You’re just tired, is all. Not weak, I could’ve been there for backup.” He tries to keep calm, but you can see the way the muscle in his jaw twitches. He looks from the collection of items on the dining table, to where you had made up a nest of sorts on the couch as you had tried to get some time out of the bed you really should be swathed in to recover. “Let’s get you another dose of meds and maybe a shower.”

And you know he isn’t trying to belittle your emotions or step around them. He’s seeing them for what they are, as least as best he can. He knows you’re overwhelmed, that small things grow into big things over time, and this is one of those moments where you realize that they have and it’s completely out of your control.

“‘M fine.” You can’t help the snap of your teeth as you clench your teeth, head pounding and stomach turning. You hadn’t left for days but you had heard the rumors going around as you and Tess all but disappeared from the scene when you both fell sick. Determined to get out and reclaim some semblance of control, you reach for your coat. The clack of plastic makes you freeze, worried that the object got shoved from the depths of the inside pocket it’s hidden in.

Joel takes the moment to come up behind you, his arms wrapping around your middle. Grounding himself and attempting to ground you too, knowing there was no stopping you if you wanted to get some space. You know he wouldn’t take that from you, try to control that part of you. He needed space sometimes too, even on the good days. But this wasn’t one of them, this was a bad day. A monumentally bad one. And it’s made even heartbreakingly worse by the confession he breathes into the back of your neck, his forehead pressed to back of your head as he inhales your scent. Don’t go. Love you. Need you safe while you’re sick.

You freeze, processing.

Love you. Love you. Love you.

It echoes in your mind, his voice caressing and soothing despite everything. It calms you enough to take a deep breath, to try and center yourself for the barest of moments.

And it sounds so good, his voice quietly voicing the warmth and affection that had developed, that had been carefully cultivated between you two over the years. But as good as they sound, they don’t bring you the comfort you know he hopes that they will. Because he’s already undermined the sentiment, he’s already crumbled the very foundation of what you two stand on. It breaks your heart a little to not return the words, even as you feel them harden and catch in the middle of your throat.

“You gotta know that, by now.” He fills the silence as your body tenses in his hold.

But the timing of it, the words he had spoken so devoutly just the previous day are like shrapnel stuck in your skin, burning and stinging. No amount of picking at them will take away the damage they’ve done, clear the burns and the irritation, the pain.

“Didn’t know you were the type of man who cast aside a pregnant woman who came to you for help. A woman who you’ve done nothing but try and watch out for until this point.” Your voice is a whisper, anger bubbling up, heartbreak spilling your chest open, body almost numb from the way everything was so poetically fucked.

“You’re right, I’ve done nothing but try and watch out for her. And guess what? She still got hurt, she still got assaulted, she’s still in this goddamn situation that has no good outcomes!” He’s pulling away, you turn to face him. The darkness that had fallen as night settled is not longer comforting against the onslaught of photophobia you had been experiencing all day. Now it feels suppressive, it feels like you’re in a cage that you can’t escape from. The words Joel had said and is now saying are like locks, connecting together in a twisted way to make you feel the weight of how they can’t possibly be coming from the same person.

“Is it really that bad of a situation?”

“Is it- for fuck’s sake, Cane.” He scrubs a wide palm over his face, the scruff of his neck bristling at the action and causing goosebumps to sprout all along your arms. “I think I get a decent read on you and then you go and ask somethin’ like that. Do you not see how this will affect us? Affect everything we try to do to survive?”

His voice has shifted from anger to something that rings warning bells in your head, it’s not desperation and its not beseeching. But there’s something in the deep timbre that alights your nerves and makes you feel as if everything between you will be determined in the next choice of words. Despite how you feel, despite the way things have been going, the groove you’ve found with him and Tess. Despite the smuggling getting harder but still holding a majority of the supplies and power, and how Joel returns to you every night. Despite it all, the phantom weight you feel low in your middle compels the words that leave your lips next.

“I’m not even sure if I know what love truly is but if it’s not what I feel for you then I have no clue. It’s never simple and perhaps it just speaks to how I’m meant to be alone.”

“What’s more simple than telling me how you feel?” His eyes are narrowed, though you see the way his irises are blown out. You wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s panicking, but he’s not…he’s hadn’t expected anything other than reciprocation. And it breaks your heart, the chasm in your chest deepening as you realize you can’t gift them to him as easily as you would’ve been able to just twenty-four hours prior.

“Because I heard you, Joel!” Your words leave you in a shout, an angry frustrated cry that bursts from your chest. Unable to quell the spike of emotions, this wasn’t just about Jean anymore. “I heard you talking about how that girl you’ve taken under your wing suddenly means nothing to you the second you can’t handle the situation. The things you said, the fucking vitriol in your voice when you talked about an innocent, a baby.”

“That’s what changed your mind? Affected everything I’ve done in the past four years, we’ve done in the past four years.”

“Yes! Because you- it- because it was so hateful. Like, I get it, Joel, really. You’re a big scary man, you’ve got the brooding scowl down and the razor sharp glare, but she needs our help with this. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but I’m not about to tell her what to do with her own body. You cannot be so daft to not think that that’s not going to alter the way I think about you at least a little.”

He doesn’t seem to know how to respond, his full lips pull down into a deep frown and his brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything else. His eyes hard, sharp on you as he watches the way you shrug your jacket on and stand in front of the door. With a hand on the knob, you look back over your shoulder with a set expression, not willing for him to see any glimpse of what’s going on in your head.

“I’m going to take Jean to Lincoln. It’ll be safer for her there, better place to raise her mistake.”

The instinct to run, to protect, to build for not one but two mistakes settles deep in your bones as you realize the notion was a solitary one. Joel’s own instincts clashing with yours. Preservation and protection flare up and make you defensive, make you willing to walk away from the life you created with someone you love, to deny them the last true thing that makes life worth living- of loving and being loved in return, they allow you push through the heartache of leaving it all behind.

“I’ll be staying there to help her through everything.”

You don’t hear the whispered plea to not leave that falls from his lips, eclipsed by the sound of the slamming door. Or you do, and it push it from your memory for all the pain it brings to recall it.  

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[elyxir1zz]

★ — Between the lines - part 2

A/N ; okay im gonna warn you guys for this chapter, my writing it very diffrent then the last. i spent 2 days on it and the previous chapter i wrote when i was...stoned

CW ; angst - mentions of; alcohol, drugs, self harm (not this chapter) - modern au - melvika - love triangle

previous part part 1 rewritten

All week. All week sevika has been…bearable. To say the least, she's stopped making herself obstacle, Stopped making out with people in front of your locker, pretending you're not standing right there telling her to move. Mr wilson didn't move your seats, even after vi and sevika beat the shit out of each other

You've noticed sevika doesn't really have patience, she just goes into things with no sketch and no preparation. Then gets frustrated when it doesn't look like what she imagined. Mr wilson has asked you to help her in response to this 

“No sketch first then start painting” And, as if helping her wasn’t enough punishment, you found yourself agreeing to meet her in the art room during lunch The faint smell of paint and turpentine making sevikas head hurl “seriously? It's a child's craft. Why do i need a sketch for something we learned in..elementary school” 

You rubbed your temples, trying to ward off the headache that Sevika’s attitude was bound to cause. She could tell you were about to walk out so she rolls her eyes and picks up the pencil. Your eyes widen a bit, she actually listened to you? You smirk and as if she could read your mind “im not listening to you..just dont want to fail” sevika grumbled 

Her eyes linger on your face, the pencil hovering just above the page as if she forgot what she was doing. You pretended not to notice. “I assume you have an idea of what you want it to look like” you say softly. “An idea…” she repeats. Sevika hesitates before starting the sketch, her usual confidence faltering for a moment. It’s small, but it hints at a deeper side of her. Seeing her actually trying is kinda cute. “You need to work on this” you point to the lobby hill she drew

“this is kid stuff, why do i need a sketch” sevika whined. As much as she hated drawing, there was something somewhat likeable too it. “Because right now, this looks like something I’d put on my fridge when I was five.” you say tilting your head, making eye contact with her. She has an amused look on her face “bunny has teeth, make sure to warn your girlfriend about that” she teases

Your stomach drops a bit. “For the last time she isnt-” you pause when idea pops into your head “what if she was?”

 you smirk Sevika’s amused smirk faltered, her eyebrows knitting together in a mix of confusion and something else—was it unease? “You’re messing with me,” she said, her voice low and measured. But her eyes betrayed her, darting quickly to your face and then away.

“Am I?” you leaned closer, your smirk widening as you crossed your arms. “Maybe I’m just trying to make you squirm.” You could tell your words were getting under her skin; the subtle twitch of her jaw gave it away.

Her pencil paused mid-stroke, hovering above the paper. “You’re not serious.” She said it like a statement, but there was the faintest hint of doubt in her tone.

You leaned back in your chair, still smirking. "What if I was?" you teased, your voice light, though your heart was racing. It wasn't as if you didn't find Sevika attractive-who wouldn't?-but a part of you only wanted to see how far you could push her.

She set the pencil down and turned toward you fully, her expression unreadable. Her dark eyes scanned your face, like she was searching for any sign that you might be joking. "I don't think you could handle someone like me," she said finally, leaning back in her chair with a cocky grin, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her.

"Oh?" You raised an eyebrow, leaning forward this time. "Is that a challenge?"

She snorted, though her voice was quieter now, as if she was suddenly unsure of herself. "It's not a challenge. I'm just saying, you and Vi are a better fit or…whatever."

You leaned your head to the side, fascinated by the drumming of her fingers on the edge of the desk. "You keep bringing her up," you said, voice softer now as the teasing fell away. "Why?"

Sevika tensed up slightly, and for the first time, she seemed genuinely caught off guard. "I don't— " she started, but her voice trailed off. Her gaze fell to the sketch in front of her, like she was focusing on anything but you. "I guess she's always around you, that's all."

You didn't miss that her hand clenched into a fist for one brief second before she picked up the pencil again. The atmosphere suddenly felt heavier between you, almost charged with something. "You know," you said with a slow deliberation, resting your elbow on the desk, "if I didn't know better, I would think you are jealous.

Her pencil stopped midway and her head jerked up; her eyes slitted. "Jealous?" she scoffed, heavy on the disbelief. "Don't flatter yourself."

You grinned, though inside, the pulse in your neck quickened. "You don't deny it, though.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. That playful energy turned into something else, which neither of you wanted to name just yet. Sevika broke the silence first, grumbling under her breath as she went back to her sketch. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"And you're stubborn," you retorted, leaning back toward peeking at her drawing. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you've been drawing for years." You stood and snatched up your bag. She eyed the actions. "I really must go. Promised Vi I was gonna help with her painting".

She watches you walk to the door "wait-" she stutters. You turn back around to look at her "hm?" you tilt your head

"Theres this party-" sevika stopped to scoff at herself "tonight. It would be cool if you came." 

"Ill have to think about it." you smirk and turn back around to leave

"Holy shit," Sevika muttered under her breath, letting out a sigh of relief as she rested her head in her hand. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to gather her thoughts. "She's so—"

"Pretty?"

The word cut through the quiet, and Sevika's head shot up. Her eyes landed on a figure leaning casually against the doorframe. "Mel—" Sevika stammered, her voice faltering as her gaze swept over the girl.

Mel raised an eyebrow, pushing herself off the doorframe with an elegance that felt both effortless and deliberate. “Hey…” she said softly, her voice carrying just enough edge to make Sevika tense. She crossed the room in a few steps and slid into the seat next to her, the same seat where you’d been moments earlier.

Sevika’s eyes darted away, focusing intently on her sketchbook. The pencil in her hand felt heavier than it had a moment ago. “Is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my calls all week?” Mel asked, her tone even but pointed.

Sevika closed her eyes briefly, wishing she could escape this conversation altogether. She knew it was coming—it had been inevitable from the moment she stopped responding—but she hadn't expected it to happen now. Not here. Not with you still lingering in the back of her mind.

"Busy," Sevika mumbled, her voice unconvincing. She scribbled something meaningless on the edge of the page, anything to avoid meeting Mel's gaze.

"Busy?" Mel repeated, her lips twisting wryly as she leaned backward, her eyes sliding to the opened sketchbook resting across Sevika's desk. "You don't like me… do you?"

It had sounded sharp and cut clean; out loud, an accusation. Her eyes flickered to the incomplete sketch Sevika had been drawing, as though in hope the lines would tell her what she sought from Sevika's face.

Sevika's hand paused, frozen mid-air. "What?" she said, a note of defensiveness edging her voice, almost surprise.

Mel's gaze didn't budge from the page, following the lines in quiet intensity. "It's a nice sketch," she said, her tone implying that that wasn't at all what the comment was about. "But it's not about me, is it?"

Sevika swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She hated how exposed she felt, like Mel could see right through her. “You’re overthinking it,” she said, her voice gruff, trying to dismiss the weight of the moment.

“Am I?” Mel asked, finally turning her attention back to Sevika. Her dark eyes locked onto hers, unyielding and steady. “Because it feels like you’re avoiding me. Like you’ve already made up your mind and you’re just waiting for me to figure it out.”

Sevika clenched her jaw, gripping the edge of the sketchbook. “It’s not like that.”

Then what is it like, Sevika?" Mel pressed, leaning in an inch or so. Her voice lowered, but underlying was no mistaken frustration. "You can't keep dodging this.

The room was quiet for a moment, save the scratching sound of a pencil on paper. Sevika kept her eyes on the sketch but was focusing on a storm in her head that she tried to keep contained.

 "I don't know what you want me to say," Sevika finally muttered under her breath.

"I want you to be honest," Mel said, leaning back and crossing her arms. Her voice was calm, but the tension between them was palpable. "If you don't feel the same way, just say it. Don't leave me hanging."

Sevika hesitated, a riot of thoughts racing through her mind. She was thinking of you-of the sound of your voice when you spoke to her and how that would linger on even in your absence. She thought of the growing knot within her chest, which got tighter with each look at Mel, realizing she could not give her what she wanted.

Finally, Sevika set the pencil down and breathed out. "I didn't mean for this to happen," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mel tilted her head, her expression softening just slightly. "Didn't mean for what to happen?"

Sevika hesitated, running a hand over her face. "I didn't mean to hurt you," she said finally. "But I… I can't give you what you're looking for.

The admission hung in the air, heavy and raw. Mel stared at her for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, more to herself than to Sevika.

“Thanks for finally saying it,” Mel said, standing up and brushing off her pants. Her voice was calm, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Guess I’ve got my answer.”

Sevika did not say a word but continued staring at the sketchbook lying on the desk. The soft shuffle of Mel's footsteps across the room to the door, and then the quiet click of it closing behind her, were all she heard.

For a long moment, Sevika just sat there, staring at the lines she'd drawn. The room felt emptier now, the weight of the conversation settling heavily on her shoulders. She let her head fall forward onto the desk with a sigh, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Shit," she muttered to herself.

And for once, the silence didn't feel like a relief—it felt like a reminder.

—

The screen of the phone lit up on her bed, the message staring back at you as if it was taunting you.

"See you soon?"

Sevika… You didn't answer. You hadn't even opened it up, but the notification was there, bold and insistent, like it dared you to make a decision.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the edge of your bed, your fingers gripping the edge of your phone. You unlocked it for the fifth time in the past ten minutes, stared at the message, then locked it again.

"Just go," you muttered under your breath. "It's not a big deal. It's not… anything."

The second the words were out of your mouth, your chest tightened, the lie heavy in the back of your throat. You ran a hand through your hair, letting out a shaky breath as you glanced toward your closet. It loomed in the corner of your room, half-open, with a tangle of clothes spilling out like it was mocking your indecision.

What were you even going to wear? Did it matter?

You get up suddenly, pace a few steps to the closet, and stop short. Your hand hovered over the door, but you hesitate. If you started picking an outfit, it meant you'd already decided to go.

And if you went…

You shook your head, stepping backward. No, it wasn't that deep. It was just a casual thing, not some declaration. Nobody's asking you to make a big deal out of it, so why was your stomach twisting in knots?

"Ugh," you groaned, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes like you could block out your own thoughts.

Man, this was hard. You usually aren't this indecisive. What if it is awkward? What if it is not? What if you just go out and you've got the wrong thing to say? Or worse-what if you went, and it was so damn obvious how much overthinking you've done?

You sat down again on the bed edge, your stare listless to the floor. Maybe you should not go at all. It will be easier like this, isn't it? Just bypass the whole circumstance altogether; it'll keep things plain easy.

"Just go", you hushed again, this time feeling almost as if to plead to yourself.

You sigh and look back toward the closet. Slowly, reluctantly you stood up and pulled the door open. You were going to drive yourself crazy if you didn't just stop thinking about it already.

—

You are greeted by the sprawling house, feeling out of place for the kind of party unfolding inside. The manicured lawn and pristine exterior suggest a bright future for whoever owns the place, but the muffled bass thumping from within and the rowdy voices spilling out into the night tell a different story.

You hesitate at the door, looking back down the street to where your car is parked. The urge to turn and run claws at you, but before you can act on it, you notice the door isn't even closed. It's propped wide open, as if the house itself has given up on decorum.

You steel yourself and step inside. Immediately, the warmth and the noise hit you like a wave of chaos that makes you wonder why you came in. The air is thick with mingling scents of alcohol, sweat, and whatever someone's attempting to pass off as a "vape flavor."

You push through the crowd, ducking and weaving to avoid the elbows and arms of taller bodies that seem oblivious to your presence. At your height, you’re practically invisible unless someone is looking directly at you—or accidentally spills their drink on you.

The fellow with the beer oversloshes his mug on a swooping move too close to your shoes, and you sidestep in time with an apology he never heard amidst all that shouting and laughter, so you forge ahead deeper into this house, every footfall reminding you of how far the current scene feels alien.

The kitchen was somewhat less crowded than the rest of the house, but not by a long shot. The countertops were strewn with empty bottles and red cups; someone had spilled beer on the floor, which made it sticky under your shoes. You grabbed the first drink in sight—a suspiciously bright red punch in a cheap plastic cup.

That was a mistake, the first sip. Chaotic, the taste mixed sour fruit and cheap vodka, burning its way down your throat. You winced and pulled the cup away-like it'd offended you personally.

"That was hilarious," a voice said from behind you, tinged with amusement.

You turned to see a girl leaning casually against the counter, her dark eyes locked on you, her lips curled into a smirk. She held her own cup with the kind of effortless confidence you'd never mastered.

"I don't usually drink," you admitted, setting your cup down like it might bite you.

"I figured," she replied smoothly, pushing off the counter and stepping closer. "First-timer vibes."

You blinked, trying to place her. She was gorgeous in a way that didn’t even seem fair—polished, poised, and wearing an outfit that looked like it had been pulled from the pages of a magazine.

“I’m Mel,” she said, extending her hand like this was a professional networking event rather than a chaotic high school party.

You hesitated for a second before shaking it, mumbling your name in return.

Her smirk widened. "I know who you are."

That threw you off. "You… do?"

"Of course." She shrugged, taking a casual sip of her drink. "You're kind of hard to miss these days."

Your confusion must've been obvious because she tilted her head, elaborating. "You've got two of the school's star hockey players practically falling over themselves for you. That kind of drama doesn't go unnoticed.

You coughed hard, choking in the air and waving a hand before your face. "What?!"

Mel chuckled, set down her cup, and yanked a napkin off the counter to give to you. "Relax," she teased with a lighter tone. "It's not terrible. Just… interesting."

You scrubbed furiously at your mouth, burning under the heat and unsure of a response. "They're not— I mean, no one's—

"Sure," she said, stretching the word out with a knowing glance. "Keep telling yourself that."

She leaned back against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other. Her gaze lingered on you, weighing. "So, what are you doing here?"

"I…" You stopped, suddenly feeling so out of place. "I was invited."

Mel raised an eyebrow; her smirk softened into something closer to curiosity. "By who?"

"Does it matter?" you shot back, more defensive than you intended.

Her grin was back, sharper this time. "Guess not. But by the way you're standing like a deer caught in headlights, I'd say this isn't your scene."

You frowned, crossing your arms. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," she said, leaning closer, her voice dropping just slightly, "you're too interesting for this."

The statement hung there, unexpected and unsettling. Before you could respond, Mel grabbed her cup and straightened up. "See you around," she said casually, brushing past you with a final glance.

You stood frozen, her words playing over in your mind. What did she mean by "interesting"? And why did it feel like she'd seen right through you?

The party around you suddenly seemed louder, the noise pressing in. You reached for your abandoned drink, taking another sip hesitantly. It still tasted awful, but this time you forced it down.

Mel was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, but she'd left something behind-a knot of uncertainty in your chest.

Your name is called out from across the jumbled hum of the party by a familiar voice. You stop mid-sip, the booze still on your tongue. You turn toward the sound, and then you see her-Vi.

Your stomach does the roller coaster flip-and-drop thing. You are shocked; you sputter. You immediately spit out the sip of suspect vodka punch you'd just taken. The burning liquid sprays onto the counter in front of you, earning a few judgmental glances from nearby partygoers.

“Violet!" you stutter, still trying to recover as you wipe the back of your mouth with your hand. A nervous smile stretches across your face as Vi steps closer, hands in her pockets and her signature smirk playing on her lips. "What-what are you doing here?

She raises an eyebrow, seemingly entertained by the flustered look on your face. "I could ask you the same thing," she said, her eyes running across your features before flicking down to the cup in your hand. "You don't really seem like the party type.”

You laugh awkwardly, trying to ignore how her gaze seems to pin you in place. "I'm not," you admit, holding up the cup as if it explains anything. "I just… needed a change of scenery tonight, I guess."

Vi tilts her head, studying you. "A change of scenery, huh? And yet here you are, hiding out in the kitchen, drinking." She looks at your cup with mock suspicion. ".whatever that is."

"It's punch," you say, defensive, even though you know you deserve it.

"Punch," she repeats, plainly not buying it. Her smirk grows and she leans against the counter, relaxed. "How's that working out for you?

You roll your eyes but can't suppress the small laugh that escapes you. "Terribly. I think I might've just poisoned myself."

Vi chuckles, the sound warm and honest, and for a moment, the noise of the party fades into the background. You grip your cup a little tighter, trying to find your ground as the weight of her attention settles on you.

"Hey, I needed to talk to you- do you want to find a quieter space" There is a shift in tension between the two of you. Your heart skips for a second, and you look down "uh

"Sure- i have to go use the bathroom- really quickly-" your words are broken up as you step away- actually technically you run away. You push into the crowd, it reminded you of a corn field as your squished between bodies

Your almost out of the crowd when somebodies ankle trips you. Strong hands catch you before you hit the ground. "You okay?" your eyes remain on the ground as you already know who it is 

You sigh looking up at sevika. her smirk was infuriating and her grip was steady.

"Fine" you stand up straighter and pull your hands back. She has a look of disappointment on her face as you do

You size her up, and down she ws wearing a leather jacket with a tank top and a pair of jeans. "Nice jacket" you say in a sarcastic tone. It was a nice jacket it hugged sevikas muscles snuggly.

She chuckles deeply "Thanks, babe" she crossed her arms. Your face flushes with the nickname, honestly not knowing if she meant it literally. With the so called rumors she could mean it literally.

"Didn't think I'd see you here, doesn't seem your kind of scene" she laughed squeezing the red cup in her hand, looking down at it.

"Oh my god why is everyone saying that" your eyes widen as you hold your head. "Hm?" she tilts her head. ".there was this girl- in the kitchen- actually it wasn't just a girl- it was mel" sevikas stomach dropped at your words

"Mel? Wh- what did she need?" sevika was.nervous? She stuttered over her words and her palm grew sweaty. You were worried mel was messing with you cause she was salty over what went down between them

You laugh and tilt your head "she just teased me about drinking" you chose not to bring up the rumor since you were still worried mel was just fucking with you

"Was that it?" sevika looked around periodically. Almost nervous about the people standing around. You narrow your eyes

"What's wrong?" you look up at her. There were moments like these between the both of you where there wasn't any teasing or sarcastic comments. Your hand rests on hers. She looks down at your hand, heart dropping a bit

'I have to go find mel' sevika thought to herself. She smirked laughing "im fine, peach. Ill be right back" you sigh as she walks away from you

–

The hallways are full; the crush of bodies pushes against you while the air grows thick with the nauseatingly sweet combination of beer and weed. It clings to your senses, making your stomach turn queasily as you struggle through the mess. The music booms from the living room, the low throb of the bass vibrant in your chest. Your head suddenly throbs, overwhelmed.

Finally, you find the bathroom door behind which its peeling white paint stands in vivid contrast to the dimly lit hallway. You pause a moment, looking back at the party crowd. A pang stirs in your chest. Maybe you should just leave. But instead, you push the door open, slipping inside.

With the soft click of the door shutting, the din is reduced to a distant hum, and this tiny room now feels almost like a haven from outside chaos. You let out a heavy sigh, leaning against the sink and bracing yourself against its edges. The cool porcelain is calming beneath your fingertips.

The mirror reflects your image-messy hair, slightly flushed cheeks, eyes that give away your unease. You frown and brush a strand of hair over your shoulder; maybe if you fix your appearance, it will somehow fix everything.

"Why are you so weird…" you whisper to yourself, barely audible over the muffled bass of the party outside. Your voice breaks slightly, weighted down by self-criticism.

You hold your gaze in the mirror, the fluorescent light casting sharp shadows across your features. The reflection feels foreign, like someone you don't quite recognize. You sigh again, closing your eyes for a moment as if shutting out the world will help you reset.

You rub your temples, trying to ease the headache that's forming. "You could've stayed home," you mutter to yourself. "Netflix, snacks, no people…"

Your reflection doesn't respond, but the silence in the bathroom is heavy, as if the quiet is some judgment against you. You shake your head, annoyed at yourself, and glance around the bathroom. There's a faint chemical smell from the cleaner someone half-heartedly used earlier, clashing with the residual scents of beer and smoke seeping through the walls.

You straighten up, brushing off invisible dust from your shirt, as if to ready yourself for stepping back out there. But your hand lingers on the sink, and your stomach twists at the thought of walking back into the noise and heat of the party.

You can do this, you mutter, but even you don't sound like you believe it. You take one final deep breath and run your fingers through your hair before you force yourself to turn toward the door.

—

You work your way back through the living room, weaving past the people scattered around. The music is louder now; you feel every bass note like it's a second heartbeat in your chest. You smell stale beer and smoke- heavy in the air-and the space spins for a half-second before straightening again. You finally spot a spot on the couch open up, so you make your way there, collapsing between the two worn cushions as it envelops you.

You lean forward, placing your elbows on your knees and pressing your fingers against your forehead, closing your eyes. The cacophony of noise and the movements around you are overwhelming, but you try to block out the party and breathe deeply to center yourself.

For one long moment, you contemplate returning to Vi—maybe she'd make you feel less foreign—but you toss the notion aside. Later. You just need a moment to yourself.

"Edible?"

The voice snaps you out of your haze. You open your eyes to a girl with bright blue hair standing before you, holding out a small container of gummies. She is wearing an oversized band tee and some ripped jeans, her eyeliner just a little smudged, like she has been in this place for hours. Her expression is casual, almost bored, but there's a flicker of curiosity in her gaze as she looks at you.

You hesitate, eyes darting between her face and the container in her hand. "What?"

"Edible," she repeats, shaking the container slightly; the gummies inside shifted with the movement, their bright colors catching the dim light.

You straighten up a little and study her for a second. She's casual, her body leant a little sideways, as if she's done this a hundred times before. Something about the way she holds herself makes you feel that she might be sizing you up to gauge whether you're the kind who'd say yes or no.

"Uh… sure," you say, leaning forward and reaching for the container. Your fingers brush hers briefly as you grab one of the gummies. It's red, shaped like a little bear, and feels sticky against your skin.

The girl smirks faintly, crossing her arms as she watches you. "First time?"

You pop the gummy into your mouth and chew it slowly. The overly sweet artificial fruit flavor hits your tongue. You swallow before responding, feeling a bit self-conscious under her gaze. "No," you lie, your voice even.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but says nothing more. "Cool," she says simply, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "It's a good batch. Just… pace yourself.” You nod, leaning back into the couch

The music, somehow, isn't as loud, or maybe your perception is adjusted. You aren't feeling as weighted; the weight of the night slowly begins to lift. This party may just not turn out to be as bad as you thought it was.

"Im jinx" she sits down next to you. You say your name holding your hand out for her to shake. She laughs and shakes it, your face flushes with embarrassment. "Sorry." you look down 

"Jinx, go away," Vi says firmly, the tone sharp and leaving no room for argument. Your eyes widen at the sound of her voice, and instantly, you feel a pang of awkwardness. Why does it have to be Vi now, of all times? You shut your eyes tightly, willing this all to just disappear. Finally, you look over, and there's Vi, standing, her face unreadable, while Jinx is grinning like she's just been handed the most entertaining show of the night.

"Whatever," Jinx says with a shrug, utterly unconcerned. She stands and smoothes out her jacket but leans down one last time. "Come find me if you ever need to wind down." Her voice carries that now-familiar teasing lilt, and she punctuates it with a wink before strolling off.

You chuckle softly despite the tension, following her as she bumps Vi's shoulder playfully. Vi doesn't budge, wordless, waiting until her sister exits.

Then, she sits down beside you, taking Jinx's now-vacant spot. Immediately, the atmosphere shifts. You can feel it in the way Vi settles next to you-careful, almost hesitant.

"Are you all right?" she asks, leaning into your space enough to catch your eyes. Her voice is softer now, gentler, and her eyes search your face like she's actually concerned.

"Yeah," you say-too quickly. You run a hand through your hair, trying to appear more composed than you feel. "I'm fine, just. needed a break from everything."

Vi nods but doesn't seem fully convinced. The weight of her stare lingers onto you, and your chest tightens. For a moment, neither of you says a word; the muffled sounds of the party fill the silence between you.

"You seemed kinda off earlier," she finally says, her voice careful but firm. "I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

"I'm fine," you repeat, forcing a small smile. But Vi isn't buying it. She shifts slightly, turning more toward you, her knee brushing against yours.

"You know," she begins, her voice quiet and almost tentative, "I've been thinking about a lot of things lately. About us. About. you."

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance at her, unsure where this is going but terrified you already know.

"Vi—", you begin, but she interrupts you now, the words spilling out as if she's afraid she will never find the courage to say them.

"Listen, I know this might be the worst time, but I need to tell you. I care about you. More than friends do. I've been trying to figure out how to say it, but nothing ever feels right."

Her confession hangs in the air, heavy and unshakeable. You feel your stomach twist, a mix of emotions bubbling to the surface-shock, guilt, and something else you can't quite name.

"I. Vi, I don't know what to say," you stammer, suddenly hyper-aware of how close she is. Her eyes are on you, hopeful but guarded, waiting for a response.

You get up hastily-the motion almost too quick-and Vi looks up at you, taken aback.

"I have to-um, I have to go to the bathroom," you mutter, turning away from her, taking a step back. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Vi frowns, opening her mouth like she wants to tell you something, but doesn't. Instead, she nods slowly once, expressionless.

"Yeah," she says now, voice softer. "Take your time."

You turn and weave through the crowd, your heart pounding in your chest. You don’t know where you’re going, but you know you need to put some distance between you and Vi, at least for now.

Your looking at the front door of the house, it felt like it was haunting you, the house music made it hard to think as you look behind you, making sure vi isnt right behind you. You sigh and leave the house. --

tag list: @vyvvycg part 3